Red Hot Love

Mmmmmmmmm. Carbon.

If this is wrong, I don't want to be right.

Frankenbike

"Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife, or his manservant or maidservant,
his BMC TT02 with the Zipp Speed Weaponry or his totally bitchin' carbon-framed road bike with the super smooth Campagnolo components and the ride like butter,
. . . . er . . . . or anything that belongs to thy neighbor."
Exodus 20:17 (Greyhound Standard Version)

They say he will come again--He Who Shall Not Be Named. This, I believe. And I believe the Word of He Who Shall Not Be Named and that of The Holy Prophet:

It is all about The Bike.

Amen. Let us meditate for a moment in silence, His Name be praised.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I know I should be faithful and train harder on the bike, but I am not in love with my road bike and I have been coveting new bikes. I even surf bike porn late at night on ebay rather than love and maintain the bikes I already have.

I want a new road bike. BAD. Right now I have my first grownup bike, a Canondale R600 that rides like a Panzer Tank falling down stairs. You could chip your teeth riding over a gum wrapper on that one. I hate riding it for long periods of time, and it is slower than slow and heavy.

But beyond having something new and shiny and (presumably) faster, I also want to be less clueless about bikes and how they work. And I don't want to have a bike just like everyone else. And even though it is generally more expensive to build a bike than to buy one new, I don't want to spend an excessive amount of cash all at one time on a bike. You are, after all, reading the online rantings of a cheapskate lawyer who has never spent more than $20k on a car.

Ever.

Really.

So, I've hatched this plan to feed my lust and my curiosity by building a bike from the ground up. A "Frankenbike" if you will. She will be just what I want and perfect in every way. She will be strong, und powerful, und schneller, und die schönste . . . . . .

* * * * *

Oh, I'm sorry. Forgot you were there for a minute. What were we talking about?

Oh, yeah.

I originally was going to start by buying a frame and then getting the necessary pieces one by one. But I'm having a hard time pulling the trigger and making a decision concerning the frame I want. Carbon? Steel? New school? Old School? Titanium? A mixture? New? Used?

Plus, I went here and saw this yesterday, which is essentially my bike frame that has been outfitted with the best components to make it lighter and (presumably) better.



So, I've modified my plan, and I've decided it would be fun to have the community participate--in part because I don't know what I'm doing and I need the input. I think I'm going to learn about bikes while working on my current road bike, trying to improve its ride and performance while lowering its weight. Then, when I've got it as good as it can get, I'll think about buying a super frame and transferring the good components to the new bike. At the end of the process, I will be Des Knaben Wunderrad.

But like I said, I need help and advice. This is the first in a series of posts in which I'll ask, "OK, what do I do now?" And I'm really hoping the bike savvy amongst you will chime in--especially (new picture link) He Who Shall Not Be Named or his One True Prophet.

What is the first thing I should change that will give me some bang for a moderate buck in terms of improving the ride and performance of the Panzer Tank? The current setup is an aluminum frame with a carbon fork but alloy steerer. Right now it has a triple front chain ring (which I intend to change eventually) and it rides like a tin lizzy tackling a rumble strip. I was thinking maybe:

A carbon seat post?

With a carbon seat?

A new fork and steerer?

Only a steerer?

Carbon handlebars?

Something else?

If one of these components, what type? What brand? Where's a good buy?
Können Sie mir helfen? Bitte?

La Critique du Tour

Tomorrow morning when I wake up, there will no longer be a bike race on television. Again this year, I was addicted to Le Tour de France. Every year, I'm drawn like a moth to flame. Many's the night I was watching the tour, alone, in the dark, eating a gallon of vanilla ice cream or drinking merlot and wearing my fat pants. Like any addiction, I had to have my hit, but it never fully satisfied. What follows, dear reader, is my wholly amateurish "Tour in Review." Because He Who Shall Not Be Named is no longer practicing his trademarked blog format, I will use it here--imitation being the sincerest form of flattery.

The Good: The Competition--Sort Of

This year's tour was unpredictable and truly contested. Le Maillot Jaune was on the shoulders of 7 or 8 men--a tour record I believe, and the outcome was in doubt until the last rider of the last day of GC competition--the final time trial. Likewise, anyone who loves cycling has to be encouraged about the future of the sport when looking at young riders like Andy Schleck, white jersey winner who time trialed like a cheetah and soared in the mountains like a bird of prey.

And what two, young American teams in the race for the first time ever: Team Columbia with FOUR stage wins for the human rocket, Mark Cavendish, and Garmin Chipotle with team leader and GC contender Christian Vendevelde, who was able to finish in the top five in the overall.

And then there was last year's winner Alberto Contador.

Oh, wait. Last year's winner wasn't in the race, not because it's been established that he's a doper, but because Les Francais don't like his team or his director and Lance Armstrong associate Johann Bruyneel. Any competition that does not allow the champion to defend when there is no basis within the rules to disqualify that champion is not a true competition. It is part bureaucratic exhibition--tres francais, n'est-ce pas?

