Smelling History

I baked a pie with a pioneer tonight.

Sallie Taylor, later Sallie Dyer, was born in the Oklahoma Territory in 1900, seven years before the Oklahoma Territory and the Indian Territory became the State of Oklahoma. Her folks came to Oklahoma in a wagon, and they settled in the country of southern Oklahoma County. (A park in south Oklahoma City bears the family name to this day.)

Sallie was 66 when I was born, and married to one of 8 brothers in the Dyer family. She had a large, extended family around her and life was good. But you would not have seen that coming from her early life experiences. After her mother died during Sallie's childhood, she worked in the local box factory, even as a child. Sallie then eloped with Melvin Dyer, took the train to the State Fair and got married at the age of 15--married into a family where chopping cotton and choking dust in the Oklahoma sun was daily fare. Credit crisis? Hard times? Yeah. right.

The Dyers came to Moore, Oklahoma long before there was an Oklahoma. They spent their first winter in a wagon by a creek south of town and nearly froze or died of sickness. The wind whips over there from the interstate and the strip center today, across a small grave yard with tombstones bearing the Dyer name. Back then, the wind just whipped over from the panhandle, or from Canada.

Sallie didn't know how to cook or sew or any other skill required of an agricultural woman in 1915--her widower father was in no position to teach her. But she was taken in by the rough and tumble Dyer family with their 8 sons. It fell to Grandma Dyer to teach her how to cook, and it fell to the boys, all 8 of them, to tease her when things didn't go right. Sometimes, all it took was, "that ain't how ma done it," to start the tears flowing.

But Grandma Dyer was a good teacher. "That's all right. You'll do better next time."

And she did.

Among the things Grandma Dyer taught her was how to make an apple pie. Nothing fancy. Still, how could it not be good with such basic things as apples, sugar, cinnamon, and butter.

But if Grandma Dyer didn't teach you, how would you know that Jonathan apples make the best pies?

And how much sugar is enough for the filling? Just about that much right there.

And don't forget to put a smidge of flour in with the apples and sugar so the juice won't be too soupy. Now add some cinnamon.

How much? You'll know--if Grandma Dyer taught you.

And Grandma Dyer taught her that the top crust sticks down better if you wet the edges with water.

And you have to secretly dollop some butter on top of the apples before you put on the top.

Then, you use your fingers--just so--to crimp the pie crusts together.

But the real secret is the top crust. If you want it to be perfect, give it a light coating of milk just before you put it in the oven and sprinkle it with sugar and cinnamon.

That's the way Grandma Dyer did it.

I never knew her, but she taught Sallie. Sallie, my great grandmother, taught me. She also taught her daughter and her grand daughters. When Sallie's daughter became too infirm to cook, Sallie's son in law, my grandfather, even made pies this way.

And they smelled just the way my house does now. I remember it.

I remember them.

Awe

I've spent nearly every morning the last month with a bunch of teenagers in their pajamas. Shocking you say? More awe-inspiring if you ask me.

You see, I've been trying to improve my swimming the last four weeks; showing up every morning to the Woodlands Athletic Center (known as "the WAC" to us locals) and standing in line, huddled against the morning chill, and waiting for the doors to open at 0530. All around me are teenagers, members of the three area high school swim teams. Inside, on the walls, are the momentos of championships they have won--district championships, state championships, and even national championships. Alongside those are the school records set by these kids and their predecessors. Those times are elite by any standard.

I see these kids up close every day for a few minutes before they become superheros in swimsuits. They stagger and shuffle up the steps to the WAC in their flannel pajama pants, their flip flops, their fuzzy slippers, girls with their hair all tied and piled high, boys with unruly bed heads. Look closer. You don't even have to see them swim to tell that these are not average, early-21st century teens.


Look around at the hoodies worn against the cold morning air. Written on the fronts and backs are things like "Long Course Championships" or "State Championships" or even "Olympic Traning Center." These are not ordinary kids.


