First Race Ever

This is my third triathlon season, the Lone Star 1/4 Ironman ("QIM?") was kind of like my first race--for a number of reasons.

I won't dwell on the race or give you a nauseating post, because my times are impressive to me alone, not to anyone that is affirmatively fast. But there was something different in the race for me.

First, in the swim, it was like my first race ever because I freaked out and hyperventilated like I was a total newb. To be fair, it was the first time in the open water since Ironman Wisconsin, but I was very disappointed in the way it started. I hacked and wheezed and gasped--too much time between the warmup and the start.

Unlike a total newb, I was able to flip onto my back, give myself a good cussing out, and then get going. (I think I also got pissed at myself because the lifeguards on the jet ski saw me breast stroke and flip over and started to come to my rescue like I was a non-swimmer instead of an Ironman).

Once I got going, I was generally pleased with my stroke and my sighting. The bouys seemed to come and go quickly, although I did not have a good set of goggles for the overcast and grey conditions and couldn't see a dang thing. As a result, there was some zig zagging (especially later in the swim when my form deteriorated). And although I was happy with the level of my effort, I was not happy with my time. I know I was swimming faster than my Ironman pace, and the numbers show it was exactly the same. Thus, my working hypothesis is that the swim was long--substantially so. If not, I am even more wretched in the water than I thought.

The really notable thing was the bike and the run. These were like my first race ever because it was the first time I actually tried to "race." I wore no heart rate monitor and determined to just go as hard as I thought I could maintain and pass as many people as possible. I really have never gone hard in a triathlon. The first year I was content to finish. The second was three HIMs and Ironman Wisconsin, all of which I feared not finishing if I went hard. So, this was a first--a first "race."

On the bike in particular, I made it my goal to gobble up as many competitors as possible, maintain a high cadence in the wind, try to hold above 20 mph no matter how much I hurt, and pay no heed to whether I had any run legs. In the end, I averaged just touch under 20 mph, and taking out the portion of the course to and from the sea wall, where it was impossible to maintain a high speed with any safety, my average speed would have been above 20 mph.

Hmmm. Maybe I should get some aero wheels or a pointy helmet . . . .

Same thing in the run. No heart rate monitor, run as strong as the pain would allow, pass as many people as possible. In this I did pretty well for the first four miles, averaging better than 8 minute pace, then collapsed and weakened a bit in the heat during mile 5-6. This was mostly mental on a desolate part of the course and I am not to pleased with that, but I picked it up a bit on the way home for an average pace of about 8 minute miles off a hard bike.

Here are the numbers for the QIM:

Clock Time	2:45:58
Chip Time	2:45:58
Overall Place	213
Gender Place	164
Division Place	28
965M Swim Rank	450
965M Swim Time	23:48
T1 Time	02:30
28M Bike Rank	229
28M Bike Time	1:24:49
T2 Time	02:01
6 5M Run Rank	173
6 5M Run Time	52:48

The numbers show a bit of objective progress, but the what they don't show is the change between my ears and in my "heart" if you believe in such things. I will never podium at anything, but I want to be through with doubting myself and fearing the DNF. I want to accept the pain as a companion of proper effort rather than a harbinger of impending failure.

I want to get off the hamster wheel and see what's outside the cage.

Hamsters

You know what really bothers me? It's people who act no better than hamsters.

You know, hamsters, those little furry rodents that people, usually children, keep as pets. They live their whole lives in a cage and nothing much changes from day to day. They hit the little valve on that water bottle and water comes out. They hit the food bowl and someone has put the pellets there for them. Sometimes they engage in a lot of activity, making their little wheel go 'round and 'round or scurrying through their little tubes, but they're not really going anywhere. And they eliminate all over their habitat knowing that someone else will eventually come and replace all the filth with fresh, clean wood shavings.

Lately, I've been seeing hamsters everywhere I look, sometimes even when I shave in the morning.

For example, when it is 70 degrees and sunny outside, what would you call a bunch of human beings who are inside a gym loping on a treadmill or an elliptical machine because that is what they always do? Hamsters. They were even in there yesterday morning on the elliptical machines when the gym had no power and the machines therefore had no resistance. All they needed was a little water bottle and a bowl of pellets. Hamsters.

And what do you call someone who weighs himself every day for three years, and by all appearances is just as overweight as always because there has been no change in the diet or the routine of reading the paper while slowly peddling a recumbent bicycle for 30 minutes three times each week. Bring on the pellets. That is a hamster.

And then there is the phalanx of waddling office workers, arranged in a cue outside the building before work, at lunch, and at two breaks during the day, breathing nicotine off-gas along with assorted carcinogens until 4:59 when they shut off their computers, hit the road, and go home to eat and smoke on the couch in front of the television before repeating it again tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that. Looks like a hamster to me. Indeed, it looks like a hamster whose health care I will wind up paying for--sort of cleaning out the wood shavings, if you will.

Pointing a few less fingers and looking a little more in the mirror, what do you call someone who does the same commute to the same job and to the same house every day, but expends little or no effort to improve or change the things he finds unsatisfying, settling instead for predictable pellets that will keep him fed but bored. Classic hamster.

Sure, hamsters can be cute when they're rodents. But people aren't pets. We weren't meant to be taken care of by children or "kept" by anyone else. We aren't suited for cages. We are built to seek our own food, to go places outside the cage, to take risks, conquer challenges.

Sure, the Ironman part of my life is not hamster-like, and in large part, I may have taken on challenges and pain like that in rebellion to becoming a hamster and in an effort to feel really alive. But I have said it before and I'll repeat it now. I want that adventure and conquering spirit to infect the rest of my life. I want to NOT settle in any part of my life.

No more pellets.

No more habitrails.