Perhaps because the competition was not head to head, perhaps because of the design of the course with downhill finishes, perhaps because Le Tour was cleaner than in years past, this year's edition of the race did not involve victory going to the "strongest man." Arguably, the strongest, all-around rider in terms of being able to climb and time trial well was Denis Menchov, but he lost too much time descending from a mountain pass to a finish.

Cadel Evans is similarly strong, but (perhaps because of a wreck) he road (I think characteristically) not to lose rather than riding with the agression and hatred of his competition like Eddy Merckx or Bernhard Hinault or Lance Armstrong. As a result, he was never out on the attack in the mountains.

The eventual winner, Carlos Sastre, did attack--but then only once and on the last mountain stage. He took enough time out of the defensive Evans that he was able to keep Le Maillot Jaune all the way to Paris simlply by sucking less than he usually does in the final time trial. Not as inspiring as a battle of titanic superstars who gap the field in all major disciplines, but perhaps this is what we have to look forward to in an age where cyclists are less able to rely upon their pharmacists to supplement their own genetics.

The Bad: The Coverage--Sort Of

Whoever invented the Digital Video Recorder or "DVR" should receive the Nobel Prize for Science. DVR allows for the automatic recording of all tour stages, and without it, the coverage on the Versus network would be UN-WATCH-A-BULL. The less active portions of the race are just commercials with a side of cycling. Moreover, because Versus is not a premium, cable channel, most of the early morning commercials are HORRIBLE local or low budget commercials for get rich quick schemes, infomercial gadgets, or tax penalty lawyers. Among the worst offenders was Versus itself. Versus was worse than the Disney Sports Network (ESPN) in trying to cross promote other shows on the network. Beyond the wall to wall commercial time being devoted to things like "Contender Muy Thai" or Bull Riding or Extreme Cage Fighting, there is something fundamentally wrong in having Phil Ligget tell one about such stuff in his posh, British accent.

Being able to advance through the mind numbing commercials is indispensable. I suppose one watch the Tour without a DVR, but I'm not sure I want to try.

And if it's not Versus, it's Les Francais butchering the coverage. Since there is only one television feed, viewers all over the world are treated to camera shots of the French champion of this or that, who are not in contention for any aspect of the Tour, sometimes in lieu of the real action. Everyone knew Christian Vandevelde had the skills to be on the leader board for the final time trial, and with some luck might have vaulted from sixth position to the podium. he was in the top 10 on GC and literally caught and passed a GC contender on his ride. But we didn't see it. I guess it was too much to ask to have one motorcycle camera devoted to each of the top 10 GC men during their time trial.

That said, I do like the addition of Craig Hummer to the Versus anchor booth in lieu of Al Trautwig. Unlike some, I've no complaints with Paul Sherwin and Phil Ligget, whose voices are part of the fabric of cycling for me. And I really enjoy the Bobke.

The Ugly: The Drugs--Sort Of

There were some dominating performances by riders who screamed up the climbs in the Pyranees. As it turns out, they seem to have been pharmaceutically induced. The good news is drugs appear to be detected at this point, and when they are, the sport and its sponsors, unlike the major sports like baseball and football, are no longer content to sweep it under the carpet. A whole team abandoned the tour, a sponsor dropped its cycling program entirely, and cyclists were taken away in handcuffs like common criminals. In comparison, Barry Bonds still walks free, and if he goes to jail it will be (like Marion Jones) for not telling the truth under oath rather than for doping.



That said, the anti-doping process, especially in Europe, is McCarthyistic. Valid competitors have been barred from the tour based upon guilt-by-association and ennuendo that would never suffice under American notions of due process. Test sample controls and procedures are abominable by the standards of most American labs. This can occur because all doping cases as between the sport and the rider, are matters of contract, which are arbitrated and not tried in court.

Sure, the riders agreed to that, but if you want to ride professionally, you've no real choice but to agree. Part of the reason Team Columbia and Garmin Chipotle have their own, independently contracted doping control programs is to protect themselves, their sponsors and their riders from a system that, in its vigor, threatens to sweep in the innocent along with the guilty.


The Conclusion:

The Tour will be back, and like a moth to flame, I will be drawn again to my addiction. Tomorrow, however, there's no bike race on. I guess I'll have to read a book.

The Extra:

The test of a good commercial is whether (1) it makes me forget to fast forward through it; and (2) makes me want to try the product. For my money, the only commercial that did both of those things during the whole three weeks were these. Enjoy.

I Even Overtrained My Dog

This is Gumbo, the Wonder Dog. In the absence of a training schedule for me, I've been trying to teach Gumbo and her litter mate Cocoa how to walk with good doggy manners. Every night, when it gets cool enough to avoid CERTAIN DEATH, I put on my shoes, a visor, grab the leashes, and brave 15 minutes of absolutely spasmodic, brainless behavior as the dogs get hooked up and start the walk. The last 15 or so minutes of the walk, they're pretty good, and the initial "break in" period has been getting shorter and shorter. Good, right?