Then look at the shape of the kids underneath the hoodies and pajama pants. An alarming percentage of American teens are overweight or obese, and statistics tell us that if one is obese at this age, it is almost certain you will be obese as an adult and will die or be disabled before your time. These swimmer kids may eat pizza and burgers like many of their classmates, but 0% of these kids are obese. Every inch of them bespeaks power and every movement is that of an athlete.

Then look even closer. Look at their behavior and you might see what I (as the father of a daughter) see. Sure, there is a certain amount of the normal teenage tomfoolery or flirtation. But there's something else going on. These swimmer girls aren't crawling into their shells or taking any crap off the boys like many of their classmates do. You can tell by their actions that these girls are not governing their every action and thought by worrying about what the boys will think. It may seem obvious, but they did not fix their hair before coming to swim practice and they do not appear to be concerned that a boy will see them in a swimsuit. Beyond the obvious, the very way they act communicates that they are confident with their power, their strength, and their shape. In this they are very unlike many of their peers.

And the boys, they too are different. I'm sure it is not lost on them that these creatures in the pajamas are girls. After all, the boys are not dead and they are teenage boys. But maybe they know these are not young women to be trifled with. At least their actions say that they know. They talk with each other across gender lines, sometimes about things that actually matter. They treat each other as team mates. There is a certain amount of common dignity between the genders that often doesn't exist in other places in the adolescent life or even afterwards.

Oh, but then watch them swim and you will be astounded. They swim like they were born to it, and indeed most of them have been doing this together since they were in first grade. They live and move and breathe in the water with an ease I cannot even imagine. And what's more, they do it every day, in the dark and in the cold. Through talent, but even more through dedication and practice, they have developed a level of excellence at this that probably exceeds the level of quality or effort that I have achieved at anything in my over-achieving life.

I will say it frankly. I admire them, these kids in the pajamas. I am in awe. Sometimes I wish I could tell them that, but I know that no one wants creepy old ironman guy walking up to one in one's pajamas and waxing poetic about something one does as a matter of routine. But if I can't tell them they are to be admired, I hope they hear it somewhere, especially from their parents. So, I just silently admired them nearly every morning this past month.

This Friday, it was particularly cold, about 35 degrees farenheit, and one of the younger swimmer-girls was hoping that the coach might let them swim inside with "the old people." She said something along the lines of how slow some of them are, but she "gives them their props" for showing up and working out.

She may or may not have been talking about me specifically. There are swimmers far older and far slower than me. But there is a strong possibility that, Ironman finisher's gear or not, I was just patronized by a 15-year-old girl.

Nice. Love that.

Why?

It is now officially taper time. Sitting here drinking an Avalanche Ale, brewed in Breckenridge, Colorado and sold in our fancy pants grocery store, I am reminded of summer, which has ebbed away.

I am also reminded that two weeks from this very moment, I hope to be two or so hours' run away from the finish line at Ironman Wisconsin.

Tell me that eight years ago before I ran (read jogged, hobbled and walked) my first road race, and I would never have believed it could be true.

Tell me that three years ago when triathlon was only a pipe dream (in large part because I couldn't swim more thant 25 meters), and I would never have believed it could be true.

After finishing my first 70.3 race last year, I started to wonder . . . maybe . . .

But then, less than one year ago, when I was witnessing the swim start where I knew that Trisaratops and Iron Wil were in the midst of the washing machine, and I would have told you that it would never happen.

But then . . . it started to change. As I saw people, real people like me, some faster and stronger and bigger, but some smaller, and slower, and less athletic, emerging from the water and finishing. . . I started to wonder . . . is it possible.



But why even wonder such a thing? Why, when neither your wife nor your child love you any less 30 pounds heavier and completely sedentary?

Why, when your 50+ hour per week job does nothing to encourage 15 to 20 hours of training? Why, when your parents continually ask you when you're going to quit doing all that "crazy stuff," and make a point of telling you every time some endurance athlete dies of a heart attack or drowns?

Why dream dreams and see visions? And why this one?

Do I even know?

Becuase I thought I might win a cool bike from BMC?