Now what do I do?

Opening Day

Some people say that life begins on opening day. I kind of feel like that now, but not for the same reasons as I used to.

People who use that expression are usually talking about baseball, and I used to love going to the games. I loved smelling the grass and dust and leather--sitting in the stands and scoring every pitch, every out, every hit, every run--squinting against a backdrop so green it hurt your eyes just to look at it. To borrow some wonderful lines, we'd find we had reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines . . . where we sat when we were children and cheered our heroes . . . and we'd watch the game . . . and it was as if we dipped in magic waters. The memories were so thick we had to brush them away from our faces.

Yeah, I get goosebumps in that portion of Field of Dreams--"People will come, Ray." But some of the shine has gone off the game for me. Maybe it's knowing the home runs I saw Mark McGuire hit during batting practice in the Astrodome weren't real. Maybe it's the vision of Roger Clemens cheating with his pants around his ankles. Maybe I just don't have the patience to sit still for three hours to watch men, even honest men, get paid to play.

Whatever the reason, a different opening day calls me now, one where I am playing instead of sitting.

This weekend is the first triathlon of the season for me here in Texas--the Lone Star Triathlon Festival in which I'll do the quarter iron distance in beginning my build to Ironman Coeur d'Alene.

Opening day means the nervous energy of picking up race packets. Opening day means affixing race numbers on the bike the night before. Opening day means packing and repacking the transition bag. Opening day is rising early from being already awake, taking down breakfast you aren't hungry for and wondering whether it will stay down. Opening day is going to the transition area before any self-respecting J.D. is even awake on a Sunday morning. You rack the bike in the chilly darkness, you set up your gear, you jog to warm up and knock the cobwebs out. Then . . .

You take that first plunge.

You dive into the cold, salty water, alone with crowd of athletes in your wave.

You swim while other people watch, and still others sleep.

That first plunge begins to reveal who you really are. Are you prepared? Did you put in the work? Can you handle your fear? Can you overcome your doubts? Will you suffer to go faster than you thought you could? Even though you won't win?

Of course you're not as alone as you feel in taking that first plunge. There are people who became your friends last year and those with whom you will become connected this year. These kinds of connections surpass by far what is possible around an office water cooler or March Madness pool. Opening day means seeing people who are important to you find out, just like you, who they really are. Being along for their ride is a gift like none other.

But it's not here quite yet. This morning, I was alone in the pool doing some sharp, 300 meter repeats for muscular endurance. My body usually complains when I try to swim 200 meters for any kind of speed. But this morning, at a longer interval, my lungs felt bigger than they were several weeks ago. My limbs were moving water with unaccustomed force, grabbing big armfuls of water and throwing them behind me. I was out of the comfortable little nest of what I thought I could do. But, unlike the rest of today, which I spent in my cushioned and climate-controlled office, I did not want to be anywhere else on the planet other than this pool.

Maybe, with opening day approaching, I was getting just a wee taste of iron for the first time this season.

Opening day is almost here. I can't wait.

Signs of the Apocalypse

Yes, I know. This is a triathlon blog or a writing blog or something. But I have been known to also express my appreciation of the female form. Think of me as a renaissance painter, only using digital words and lacking any artistic merit.

Anyhow, work and training have gotten in the way of regular posting, but today, I had to drop a note about signs of the upcoming apocalypse. Ursula Anders, the original "Bond Girl" from "Dr. No" is having her birthday today.

She is Seventy Freaking Two Years Old! A Bond Girl in her 70s! That would make me . . . .

**checking the math***

Never mind. I need to lie down.

Non-Fiction

It started feeling like an electric shock. Every time she lowered her chin she’d fell the *bang* and tingle in her feet and hands like she had been shocked. “Odd,” she thought. “Maybe I strained something in my neck or back having the baby.”

But it got worse.

Soon her feet and hands were tingling with regularity. And the doctors were no help. Her first primary care physician did not want to give her a referral to a specialist, and then when he did, he did not even pick the right specialty. No useful diagnosis was received and the tingling was getting worse. Sometimes her leg dragged when she tried to walk, and often she was so tired she did not want to get out of bed.

But she had to get out of bed. The new baby had to be fed.

Two PCPs later, she found someone who did a proper neurological exam, recognized that she needed to see a neurologist, and was willing to make the referral. The neurologist pretty much knew what he was dealing with, but the testing was inconclusive, so he did not want to say. The diagnosis can be too alarming. Sometimes, things like this go away and never come back. He prescribed IV steroids followed by an oral steroid taper.

So, she took her infusions, tolerating incompetence from the home infusion company that had to be told every time that she had a latex allergy, that never seemed to send anyone who could find her tiny veins, and never seemed to have the premie infant needles that alone seemed to fit her. Then she took the oral steroids and dealt with the mood and personality changes, and the burning of her stomach.

And she took care of the baby.

The symptoms went away. Maybe they would never return.

But they did. One year later. And this time they were worse. Numbness progressed from her feet, up her legs and to her midriff. Her left leg became week and even her arms became numb and unpredictable. One day the bank called because one of her attempts to sign her name was no longer recognizable as her signature. And don’t even think about playing the flute anymore. The fingers will not obey her commands.

And then there is the baby--now a toddler. Her husband left for work every day at 6:15 to make his long commute. She asked to be awakened every day to test her limbs. She was afraid of waking up paralyzed and unable to lift the baby from her crib.

This time the testing left nothing to the imagination. This girl who hated needles gave blood, had a spinal tap, and had an MRI. They confirmed what the neurologist had not wanted to say before.

Multiple Sclerosis--a potentially crippling disease with no cure.

She thought first of the baby. Will she have it too? No. Probably not. Will mom be able to be a mom for as long as she needs? