The news is that I am starting a new blog.But don’t worry.It’s not going to take the place of this blog. Hopefully, it will just be an addition to it.
But why start a new blog?Especially in the age of the creeping Facebook, the lazy man’s, one sentence solution to blogging.
I enjoy the act of writing for writing's sake, when I have something worth writing about.These little blurbs I throw out once or twice or three times a week nourish the creative writer that lives inside me, especially when I do so much analytical writing for my job.The blog allows me to hone my craft, and the feedback I get from the comments is a motivation to write more—a motivation that writers from the past did not have.
Well, primarily because it will have a different type of tone and content, and potentially a different audience that will only partially overlap with Trigreyhound.
Those of you who regularly read and enjoy this blog know that I sometimes write about the internal aspects of training and its impact on life, love and faith.Lately, I have been feeling the need to be truer to my spiritual lineage and calling.
(Speak plainly, dude—that’s way too pompous.)
OK, OK.Here it is.I need to find my moral compass.I need to write some stuff that is way more Jesussy than you have ever read here.
Sure, I could just wax Jesussy here in this blog; but, I know that some who enjoy stopping by here are not the Jesussy type. In fact, some of you that I enjoy most and for whom I care most are not Jeussy types. And you know what?
That’s.Fine.
Requiring you to be all Jesussy here in this space would be the same as saying you have to go to my particular church with me on Sunday if you want to be my friend.THAT, alone, would be very un-Jesus-like.
On the other hand, having an additional blog that is focused explicitly on spiritual matters allows me to have a sacred space into which everyone here is invited, but no one is compelled, sort of like meeting you for Sunday brunch with the invitation to attend church with the family if you'd like to. You can stop by occasionally, often, or not at all.Meanwhile, we all remain friends in the common triathlon experience that we share.
For that is what I consider you, my friends.And friendship, for me, is serious business.To quote Saint Thomas Aquinas, “There is nothing on this earth more to be prized than true friendship.”
You’re invited to share as much of my spiritual journey as you want (or as much as you can stand), and you’re invited to come and see what I have found to be true.At the same time, I will not prize you any less if you decide that’s not your cup of tea.
The real reason to get a tattoo, especially an m-dot tattoo, is because the chicks really dig it. It's sort of like playing lead guitar or singing lead in "the band." You get into all kinds of random conversations with chicks who are digging your bad boy style. You regular readers will recall the tattoo conversation I had with the girl at the pool when she asked about my tattoo and told me about hers . . .
the goldfish . . .
that was put on with water at a birthday party with a jumpy thing.
I had another encounter this past spring with a girl (er, woman) more my own age, again at the pool. I was going in for a masters workout and "the new girl" saw my tattoo and asked, "hey, did you do an Ironman."
"Why, yes I did." (Actually, standing as I was in my state of speedo-near-nakedness, preparing to drop into the slow lane while she was justifiably preparing to swim four lanes faster, it was more like a sheepish, "uh-huh").
"Which one?"
"Ironman Wisconsin."
"Wow, I'm going to be doing that race this fall. I need to talk to you."
And so was born a friendship with Iron KT and her husband Dutch and their two smart, athletic , empathetic, and fascinating kids. Iron KT and Dutch have both done triathlon for years, their kids do triathlon, and it has been a true blessing to have such a family move in so close to us. In particular, Superpounce and Mini-KT are so sympatico you'd think they were separated at birth.
Now, however, it's almost game time for Iron KT. A week from this Sunday she will toe the line with a couple thousand of her closest friends to do her first Ironman. Like many of us, she is not doing it alone or only for herself. She is racing for the Miracles of Mitch Foundation to fight pediatric cancer.
I know that many of my friends from the upper Midwest have raised money for MOMF and several of your kids, like Mini-KT and Mini-Dutch, have raced for kids who can't. And even if you don't know this particular charity, who can imagine a parental helplessness and pain worse than watching your child suffering with cancer. This is a noble purpose and Iron KT needs help to get to her fund raising goal. And because I don't believe in "do as I say, not as I do," I have chipped my bit into the hat.
Because we are all friends here, and because many of you know I have contributed to your causes too, I am going to exercise a little bit of license and personal privilege to directly appeal to you on Iron KT's behalf. If you think cancer sucks, and if you have any change at all in your couch cushions (or 401k or trust fund or stock option plan) hit Iron KT's fund raising link and tell 'em that Greyhound sent 'ya.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. But, let me explain.
No, let me sum up.