Because I was there in Madison for sign up, and all the cool kids were doing it?

Because some of the best and most interesting people I've ever made will be there participating and spectating.










Because I admire these people and want to be like them.

Because to me, training really is like recess, and I love to play.

Because at age 40, play is not a luxury, it is a lifesaver. It is a reason to be.

Because it is hard, and in it's difficulty I've found an ease in the rest of life that cannot be explained or duplicated.

Because I'm not ready to stop, I'm not ready to decay, I'm not satisfied with being a middle-aged, suburban statistic.

Because I hate average.

Because the friends who have coached and encouraged me, run with me and swum with me are watching.

Because you are watching.

Because I am alive, and I know those who are not.

Because I want every breath to count

Because thanksgiving in breathing is a hymn, a prayer, an act of worship.

Because wasting your health and your life on average is profane; Because the wasted time of television and junk food I wore around my middle was blasphemy.

Because I may not know until I struggle through it.

Because I may never know.

Why?

Happy V-J Day

August 15 in Japan, August 14 North American time, the long war and all the national sacrifice that went with it was over.

Passion and life ensued.

Exercise your passion and life today.

. . . Before The Dawn

A pre-dawn trainer ride usually has a very high suck factor, especially if you're depressed.

Unless there is an HBO documentary on the tube about this event:



The fictional Herb Brooks is nowhere near the real deal, may he rest in peace, but these are Coach Brooks' words:



If the miracle on ice doesn't get you going, you better check your pulse.

Do you believe in miracles? This is your time. Go out there and take it.

A Good Run

0500
Dark, still, quiet
Thick, humid air pooling in light under the street lamps
My heart was sluggish
My legs stiff and sore
My effort hard but my tempo slow
flailing myself because of the bad numbers

But my grandfather spent the night in a heart hospital
His heart tired from 90 years' hard work
legs not working, arteries hardened, pooling the blood

And I opened the door for our librarian this morning
She on her electric cart, legs taken by polio

I had a good run.
Very, very good.

Ascending (Triple Bypass, Part I)

(Loveland Pass View)

Nearly everyone wants to be on top of the world, right? But being there never happens if one waits to be taken. You have to work. You have to plan. You have to climb.

And the climbing starts long before that particular day when you are on top of the world. It starts long before, maybe when you go on that first "grownup" bike ride and swear that you might never ride again because of the pain. Or when you fall over with your new fancy clipped in pedals. There are lots of bikes gathering dust in lots of garages after things like that. But you want to be on top of the world. So, you climb.

Now, don't get me wrong. The people who travel with you and who inspire you along the way are key.


(Bolder, Trishannon and Roman at Georgetown)

The people who bike with us and the people who cheer for us are one of the things that keep us moving forward.


(Trishannon and Greyhound, courtesy of Bolder)


(Bolder and Greyhound stop to see Triamam and the Tribe cheering, courtesy of Stronger)

But in the end, it is you. No amount of cheering and cameraderie is going to make you ascend. You have to turn the pedals, one stroke at a time. You have to climb.


(Greyhound ascending, courtesy of Bolder)

And when you do that, there will be periods of time, sometimes long periods of time, when you are alone with you thoughts. It almost doesn't matter whether you are riding in a group or not. Eventually, you will be hearing the sound of your own heart beating and your own breathing, and you are all alone.

At times like that, there are choices to be made. Whose voice will fill your head? Whose baggage will you carry on your back? What's the use in dropping cash on ultra-light carbon bottle cages to shave a few grams if you're going to carry baggage on your ascent. Carry only the essentials--you, your equipment, your training . . .

And don't forget: love and confidence are weightless. In fact, they are lighter than air.

Along the way, you'll reach some summits that are beautiful to behold.


(Juniper Pass View)

But these are only way stations. Don't miss them, and don't forget to enjoy the view; but, if you have a destination, don't be satisfied by false summits or even by real ones. You can't stay here.

You'll know the real ascent when you get there. If you look at it, the switchbacks and the grades will threaten to rob the confidence right out of you.