Well, Monday, after the walk, the dogs and I did our customary "chill," reading and just laying around. (I read. They do not. Yet.) Then it was time for bed. But when Gumbo, the Wonder Dog, got up and walked to the kennel, she had a limp that had not been there during the walk. Tuesday and Wednesday it got worse, so I took her to the vet. She has an itty bitty fracture in one of the toes on her right paw.

I know what Taconite Boy is thinking, so I'll just say it. I think I overtrained my dog.

Either that, or I stepped on her paw and don't remember it or she just dinged herself running like a spaz all around the yard or up and down the stairs.

Anyway, I found it kind of funny that Gumbo, who has no health insurance, got better treatment at her vet than Andra Su got from the ostensible "sports medicine" orthopedist who was seeing to the stress fracture in her foot. Gumbo's doctor took Gumbo in her lap, loved all over her, gave her a complete physical exam, checked her spine, looked carefully at her foot, performed two x-rays, prescribed some medicine, and gave her a doggy treat at the end.

I don't know, Andra Su. Instead of shaking hands, maybe you should crawl into his lap next time, roll over on your back in a submissive position, and beg for a treat. It always works for Gumbo.

Officer McBreakfast Taco: Game On!

Several of you have written me to the effect of "whatever happened with that constable who harassed you in Montgomery County?" Well, just about the time you conclude that you're getting the silent treatment in response to your latest letter, the other side makes a mistake.

Yesterday, I received in the mail the citation that Officer McBreakfast Taco was too chicken to write at the time of the incident, backdated to April 19. As it turns out, Officer McBreakfast Taco is Deputy Constable M. Williams (full name to come when I know it), Badge Number 5440, with precinct number 5 of the Montgomery County Constable's office. So, Deputy M. Williams wants to drop gloves in a court room, does he?

Game.
On.

Now we get to play on my field.

A letter to the good deputy and all his bosses went out this morning stating:

Chief Deputy Wood:

I was disappointed, although not surprised, when only yesterday I received your letter dated July 9, 2008. Given its contents, I can only conclude that your office is not prepared to take seriously my initial complaint about a deputy that (1) neither knew nor accurately enforced the Texas Transportation Code; and (2) physically endangered a cyclist through his abusive conduct. To wit:

· Your choice to backdate a non-existent citation for a non-existent violation, the facts of which are not only demonstrably inaccurate, but also physically impossible; and

· Your choice not to address Deputy Williams’ conduct, which was completely out of line, even if the violation had occurred.

This is one instance in which your department cannot shield itself or its deputies from criticism by attempting to characterize this incident as a groundless complaint by someone in violation of the law. Not only was I within the law, my complaint against Deputy Williams is valid even if I was not. Indeed, a motorist in Los Angeles is facing felony charges for doing essentially what Deputy Williams did and injuring two cyclists. (See Enclosure).

As a result, you can be assured that I will appear before Judge Masden, where Deputy Williams will have to justify his conduct. Likewise, since the department was unwilling to address the conduct of its deputies in a collaborative and informal fashion, I will file and pursue a formal, disciplinary complaint against Deputy Williams to the fullest extent possible. Having found the performance of this precinct’s constable unsatisfactory in its enforcement of the laws for the protection of cyclists, I will likewise be working along with the Texas Bicycle Coalition and local cycling groups for Constable Hill’s defeat at the ballot box.

I remain open to addressing this situation in a more constructive fashion, but given your letter, I am not optimistic that the department will choose to do so.

Very truly yours,

Real Lawyer Name

cc: (Deputy M. Williams and Constable Hill)

As I referenced in my letter, the Precinct 5 Constable, an elected official, is named David Hill, and his Chief Deputy is David Wood. Their office addresses are:

31350 Friendship Drive
Magnolia, TX 77355

and

31350 Industrial Lane
Magnolia, Texas 77355

Their office phone numbers are:

281-356-3883
or
936-539-7807

So, uhm, yeah. If you're a cyclist that is just looking to exercise your rights under the First Amendment, you might drop this elected official and his underlings a little note about the manner in which law enforcement fails to protect cyclists, especially at the expense of protecting their own. Be polite, use your own words, but make it clear that:

1. Cyclists are vehicles under the transportation code.
2. Cyclists have the right to the road, and are not required under the Transportation Code to ride on a dangerous shoulder or near the edge when it is dangerous to do so.
3. Cyclists have are entitled to expect law enforcement to protect their rights to the road.
4. There is no place for an officer to endanger a cyclist, no matter how the officer believes that cyclist ought to be riding.


The case is assigned to a JP judge, the court contact information of which I will post if and when I think it would be helpful. Although I am quite confident that neither the baby DA nor officer McBreakffff----, . .. er, Williams has ever seen cross examination in connection with a traffic ticket quite as thorough as I have planned, I have no expectation of actually winning the traffic case unless this JP Judge is very brave indeed. There is always a tendency of the courts to believe law enforcement. The court is in the same building as the Constable's office, for crying out loud. That said, win or lose, I will make my point, and I will make them regret their actions.

PIFD

I have been suffering from a psychological syndrome that I am sure many of you Ironmen will recognize: Post Ironman Finish Dementia or PIFD. After Ironman, it is healthy to take a break from structured training, to use your fitness for fun, and to properly recover. If you become truly infected with the Ironman virus, however, the lack of a training plan or an impending "A Race" looming over you in the next six months is very disorienting. Nothing in your life feels quite "right" or organized.

Even though you're ordinarily content to be a slob, this lack of organization and "true north" orientation feels intolerable. You clean your garage, you clean your office, you do dishes, you buy new recycling bins, you develop a reading list, you plan menus, you write down errands on a Saturday and make grocery lists . . .

OK, you actualy type grocery lists on the computer, paying special attention to the aesthetics of font useage, margins and size . . . . not that I would do such a thing. That was purely hypothetical.

At any rate, you feel a bit lost without something written down to tell you what you're doing for the next six months and a physical goal to get you out of bed in the morning.

I only recently started to improve my condition. My next Ironman effort probalby won't occur until November of '09. My last two Ironman races were only 9 months apart. I can't possibly survive the next 16 months without either some goals to challenge and orient me or else anti-psychotic drugs. But what to do? I think the next year looks something like this.

This fall, I'll focus on run training with the goal of lowering my marathon PR in a winter race, potentially the Houston marathon in January. I want to see just how fast I can go, and marathon training is something I can do, even at a relatively high level without taking time away from the family. But if not Houston (where I hold a spot in the sold-out race), then what? What other races in the January-February time frame are cool, flat and fast? I need a reserve race, because I am NOT going to waste a PR effort on a day with bad weather.

But what else? I'd like to work on my pathetic swimming with a coach and become more competent. Can I do that during the fall as well? If so, how? And what lead up races should I do to the marathon? What is everyone else running this fall? What to do, what to doooooo?

Then after the marathon, in the February to mid-April time frame I'll probably do a bike block leading up to the MS150. Here too, I feel like my cycling would benefit from some coaching and having a good road bike. But where/how do I get some bike coaching? And are there other events that I could enter to get faster on the bike? Lord knows the big, organized training rides are not conducive to building power and speed.

And I'd like to build a bike and learn the mechanical stuff, but where/how do I begin to to that? There's a great training course in Colorado Springs that I could take next summer, but that is after the MS150. Is there nowhere in Houston, the 4th or 5th largest metro area in the country, where I can learn how to be a passable bike mechanic?

I could And I can and probasbly should continue to work on my swimming during this time, but how? What to do, what to dooooo?

Then, after the bike block, around about April, it is time to start triathlon/Ironman training in earnest. Since both of the Ironman races I have targetd are flat this time, I'd like to try to really improve, and actually "race" (at least at my own level) rather than just participate. Do I need a coach? Online? In person? Who? How? And what races should I do? I want to race with friends, so where is the party next year? What to do, what to doooooo?

All the non-OCD, non-Ironman folks out there are probably just shaking their heads and saying, "you know, it wouldn't kill you just to be a bit normal, sleep in, eat pizza, do your job, come home, watch TV."

YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!!!!!

i'm sorry, i did not mean to shout. i can stop any time i want.

I've begun a little bit of a cure. It's amazing how much better I felt when I e-mailed our tri-club running coach on Friday, and he worked out a written marathon training plan for me. Seeing something on paper had remarkable, restorative effects.

And then there was the little, 63 mile, hilly, 90+ degree recovery ride I did with my homie who's training for Ironman Wisconsin.

Uhm. Yeah. Just good clean fun, that.

Vacationing in Middle Earth

In addition to my wee tribe, two additional tribes of triathletes traveled to the Pacific Northwest after Ironman CdA. It was like no land I have ever seen, except in fiction: Rocky crags, misty mountains, golden meadows, deer, and hobbit like kids hiking in the woods. Here are a very few images from the trip, and a profound thanks to some of the best friends I have ever known. Your example makes me a better me.

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.

On Finishing And Starting Again

"The future is something which everyone reaches at the rate of 60 minutes an hour,
whatever he does, whoever he is."

"The safest road to hell is the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts."

--C.S. Lewis

If you take over 13 hours to race an Ironman, you will be watching the sun drift lazily and reluctantly below the mountains as you finally turn around between miles 20 and 21 on the run course in Idaho. The lake shimmers like molten gold, and if you're as lucky as we were, a breeze blows off the water with the promise of a cool night ahead. It is at this point that things start to really improve. Lies and pain give way to truth and painful joy.

For much of the previous hours, you have been fighting big negative thoughts with little rhythmic ones.Some people would say it is the psyche that's picking on you, asking you rhetorical questions that have no purpose on a race course, questions like:

"What are you doing?"

"You've already done one of these. What's the point? Look at those people already finishing. You'll never be as fast as they are, even if you quit your job and trained full time."

"If you're going to be THIS slow, you might as well walk. Why keep on running?"

"Nobody will care if you quit."

It might be the psyche--it might be Lucifer. Whatever. It serves no purpose for good. You will care if you quit. You know it beyond certainty, and you complain to yourself when you walk. So you drown out Lucifer--or yourself--with white noise--little thoughts as simple as the rhythm of your foot strikes and the song in your head.

"I'm gonna break
gonna break my
gonna break my rusty cage and run."

And as the sun finally disappears into twilight, the road tips up as you come back into town for the final time.

You can see the towers from the resort on the skyline, and you know you will reach them. That is where you will finish. The course is mostly quiet now. Many of the neighbors have gone inside for the night. You can see them through their windows. But some are still there. Someone who has been in their front yard all day cheering Ironmen in all shapes and sizes tells you it is 1.7 miles to the finish. Someone else is there later to tell you it is 1.2 miles. Yet again, another man on a bike, who has been in the same spot since you last saw him more than an hour ago, says, "Three more turns. You've got this. Good job." And one more angel whom you encounter unawares says, "six blocks; only six blocks."

You can hear the music and the loudspeakers and see the lights, and like whirling faster and faster down a funnel, it gets tighter, narrower, crazier and louder until you are just carried along. Somewhere you hear your name shouted and your child grabs your hand. Both of you are swept down the chute:

And even though the earth tilts sideways and your body starts to chill and shake and shiver, you know.

You know that those questions in your head were nonsense, lies that only seem true under stress.

You know that you'll do this again.

And you know why.

Because seeking comfort and avoiding pain are suitable motivations only for lower animals, not for human beings bearing the image of God.

Because pain and risk are the worthy price for taking the gift of life and using it.

Because burying the gift of your one and only life in the ground rather than drinking it dry and sucking the marrow from the bones is a sin.

Because $10,000 raised to fight the disease that grips your wife is only just beginning.

Because the reward of the hard journey is far better than the anesthesia of couch and table.

Because the happy few that live the adventurous life never let you feel alone.

Because everyone gets 60 minutes per hour to journey toward the future, and those 60 minutes should be full to overflowing.

Because the broad and plain highway does not go to your desired destination. The traffic is awful and the scenery sucks.

Because the narrow way is beautiful.

Because, you need it.



Because you're an Ironman.

I'm Gonna Break My Rusty Cage And Run

“So, are you going to be able to run after this?”

That was Bolder’s question. I had no idea, and I told him so. There were times on that bike ride, even in the second loop, where I felt like a superhero. Run? Bring it! There were other times when I felt like I was an accident victim doing rehab on a stationary bike as others whizzed by. Run? Rectum? Damn near killed ‘im.

Of course, isn’t that the very essence of Ironman? The risk and unanswered question of, “Can I [fill in the blank]?” Don't we keep going because we're trying to find out?

Anyway, as I reached the downhill slope that took us the last 8 or 10 miles into town, the wind was in my face, and I tried to just stay in a gear I could turn at the appropriate cadence in an effort to find my legs and settle my tummy, that threatened to go into open revolt if I fed it one more calorie while my body threatened to stop if I failed to do so.

As I said yesterday, my watch told me a good bit of news when I finally arrived. having turned in a decent bike split, I was well-positioned to PR. However, the quietness and shade of the T2 changing tent was awfully inviting. I wanted to sit there for awhile. I did not want to run a marathon. But I knew I had to. I also knew that the more time I took to get started, the more time it would take to bet finished, which is all I wanted to do at that point. So eventually, I headed for the door and started to jog.

The run course is a study in contrasts. Just outside the transition area, the course is a wall of sound, even as late in the day as I started the run. People lined both sides of the run course and cheered indiscriminately for strangers in the Ironman family. I also saw Iron Jenny and Nytro and the peeps, who consistently treated me like a rock star. The run through town and through the neighborhoods was the same way. When you were being cheered well or (very infrequently) cheered poorly, you wanted to run for them and were embarrassed when it was time to take a scheduled or unscheduled walk break.

And then there were the parts of the course where no one was watching, where the only sounds were those of the footfalls around you, and your own breathing. What do you do when nobody is watching? It feels better to walk, except walking imperils your goals and lengthens the suffering.

Then there is coming back into town for the second loop, as the fast kids are finishing and you know you are going out to be “alone” again. Gird your loins, grasshopper, because that is just plain dispiriting.

So, was I able to run? Yes.

And no.

Here’s the no: I had hoped to run between aid stations and go faster than IMWI, maybe by as much as a half hour. I can run a marathon under 4 hours, and SOMEDAY I’d really like to “run” an Ironman marathon within 45 minutes or an hour of my open marathon time instead of shuffling over an hour slower. From the get go, however, I was unable to execute my desired strategy. From the first step, I was in crisis management mode. Every time the road tipped up even slightly, some part of my body chose to complain--back, side stitch, calf cramp . . . . Me? I knew I would finish, but I did not have the mental fortitude to push through for 8 to 10 minutes at a time.

Here’s the yes: I was able to set smaller goals for myself and push through for 4 minutes at a time on the first lap, 3 on the second. When I was running, I ran well and with decent turnover. When I was walking, I did not extend my breaks. On the second loop, I metered my effort with the goal of breaking 14 hours, and I was able to do so.

I went into zombie mode leaving town on the second lap and running by the lake. Over and over, my subconscious sang the refrain from "Rusty Cage" that I posted the day before the race. My pace picked up on the downhill and flat stretches. I had caught some people in front of me and I was seeing friends on the out and backs. Mile 21 arrived and I glided downhill to mile 22. Four miles left and plenty of time to do it in. Mile 23, only a 5k now. I put enough time in the bank that I could afford not to suffer up the slight gradients coming back into the town.

One mile left, the sun is down below the horizon, as is the finish line. I can hear it. A couple more turns in the road . . . .

But that is another chapter.

Use The Force, Luke

When last we left our intrepid Underdog, I was sprinting from the male changing tent (You will be spared the visual horrors therein, even if I thought I had words worthy of describing them) past the women’s changing tent (the delights of which I shall ne’er be permitted to see and which I can scarce imagine) toward my trusty ride, Carmen Tequilo.

But the bike leg merits some prologue.

Carmen Tequilo has a new set of Zipp 404s, but I just couldn’t leave well enough alone. I thought it would be a good idea if she had fresh tires and tubes for the race. Little did I know, you have to be able to rip phone books in half and crush raw carbon into diamonds with your bare hands to change tires on Zipp wheels. I broke four tire levers trying to change the tires and tubes before finally getting help from the bike shop and just hoping beyond all hope that I did not suffer a puncture during the race.

Fast forward to Friday when I picked up my bike from Tri-Bike transport. It came off the truck with a puncture in the front tube, not a blown tube from heat, a pinhole puncture. Is this just a freak accident, or perhaps have I permanently damaged the rims in wrestling with changing a tire such that some burr in the metal is puncturing my tube? Paranoid beyond all measure, I took the bike back to the house and made the effort to change the tire. It was a multiple MF’er job with heavy duty tire levers, but I finally got the new tube installed. I inflated the tire and set it aside . . . .

and two minutes later it was flat again.

M*TH$R F*&%)@R!!

Now I know the Tri gods are punishing me for messing with my race wheels, or perhaps getting them in the first place. I hot footed it down to In and Out Sports and left the offending wheel with them, requesting an exorcism. A bored looking bike mechanic about 22 years old shrugged, looked at me in disgust as if I did not know how to change a tire, and told me to come back in three hours after he’d had time to slot me in.

He later claimed to have changed the tire with his bare hands and accused me of pinching it flat.

Little whipper snapper.

So, as I was sprinting from T1 to my bike, family and friends cheering like I had just given Mark Allen a forearm shiver, I was actually worried about the potential of puncture Armageddon hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles. But every other piece of equipment was checked and ready to go, right?

Not so much.

I had taken the trouble to set my Polar watch so it would show me my bike split, my miles per hour, and my heart rate, but as I mounted the bike and stood in the pedals to hammer away from transition, I looked down and

NUTHIN’

NADA

NYET

ZIPPO

No bike speedo at all. In order to gage my ride, I had to rely only on Jedi mind tricks. “Use the Force, Luke. Trust your feelings.” All I had was heart rate, perceived effort, and rough mathematical calculations of average speed when I passed a five mile mark. Not ideal, but not all that bad either. Why?

Because the course was gorgeous. BEE YOU TEE FULL. And the temps were ideal. It was pure joy in motion to ride a bike on that route, with people cheering all through town and beautiful scenery all outside the town. There are hills, but great descents and long stretches for recovery. It is a very tough but fair course, and the viewing is great for both racers and spectators. Every time I passed by transition, crowds cheered and there were bloggy peeps cheering me by name. Every time I passed near our house, Trimama and Mrs. Greyhound cheered me. I climbed OK, I descended great, and I kept fairly good tempo on the flats.

I even saw Bolder at one point in the near distance. (I knew it was him because nobody wears more BMC-Ho Schwag than he does). When I caught him, he asked, “So, are you going to be able to run after this?”

Ah, that IS the question, is it not? I admitted that I did not know. Time would tell, and my tummy was having something to say on the matter. What I did know, when I came into transition, was that I had turned in a sub-7 bike split without totally killing myself. Big deal, right? Well for me, it meant that only a medical emergency involving an ambulance would keep me away from a PR.

But how would I run? Time would tell.

Ironman ISO Swim Dominatrix

How do you go about doing the “impossible” a second time? Is it truly impossible or even worth doing after you have already discovered that “anything is possible?” That was kind of the quandry for this race.

At a first Ironman, you find out whether you can do it. But what about a second? If you’re not a Kona study, why exactly are you out there? Why are you racing? You know you can complete it. But do you? Really? If you get cocky or the weather is bad or if you have a mechanical problem or if your nutrition fails or if you just don’t keep your head in the game, that second one can be just out of reach. I knew I was confident, but I also knew that if I took it for granted, I was just asking for trouble. He whom the gods would humble, they first raise up.

So, in the days leading up to the event, I tried to be practical. No need in getting all manic or fearful about things out of my control. Change or fix what you can, roll with what you cannot. I tried to be confident in the preparation behind me, and yet realistically appraise and solve the challenges yet to come.