As you know, I haven't been feeling very iron-y lately, when I groan upon being asked to perform some physical chore around the house, I am often met with my wife's question:
"Are you an Ironman, or a noodleman?"
In fact, a better question is whether I'm a man at all. I'm beginning to wonder whether all this triathlon metrosexualness might have given me estrogen poisoning in the brain.
You see, when I look in the mirror, I don't see the non-reality that most men see. I don't imagine a life guard physique complete with a full head of hair, broad shoulders, washboard stomach, ripped abductors, tight buns, and awe-inspiring (*ahem*) "male definition." Indeed, I don't even see reality, a reasonably fit, 41-year-old man with a healthy body mass index who can run 13 miles in the heat without undue stress and who can easily swim a mile on a recovery day. Nope.
I only see the 8 pounds above my peak fitness weight that I imagine is all a gooey spare tire where my waist should be.
I only see the hair and the pasty whiteness of the middle aged office worker and crave a good wax.
I start to weigh myself all too frequently and rejoice in the difference between a fully hydrated 148.5 pounds and a dehydrated 147 pounds.
I wonder whether I need a food journal on fitday.
I wonder if the cake that I ate at the partner's lunch does not "count" because it was not recorded in the food journal.
Now don't get me wrong. I don't want testosterone poisoning, and along with it the risk of inappropriate Speedo moments or too-much-information-too-little-towel-modesty conduct in the locker room. That said, being a girl is too hard for me. I don't know how you do it. I'd like not to see an optical illusion of goo and fatness when I look in the mirror. How about a little reality, for me and all the rest of us, guys and girls?
Hopefully, I'm beginning to feel the end of the psycho triathlete guy-ness. The running is becoming lighter and faster and easier. The swimming is becoming enjoyable again. Unplug the scales and let's go play.
Well, it’s been a quiet week in Spring, Texas, my home, out on the edge of the Megalopolis.We don’t often receive personal direction from The Almighty, but we think it might have happened this week.
We were in the last weeks before the start of school, and instead of speeding up into that “finish your summer” kick, everything delightfully slowed down.Between the torrential thunderstorms and the debilitating heat, The Almighty made it clear in no uncertain terms that we would be staying inside.Together.
Whilst staying inside, we did have the Olympics to keep us occupied.And that can be both fun and addictive--don’t get me wrong.We've really enjoyed seeing athletes accomplishing their dreams and getting the payoff for lots of hard work. But after awhile, there’s only so much jibber jabber one can take, especially in the “judged” events where there is no clock or finish line to declare the winner. Especially when a totalitarian, host government is willing to exploit underage children in the name of national “pride” by lying about their age. Make no mistake. You only get a passport saying you're 16 in China if the government is involved.
Cheating in the name of pride?
Seriously?
Seriously.
Even in the objective competitions, there are any number of “things that make you go, ‘hmmmmm.’”For example, how many tens of thousands of members does USAT have to have, and how many hundreds of thousands of competitors have to turn out for triathlons before the Olympic triathlon gets some TV time in this country?We televise skeet shooting, synchronized diving, equestrian and rhythmic gymnastics, but not triathlon?
Seriously?
Seriously.
Yeah, I know, the Americans (including our Kiwi competitor Matt Reed) didn’t medal, but is that the standard for what we televise?Do we really need NBC to make us more jingoistic than we already are?I was stoked to see Emma Snowsill run away from the women in the field, even though I’m not an Aussie.And the final rundown between a German, a Canadian, a Kiwi and a Spaniard was one of the most exciting things I’ve ever seen, even though it would be long minutes before the Americans reached the line.
And, while I wish it weren’t true, I exercised my “inner jingo” last night while watching the women’s 200 meter final.Plainly speaking, Veronica Campbell-Brown, when standing still, had the same appearance and body type as Marion Jones, a known doper, or even female body builders who use both testosterone and steroids to create muscle mass that cannot exist on even the most athletic female.In fact, she exceeded Marion Jones in the musculature of her shoulders, neck and thighs, and in the disappearance of anything resembling breasts.Place her next to the thin frames of American sprinters like Allyson Felix, who was taunted with the nickname “chickenlegs” as a child, and the difference is even more striking. Add to this the performance of Usain Bolt, especially in the 100 meters, running away from the fastest men in the world, intentionally slowing, and still shattering the world record.
Call me a nationalist pig, but it could not be clearer to me that jerk chicken and rice is not the only fare served on the Jamaican training table.And not to pick on the Jamaicans, they are certainly not the only ones in the Olympic village with pharmaceutical enhancement.Moreover, we Americans have certainly had more than our share of cheats and dopers.Given that history, have we not learned from Barry Bonds and Mark McGuire and Marion Jones (and, dare I say it, fellow-Texan Roger Clemens)?If it looks too good to be true, it probably is.