(Loveland Pass Climb)


(Loveland Pass Climb)

But if your goal is to be on top of the world, did you expect the road not to be steep.

This can be done. Everyone who tries this has to turn the pedals hundreds of times to get to the top. Why not you? Every goal has an obstacle, and the better the goal, the bigger the climb. The obstacle is not going anywhere. You might as well just go.

What awaits . . . is the top.


(Loveland Pass View)


(Bolder atop Loveland Pass)


(Greyhound and Bolder atop Loveland Pass)

Hoosier Pass

So, Coach Book told me to ride at a high aerobic intensity for 1 hour 35 minutes today. But what does it mean when your high aerobic intensity only nets you about 6 mph?


It means you're climbing Hoosier pass from the Breckenridge side.



Starting at 9600 feet above sea level and traveling upward to 11,500 feet above sea level in the space of 10 miles.

Reaching the contintal divide on that steep, hairpin road is a lung searing event. The legs do not give out so much as the lungs.




But as is as often the case, discomfort, effort, and value go hand in hand.




I think we saw the mountains differently than the tourists waddling from their SUVs at the top of the climb.

They were photographed in front of the same sign we used for our background, but it can't have been the same.



And descending at 35 to 40 mph on a bicycle around the hairpin switchbacks --- well, you can't really be that alive in an automobile.



The rain chased us back down to the town. It doesn't have far to fall when you are riding in the sky.



We arrived cold, shivering, and completely, fully alive.

Epic is where you find it

As promised, July 5 was an awesome, epic day. Sure, there was the ultra-brick of the 3000 yard swim followed by 2+ hour ride over a 10,000 foot pass and a 30 minute runoff.

But what is more epic than hanging out by a rushing river of snow melt



Wading hand in hand with a friend



Learning new tricks




Or being very very small in comparison to the world around you.




Don't miss the journey on your way to an iron destination.

Song of the Open Road

AFOOT and light-hearted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.



Henceforth I ask not good-fortune—I myself am good fortune;
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Strong and content, I travel the open road.



The earth—that is sufficient;
I do not want the constellations any nearer;
I know they are very well where they are;
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (1900)

New Beginnings

"He has the deed half done who has made a beginning."
Horace

Wildflower was a crisis of confidence for me. Frankly, I had started to get cocky about being able to finish this Ironman thing, and the triathlon gods decided to teach me a lesson.

At first, the lesson resulted in that "I don't belong here" feeling that most of us have experienced at one time or another. Then I tried to listen. I know what I need to do in befriending the open water. I'll be there every chance I get. I know what my 40 year old frame needs by way of recovery. I will be cutting volume even further during recovery weeks because I know I need it.

But then there is the whole "beginning again" thing. I had to start training again.

So, I did. Some swimming, some biking, some running--all strictly in conformity with the plan set out by Coach Book. Man it felt good to have fresh legs again. I guess I had been so tired for so long that I had forgotten what normal felt like.

But it was weird. These were some of the same basic workouts I had done before, the distances were not appreciably greater, but I had an intruder along for the ride.

Every time I started a workout this week, I had a strange feeling in my stomach. Wednesday, for example, I did my swim workout in the lap pool in my neighborhood. I was the only one there after hours on a beautiful evening. Perfect setting. Sun going down. Slight breeze. Lights coming on. But when I began the 200 meter base intervals, my stomach gnawed at me. What was that feeling?

It was fear.

Can I do this? Can I complete the workout that I start? Do I have it in me to swim these intervals hard and complete every one?

It wasn't just the swim. I felt the same on my familiar run and bike workouts as well.

But I began. And I finished. One interval at a time. One workout at a time.

Not because I'm anything unusual. I'm sure you did the same thing. All I did was start. We all have to start.

Someone planted a seed in me today. A dear friend wrote the words to me on the instant messenger, "You're meant to be an Ironman."

Her confidence is planted in me. I will water it, tend it, protect it, and hopefully, September will be the harvest.