For me, this primarily meant coming to terms with the water. On Wednesday when I arrived, the water temperature was in the mid-50s, which by Texas standards is unswimmably cold. Standing on the beach, I knew that if I wanted get from my current position to the finish line on Sherman Street, I had to go through the water. It doesn’t matter how cold or how rough it is, and it doesn’t matter that swimming is still a new discipline for me. That is where the race course starts, and that is the first challenge of the long day.

So, I planned. I knew the first few minutes of the swim would be unpleasant, no matter if the water was 52 degrees or 62 degrees. The solution? To experience that first few minutes over and over so it was no big deal. I would swim at least once every day, going straight from the beach into the water with no thinking, no second guessing, and no warmup. The first time, I made a bargain with myself that I only needed to swim for 15 minutes, 7:30 out and 7:30 back. Easy as pie. Second time, 15 minutes out and 15 minutes back. No sweat. Day before the race, just get wet with a brief hard swim. Day of the race, no fear.

And it worked . . . . to a point.

On race morning, I was most of the way down the beach, and unlike Wisconsin, it was impossible to hear Mike Reilly and the music. I was all dressed out and ready to go--new long sleeve wetsuit, polar cap, booties, swim cap, goggles up on my forehead. Looking at my watch, I knew it was about go time, but my watch was apparently two minutes slower than Mike’s watch, because the cannon suddenly boomed and we all started shuffling toward the waterline.
Here was the first occasion of the day that I was reminded to get my head on straight. I hit my watch, waded up to my waist and went to “duck dive” for my first strokes, at which time the water hitting my eyes reminded me that my goggles were still on top of my head, not on my eyes.

Brilliant. So, are you going to swim today, Einstein?

With that little snafu corrected, I commenced the first leg of the race without even feeling the cold water or getting breathless. I call it a race, but I never really feel like I’m racing in the swim, mostly because it is a very long day, and the swim is my weakest link. I was completely unsure how my swim split would compare with Wisconsin, and as it turned out, I swam slower. A comparatively wretched 1:40.

But let me e’splain.

No, let me sum up.

The first 1000 meters of the swim was unbelievably crowded as a wide beach of swimmers all converged on a single buoy 1000 meters away. (The place to be is right on the edge at the left or right. Everyone in the middle gets pinched off). I had to doggy paddle and dodge and breast stroke as the water became obstructed, because I’m just not willing to swim over the top of someone.

In addition, I think I suffered from a lack of goals for the swim. I am a stronger and faster swimmer than last year, but the water temperature and the comparative insignificance of the swim demotivated me to doing some of the last detail work that is the difference between swimming well and just finishing. This was the first really extended swim in my long sleeve suit--such things being unnecessary and painfully hot in Texas. I had also bagged some long OW swims in favor of the pool, because the water at Twin Lakes was too low, too muddy, too hot, and too far away. It’s just dang hard to get motivated to swim hard. I probably need a Serbian Swim Dominatrix (SSD)TM to give me the tolerance for pain and fear of failure to become a really strong swimmer.

But that is next season.

As for this season, I did make it through the swim. There were times, especially on the inward bound legs, when the swim exit did not look like it was getting any closer. I choked down water on several occasions when I lifted my head to sight over the boat wakes and some developing chop. And I just could not feel the water or seem to swim a straight line with those sleeves on. Part of the whole swimming straight thing is muscular endurance deficit holding over from my ruptured disc and me loathing strength training. This I will fix too. Wait until next year.

I was down only a little bit when I saw the time on my watch coming out of the water. 5 minutes slower than Wisconsin, which was a much easier swim. But as so often happens, the people in our lives don’t let us stay down long. Kathleen was right there at the swim exit with her platinum smile, screaming my name and whooping it up. Trimama and Mrs. Greyhound were there with Superpounce and the Tribe, yelling like I was the second coming of Mark Allen as I exited T1 and sprinted for the bike.

Is this sport great or what?

PR

I'll do a proper race report later when there is more time, but I wanted to throw something out there to let you know that I finished, and that I appear to be uninjured notwithstanding the pain in my left knee and right achilles. It was a mixed day, but I am proud to say that I beat my first Ironman time by about 45 minutes, mostly due to a better bike split, and I finished (barely) under 14 hours.

It was hard (duh!!), but it was made both easier and more enjoyable knowing there were so many people here and online who were interested in following a pint-sized, age-grouper at the back of the Ironman bell curve.

Now, where's the ice and ibuprofen?

Break Your Rusty Cage And Run

You wired me awake
And hit me with a hand of broken nails
You tied my lead and pulled my chain
To watch my blood begin to boil

But I'm gonna break
I'm gonna break my
I'm gonna break my rusty cage and run

Too cold to start a fire
I'm burning diesel, burning dinosaur bones
I'll take the river down to still water
And ride a pack of dogs

I'm gonna break
I'm gonna break my
I'm gonna break my rusty cage and run

Hits like a Phillips head Into my brain
It's gonna be too dark
To sleep again Cutting my teeth on bars
And rusty chains,
I'm gonna break my Rusty cage and run

When the forest burns
Along the road Like God's eyes In my headlights
When the dogs are looking
For their bones
And it's raining icepicks
On your steel shore

I'm gonna break
I'm gonna break my
I'm gonna break my rusty cage and run

The Calm

I have been trying for a while now to figure out what to write, this night before Ironman. Everything profound seems maudlin when I try to put it in print. Everything not profound seems out of place or not up to the task.