And just like the chase for Roger Maris’ home run record, the commentators make no mention of what we ought to be seeing with our own eyes.We will all be “shocked” when we “discover” within the next four to eight years that the Jamaican sprinters had a really fantastic pharmacist, probably with the collusion of their sport's national governing body and (likely as not) their national government.All in the name of winning for national “pride.”
This is pride?Seriously?
Seriously.
So, last night, when we’d had enough of the jibber jabber and athlete profiles and sponsored PR on behalf of the totalitarian host state, we turned off the television.We did what book nerds do.Mom, Dad and daughter all curled up on Mom and Dad’s bed with our favorite books and the dogs took their place on the floor for a nap.I flipped through a magazine while my mind wandered to the six mile run I planned for the next morning.Six decidedly non-Olympian miles in a park containing other people with unremarkable bodies, all of us sweating and trying to become what we were intended to be.
Well, it's been a quiet week in Spring, Texas, my home, out on the edge of the megalopolis. The Groundhog Day commuters managed their sweating, waddling trip to work day after day like they did last week and the week before that since the mind of man runneth not to the contrary. And I was with them. Sort of.
I'm straining against the gravitational pull of normal, and it's kind of painful. I have visions of growing older like the man in the picture above. It's not normal. Nothing desirable ever is. And it requires work. From what my body is telling me this week, it requires constant work, because there is nothing Iron-like remaining in this 41 year old body. I see pictures of someone who looks like me finishing the Ironman in June, but my body is telling me that someone has been playing with photoshop, putting my head on the body of someone with more muscle mass than me. That must have been someone else.
"So . . . . [long pause] . . . yoo gaht phat." That was the observation given me yesterday by Miki, the Serbian drill sergeant that my gym calls a personal trainer. Miki is real subtle that way. A real nurturing presence, that one. "How long since yooo doo r-r-r-r-r-resistance t-r-r-r-rain-ink?"
"Uhm, yeah, since like, I guess in May I did some."
"OK, so vee stahrt ez vit som full body verk, naht tooo hefffy. Vee do kettle bells. Mehbee tvice in week? Ja?"
And yesterday we did. The workout was challenging, but not impossible. "Great," I thought. This is a good, moderate, start. Except this morning, instead of moderate, I feel like I've been interrogated in various stress positions.
And I managed to get myself down to the pool for my first swimming since Ironman. I had sketched out a plan to begin a swimming block this fall, but I could tell from the first few laps that the plan was too ambitious. When you're 41 years old and you haven't swum for two months, you need remedial fitness swimming before you start doing intervals at speed. I wonder if there is room in the senior center's water aerobics class later today? From all appearances, I would fit right in. All I need is the flowerty swim cap and some heavy perfume.
And then there is the running. This is where the fitness stuff all began for me. And this is where I go when I need to start again. Where did my easy 8:30 pace go? I hope it returns when it gets cooler, because right now I'm running on some planet with unbreathable air and 1.8 times the gravity of earth.
So, the constant work begins again. It begins because I hate sinking under the gravitational force of normal. It begins because I have a date with the marathon in January and I will toe the Ironman start line in Mexico one year from November.
And somewhere along the line I'll remember that this constant work isn't work at all. It's play. It's not just about looking much better than normal. It's about living much better than normal. It's about abundance in every waking moment.
Just a quick update on the traffic law Mensa candidate from Montgomery County and the post-dated traffic ticket. I now have pretrial setting on September 3, 2009 and I have managed to get the case transferred from Precinct 5 where Officer Williams works to Precinct 1 where the supposed violation took place. We'll see if the prosecutor actually wants to try this case. If so, we'll go. If not, the next step will be pressing charges against the officer and throwing him into the disciplinary system for bad law enforcement. If I had done to him what he did to me, I would still be in jail.
Alas, Officer Williams isn't the only Mensa candidate among the rank and file of Texas law enforcement. I was recently interviewed by the local paper along with another cyclist who actually was harassed and received a ticket from a rural sheriff while competing in the Texas Time Trial Championships. Check it out.
Imagine that Roscoe P. Coltrane pulls you over during the bike leg of your next triathlon. Unbelievable.
****Breaking News Update****
The story has now been picked up by one of my favorite cycling blogs. Check it out here.
OK, so knowing that my race next year needed to be in November, I had signed up to volunteer at Florida and at IMAZ. At the time, I also knew that I probably would not have to race alone because lots of the local athletes and bloggy peeps were making noises about doing one of those two races.