Deflowered

I had the best time.

I had the worst time.

Friends: great.

My race: opposite of great.

I am better and stronger than I allowed myself to be on the day. I don't know what my time was, and I don't ever want to know. I would consider it an act of friendship if you did not look it up.

This is not my race report. That will follow when I have more time to write, and when I have had more time to process the experience. I am already learning--already planning. Until then:

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

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

*Lord Winston Spencer Churchill

The Clock

The clock ostensibly turns at exactly the same speed all the time. But I'm not sure that I believe it.

In high school (and even now) time seems to stand still every afternoon in that insulin shocked, lugubriated twilight between lunch and leaving to do what you want to do. But this morning, at the masters swim, that same second hand swept like lightening through our rest intervals. 12x100 meters with a two blink rest interval and until the cows come home.

Even in triathlon, a race against the clock, time speeds up or slows down, sometimes both at the same time. Hit a rough patch on the run, and you lose time with the minutes screaming by while time simultaneously grinds to a halt as the run goes on forever.

I guess I'm reminded of time because the events are starting come at me fast and furious. The calendar says I am just over a week out from the MS150. Bolder's clock says I am only 21 days from Wildflower. (I don't think this is possible, but I'll go with it.) The clock in my sidebar says I am 148 days away from Ironman Wisconsin, my first.

My sleepy brain thought about time this morning as I was standing around with a bunch of teenagers in their pajamas. Seriously. We were all waiting for the aquatic center to open, me for masters swim, they for swim team practice: a couple dozen teenage kids in their pajamas or boxers or gym shorts, come straight from bed, fuzzy slippers and flip-flops, the boys with their ratty hair all akimbo with bed head, the girls all flyaway ponytails.

Now, there's a certain sense in which I would NEVER go back to high school, even if I could. But as I stood there watching all these kids doing their bored sleepwalk to yet another practice, I was jealous. They are totally unware of the gift of their own youth--bodies that are all lean muscle, taut, smoothe skin, powerful and flexible limbs, potential overflowing, trained to glide with speed through the water, unmarked by age or injury. Yet, I am sure not one of them was aware of the blessing while they were living it. They were just going to another practice.

I felt like grabbing one of the kids by the shoulders and telling them to fill this time and drink deeply of this rich and wonderful cup that they have. But of course I didn't. They would have thought me nuts, and might have been right.

So, reader, I'll grab you by the shoulders, whether you think I'm nuts or not. You can use time, but you can't grip it. The more you try to squeeze and hold it, the more slips through your fingers. You can fill time with something, but time filled with nothing still passes--it passes emptily. Most of all, you can't kill time without injuring eternity.

The number of times your minute hand will go 'round has already been decided. For good or ill , your clock is wound. So, fill your time with good things, and gulp it down.

Taste and see that the Lord is good. (Psalm 34:7)

Solo

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.

--T. S. Eliot

Fall, 1985. It was my senior year of high school. The school itself was one of those sprawling, gigantic high schools common to bedroom communities outside of larger cities. Among the 893 people on my graduating class, we could easily have sent members down to central casting to replace the ensemble in The Breakfast Club. We had preppies, cheer leaders, band geeks, brainiacs, stoners, athletes . . . all the stereotypes.

Anyway, I placed a sticker on the inside of the rear window of the car I drove. The sticker said "University of Wisconsin at Madison" and had the school's Numen Lumen symbol. I had won my audition to enter the school, and it was my statement: "I am not staying here. I am not going to the same college down the road where everyone else is going. It's clear across the country, and I am going by myself. But this is what I am doing."

At 18, I had never taken off alone before. It was a barrier to cross, and once crossed, everything changes. From that point on, I did not "live" at "home." That is "home" was elsewhere, not with my parents. I was too full of 18-year-old immortality to notice at the time, but it was an important moment, going it alone. A lot of important moments happen that way.