There are concerns in my mind about how the day will go, but I don't feel anything I could identify as fear. I have faith that I can do this again, but not certainty. If you asked me why I do it, I'm not sure I could tell you. Sometimes, it is only because I can. Sometimes, it is to feel fully alive--risking something I could very well fail at so that I can know that I truly lived that single day.

Sometimes, I'm not really sure what I feel. Sometimes, its nothing.

But I can tell you what I am looking forward to feeling. I am looking forward to riding my bike through some beautiful countryside in 70 degree weather. I am looking forward to the feeling of making the final turn at the turnaround and knowing that the finish line is getting nearer with every step. I am looking forward to the feeling of running down Sherman Avenue and seeing the finish line.

But you know, for me, this is not about finish lines. It is more about milestones. The journey does not end here. I'm more interested in where it might go next. The road goes ever on and on.

"... it's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door...you step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet,there's not knowing where you might be swept off to."

How You Know

One of the peeps posted a question about Ironman somewhere to the effect of, "how do you know when you're ready?" I don't know if certainty about such a question is possible; however, here are a few guideposts and metrics against which you can measure yourself. You Ironman vets out there, please feel free to include your own additions in the comments.

1. If you groan and grit your teeth trying to get up out of a car seat, but a 50 mile ride is "tapering" or "recovery," you might be an Ironman.


2. If you walk like an arthritic octegenarian when you first get out of bed, but then run 20 miles after a quick cup of coffee and a Cliff Bar, you might be an Ironman.


3. If you dream about being late to the transition and showing up toting a race wheel with no tire (like last night maybe), you might be an Ironman.


4. If you feel like a Chevy Nova running on 3 cylinders the first 45 minutes of every workout, but then find a groove where you feel like you could go all day, you might be an Ironman.


5. If your bike begs you not to be ridden any more, because she's been rode hard and put away wet and sweaty, you might be an Ironman.


6. If the BSG (bike shop guy) winces and rolls his eyes at the dirty, gel-encrusted, deraillure grinding condition of your ride when you show up for tri bike transport, you might be an Ironman.


7. If you you lose count at "5" while looking at the black line on the bottom of a pool because you essentially "sleep swam" through a lap (or three) you might be an Ironman.


8. If your swimsuits and tri shorts are becoming so threadbare that you need a sexually oriented business license just to work out, you might be an Ironman.


9. If you have bookmarked a lake temperature guage and started a neoprene hedge fund, you might be an Ironman.


10. If your child gets up at 9:00 on a Saturday or Sunday and says (with genuine surprise), "Dad's home??!!", you might be an Ironman.

And some of my favorite ifs:

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be [an Ironman], my son!


--Rudyard Kipling

Because We Can

Keep Moving Forward

Bigun said my "No Gravity" post was too sensitive for shortly before Ironman. So, Bigun, this one's for you:



That's how winnin' is done.

Get Your Kicks

Numbers for Ironman CdA have now been assigned. And you will never forget mine, even though I'm not going to tell it to you.



How cool is that number?

No Gravity

I know her name--I'll call her Millie here. I know it because it is written on a piece of tape on the back of her jacket. Someone who cares for her has written it there because they are afraid she might wander off, become lost, and not be able to identify herself.

I see her regularly at the pool on those mornings when there is not a masters workout and there are lots of empty lanes. She has the halting step of one who is afraid--afraid she might fall, but also probably just afraid because of the confusion in her own brain. Her face tells the same story I've seen in some of my grandparents and great grandparents. If I had to guess, she can remember some long ago things very clearly, like perhaps the time when the man on her arm took her on their first date. But I would also suppose that she cannot remember much of what happened yesterday or 15 minutes ago. She might not even remember that man's name sometimes, perhaps only the feeling of his presence, his smell, or the way his arm feels, warm and steady.

But he's always there whenever she is there. He drives the big Oldsmobile, parks in the handicapped space, and takes her arm as they walk ever so slowly, with tiny, fearful steps, toward the front door of the aquatic center. If I were invisible, the only company to their walk would be the metallic hum of the arc lights, and the frogs and insects chirping out in the pines. He walks her through the door, and she takes the inside lane in the indoor pool.

He reads the paper. But she escapes. She swims an easy freestyle. She breastsrokes. She backstrokes.

And she smiles.

The fear is gone from her face, for there is no gravity here. There is no specter of muddled past. This, she remembers. Every feeling and sensation is recalled without effort from the past written in her muscle memory.

And she smiles.

Who had the more meaningful swim this morning--the middle-aged, mediocre Ironman trying to push himself through 200s? Or Millie?