NOW, howevah, everyone is downing tequila and talking about a Mexican vacation with the new Ironman Cozumel race. While I don't relish a 2.4 mile ocean swim or winding up in a Mexican hospital after being run over by a Mexican pickup truck, I also don't relish swimming Tempe Town Lake and riding/running a multiloop desert course by myself.
By.Myself.
Alone.
So Cozumel's registration appears to be open. What's it going to to be? Who's going? Anybody ready to commit?
Come on, all the cool kids are doing it. Who cares what mom says?
Well, it's been a quiet week in Spring, Texas, my home, out here on the edge of the Megalopolis where the coastal plain meets the piney woods.
These are what they call the "dog days" of summer, that time in August where life becomes like an old scratchy, vinyl record--what little you hear is obscured by noise and seems to keep repeating itself, never moving forward.
seems to keep repeat
repeat
seems to keep repeating itse--
never moving for--
forward
Sort of like the movie Groundhog day, only without Bill Murray, romance, humor or popcorn.
Every day starts the same. Even before you get up, the city has started to sweat. It's nearly 80 degrees in the dark, with humidity so high the windows on the houses and the skyscrapers downtown are sweating condensation. Your car sweats as you make your way from the kid friendly zone into the money making zone--i.e., from the suburbs where it is possible to have a yard and a non-lethal school to the central business district where it is possible to have a job capable paying for yard and school. As it happens, these two zones, which are needed by at least a couple million people in the megalopolis, are situated at least 20 or 30 miles away from each other and are designed to be traveled only by internal combustion engine.
I usually do the trek between 4 and 5, and right now, I'm trying to run. There's a bit of a breeze between the buildings downtown, but as soon as you exit the city, every flag is limp and wilted on the flag poles, looking like they've been soaked by a downpour and then baked into place. With no race on the horizon, and no friends to meet, even five miles feels like a chore. A watched Garmin never turns over the next mile. I feel like I'm running the same quarter mile over and over
the same quarter mile over
quarter mile over and
mile over and over
and over.
But even this black hole has little bits of light that escapes. Mother nature reminded us this past week that things are subject to change without notice. One morning on the commute, the freeway signs flashed
STORM FORMING IN THE GULF
FILL YOUR GAS TANK
Tropical Storm Edouard (that's Edward for you Anglo readers who live in those portions of the United States where English is still the common tongue) decided to form off the Cajun Coast and take a sight seeing trip to Houston. Edward turned out to be more like "little Eddie" or maybe Edouarlito, but at least it was variety. It gave the local news something to do other than car wrecks and shootings, and enabled at least one evening walk in temperatures that were marginally survivable.
And there were other milestones to break the monotony of the dog days. Superpounce, newly home from her 2008 World Tour, turned 11 today. She's still a tiny thing, but no longer so tiny that I can hold her entire frame in one arm to feel her first breath of the day---or her first breath ever. She's free of her cast and her ears are newly pierced. She reasoned, "if I can take a broken arm and an IV, then I can stand getting my ears pierced."
And like a Russian trying to weather the endless winter on the featureless steppes, I am managing to anesthetize myself from the sameness of it all with an addiction. With no race goal on the horizon, I've become addicted to Chain Love and Ebay for purposes of pimping out my road bike. Every time I see something new and shiny and carbony, I have to instant my bike adviser, discuss the merits of the new toy, and likely as not, pay for a new "hit" like a junkie in a back alley littered with syringes--or in this case seat posts, saddles, bar tape and handle bars.
And possibly later cranks and shifters and wheels.
If I switch from my triple front chain ring to a double, do I need to change out my shifters, and deraillures too? Should I just go for a whole new gruppo? Wow, that top-of-the-line SRAM Red looks pretty sweet.
**blink**
And like a true addict, the trip I'm on always fails to satisfy--like when Chain Love bitch slapped me with carbon handle bars that were 104 grams lighter than the carbon handle bars I had just purchased barely 4 days before. Sure they were way more expensive, but what's $1 per gram as compared to the unequaled rush of having the carboniest handle bars ever and casting aside that 104 gram anchor that you haven't even installed on your bike yet?
OMG, I so need a training group or a race or a program to shake me from this sweaty-hit-the-snooze-button-and-roll-over-and-have-another-pizza-and-beer-commuter-desk- job-hell that I've fallen into.
Feel free to stage your intervention in the comments.
"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)
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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.
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 . . . .
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.
This post contains some news and an explanation. 
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