I don't know for sure, but today might be one of those moments too, on this journey back to Madison. I had plans for a big ride, a breakthrough in the bike training. I intended to start early, before an organized group ride, and tack on miles to exceed their distance. My plan was to do two loops to their one on the hilly Montgomery County roads that are my haunt at the weekend. I was going to do the ride with a friend, but my intended partner unavoidably had to cancel.

So. Me. In the dark. Pumping up the tires. Mixing the nutrition bottles. What to do?

Well, I knew one thing. I am not staying here.

When it was just light enough to be safe, I left. Solo.

I was alone most of the day, the long route group behind me, and catching short route riders as they came back into the start. The cheerleaders and drill team members who benefitted from the ride cheered me as I came first through the aid stations and road on past without stopping--like I was Floyd Landis or something. (THAT never happened in high school, I can assure you.) And I finished up the first loop.

But now what? The heat is coming, the wind is picking up, and the cheerleading aid stations will all be gone on your second trip around. I tried not to think as I mixed up more Perpetuem. With the bottles in place, I began again--solo--this time in the full sun.

They did not cheer as I left. They just looked.

Up to the half-way point of the second loop, one can turn around and save some effort. After that point, there was nothing for it except to get as low as possible on the bike to try and hide from a dead on wind that stretched the flags taut and felt like a convection oven. Even this does not work when your legs beg to stand during a climb. No cheering this time.

Except for one. Me.

We train in groups, we encourage each other in person and on the internet, and we cherish the friends that we make in this sport. But there are also those times, some of them very important times, where the aloneness is what forms us. When we are alone, like no other time, we have to decide who we are and how far we intend to go. Today was one of those times.

100 miles.

Solo.

Tagged

I was tagged by the feminista of the west. (Settle down. It's a joke.) See, the tag was to name the five things I can thank feminism for. I was a little reluctant to post, in part because feminism (like most "isms") is one of those things you can't joke about. Like most "isms" it is a loaded terms that sets people off. I make it a practice not to set people off, at least on the blog. I like people to want to come here.

Plus, I'm suspicious of all isms, from communism, to liberalism, to conservatism, to fundamentalism. All isms are mixed bags that are responsible for both good and ill in human society. Even so, the isms tend to inspire adherents who insist the bag is completely full of truth and light, and anyone who does not think so is at best ill-informed, or at worst an enemy to the state. Thus, debate in this country usually degenerates into name calling that would get a first year laws school mock trial team laughed out of competition, and elsewhere it degenerates into violence. (List these among the reasons that I NEVER watch any television news program.)

Me, I'm not a full bag kind of guy. I'm not even a "glass half full" or "glass half empty" kind of guy. To me, it's just half a glass.

BUT, I gotta respect the power of the tag. So I put my little dog brain to work. Given my antipathy toward all "isms," I will change the inquiry only slightly. What are the five things I can be thankful for that are due to the increasing equality and dignity of women. (You, reader, can attribute that increasing equality and dignity to feminism, in whole or in part, or not at all.)

1. My wife.




Beyond her being a strong human being with a willingness to use her brain, I never would have met her in a prior generation.

This is a tale of two flutists. My wife and my mother were both flutists from small towns in Oklahoma, just from different eras. My mother had the opportunity to solo with the Olahoma City Symphony back in the 1950s, and was invited by the guest conductor to come and study at the Curtis Institute on scholarship. But good girls from small towns in the 1950s did not pursue ambitions like that. In contrast, my wife clawed her way into college on her flute and went to the Aspen Music Festival where I met her and fell in love with a gifted and ambitious woman.

2. My daughter.



This is more than just "if I hadn't met my wife I would not have my daughter." The most interesting people on the planet are older elementary age girls in that time right before they enter the dark tunnel of adolesence from which many never fully emerge. (Read "Reviving Ophelia") They are smart, curious, rough-and-tumble, girly, not-so-girly, know-it-all-or-soon-will-master-the-universe kind of little people. I'm thankful that no one (especially me) is telling her to sit down, be quiet, and act like a lady.

3. Title IX. On this I agree whole heartedly with the other tag-ees. I love women's sport. Maybe it's because I'm the father of a daughter. Maybe it's because I know how good sport is for a young woman's development as a person. Maybe it's because I train so often with women. Maybe it's just because female athletes are hawt. WHATEVER. I just love it. I know my mancard is in danger, but I have to admit to not watching a single nanosecond of the NCAA Men's basketball tournament. I have seen some of the women's tournament, however. And the NCAA women's cross country championships. And soccer. And volleyball. and . . . . well you get the idea.

4. The Title IX brain. Because of Title IX, we think differently about women in sport. Even women who never played college sports feel the power and freedom to participate here that they do not feel elsewhere. (Witness the lack of female competitors by comparison in European triathlons).

What would the transition area at Wildflower look like in the absence of Title IX? Who would be blogging about triathlon in the absence of Title IX? Do you want to train and race in such an environment? I surely don't. Title IX brain means I have new friends like:

Iron Wil




Curly Su




Nytro



Trimama and Trisaratops



and many others. I would certainly be impoverished in the absence of coming to know these extraordinary women. And I never would have met them in the absence of Title IX brain.

Title IX brain also means that we are beginning to value and glorify beautiful women who are talented and powerful--not just for being some skinny, no-talent waif who walks a runway after snorting coke and smoking a cigarette. Just think of:

Amanda Beard



Mel McQuaid



Jessi Stensland



Desiree Ficker



Carrie Tollefson



and the next generation like--

Sarah Bowman


or Brie Felnagle.



(So, um, yeah. I know the sophomore standouts at colleges I never attended. I told you. I love women's sport.)

Beyond the obvious "ez on the eyes" reason for a guy to like these women (and I don't deny that reason for a minute--I am ALL guy on that one) I want my daughter to equate beauty and feminity with power and accomplishment--not with the right shade of lip gloss or an eating disorder.

5. Getting closer to right. Warning, reader. This is the part of the post where I get all theological. If that is not you're cup of tea, then move on. You have been warned.

Did you know that the original Christians were criticized for recognizing the dignity of women and slaves? It's true. The faith was derided as beneath the contempt of a Roman man because it was the religion of women and slaves. The ancient Hebrew and Christian creation account tells us that "God created man in his own image; . . . male and female he created them." Both genders in our species were created in the image of God. Both genders are needed to understand the complete image of God. To the extent one denies the dignity or worth of either part of our human race, one distorts both the nature of humanity and the nature of God who created them. To the extent we value both, we are closer to right than we were before.

Done.

Fear and Karma

For several weeks, I have been planning to return to masters swim for the first time since my injury took me out of the pool. I had even put it on the training plan in the sidebar.

But I didn't do it.

I didn't do it because I was afraid.

What if I haven't gained back as much strength as I think? What if I get hurt again? What if I can't hang with the workout? What will the good swimmers think of me? I'll look like a fool and a poser.

But Friday, I did it anyway. I was in the slowest lane, but I did it anyway.

Saturday, I almost did not show up for a group ride with the Lone Star Multisport club from the Woodlands. Again, I was afraid. I've never ridden with that group before, and beyond my usual reluctance to meet new people, I knew they were a strong group. I wasn't wrong. There were at least half a dozen studs with ironman finisher gear. What if I can't hang with them? What will they think of me? I'll look like a fool and a poser.

But Saturday, I did it anyway. I got dropped by the Justice League crew in the first group, but I did it anyway . . .

. . . and I pulled someone on a road bike who later thought better of pursuing the long route that day. Karma.

On the hills outside Anderson, Texas, having long since been dropped and riding alone with my own thoughts, I crested a hill and saw another solitary rider. Actually, he was not riding. This card carrying member of the Justice League was on the side of the road with one slowly leaking tube, one tube that would hold no air, and having expended all his CO2.

As luck would have it, I was carrying 4 cannisters instead of my usual 2. Karma.

I was la lanterne rouge of the long route, and the little voice in my head was telling me just to avoid the ignominy and jump in the car after my brick run. I was embarassed to talk to anyone, but I did it anyway.

The only person around happened to be the CO2 superhero's friend. He and I both did our first half-iron distance events last year. We began talking about our race schedules and how I had signed up for Ironman Wisconsin after seeing my friends on the course while volunterering. A spark of recognition dawned on his face. He knew I was talking about Iron Wil, and he figured out that I was Greyhound. The superhero soon returned, and besides meeting two great people, I learned some useful information about Wildflower. Karma.

Shortly before Ironman Florida, The Tri-Geek Kahuna observed one profound result of his training: "The one emotion that has ruled his life, that he was weaned on, is missing: fear." Maybe that is one of the things I'm looking for in my Ironman experience. I am the older of two brothers, and yet it was my little brother who had no fear. I was afraid of everything: swimming, girls, boys, athletics, locker rooms, my own appearance, failure, embarassment . . .

. . . a lot of the same things that have kept me out of the pool or away from the group rides.

I will always be the cautious older brother, and the future is always going to have another "it" to be afraid of. I hope that part of this Ironman experience will be increasing measures of courage . . . to do "it" anyway. If I can do that . . .

"If" by Rudyard Kipling

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 wornout tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe 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 a Man my son!

You Are Here

"[F]or the weather is the weather and a flat is a flat, and there’s nothing but wasted energy in whining. The bills are the bills and the boss is the boss, and I won’t change a thing by complaining. Instead I think of simple known things and find comfort in focusing… now, what's the best way to get myself home today…"--Iron Wil

I needed one additional piece of equipment on my ride this morning: electrical tape. Let me explain. I'll start at the beginning.

When Tejas was part of Mexico, Anglo empressarios doled out land grants for colonies and situated them higgledy piggledy all over the place. Their borders were rivers that flowed from northwest to southeast, dry riverbeds and arroyos that carried water only in season, trails etched into the earth by Native Americans or animal migration, and sometimes just a random line drawn by an Anglo in a big beaver hat. The roads then tended to wind their way around these boundaries so that it is a rarity to travel a country road in a straght line on a compass pount for long.

The result of all this obtuse history, decided more than 150 years ago by men who are memorized and then forgotten by Texas schoolchildren, is that your bike ride will subtly change direction every few miles or even every few hundred yards, but the 25 mile an hour, 35 degree wind will always be in your face.

At least it seemed that way this morning. It took two hours to claw the first 22 mies of the MS150 training ride this morning. Two hours in which the wind was either directly in your face or off your front quarter, as if mother nature wanted to cast you back to Houston and thence into the gulf. The barbed wire rattled and hummed like it was charged with electricity and the cedar trees and the pastures bowed ever lower to the prevailing gale. Throw in some hills--hills you had to peddle down to make headway into the wind--and it was immediately clear that I was not going to finish this ride in the time I thought. Head down, quads burning, neck aching, it went on and on and on. Single digits speeds on a computer that I wanted to obscure with electrical tape.

Odd thing about wind. Sometimes it seems like no matter where you turn, it's always in your face. Just about the time you get used to it, it gusts harder. Curse all you want, it won't listen. Wish for a trainer in a garage, and still, here you are. You can always search for an easier gear--and yet, easier is not always better. Where are you going? A course with hills, eh? Hmmm. What was it like last year? Cold, rainy and windy? Hmmm. So, is this weather really "bad?"

It's like one of those maps at the mall with the arrow: you are here. It doesn't matter if the department store your spouse needs is at the other end, and the smoothie stand your daughter needs is downstairs, and the chair you'd rather be sitting in is at home. You.Are.Here.

If you want to go home for a hot shower, or better still, if you want to go to a starting line at Wildflower or Ironman Wisconsin, it's no good trying to start somewhere you're not. You have to start where you are. Simple. No good trying to use what you haven't got. You can only use what you have.

I guess the trick is being where you're supposed to be, and bringing everything you've got. Today I was--all of me, where I was supposed to be.

We had great weather this morning.

Another odd thing about wind. Every once in a while, when you turn for home, you can fly.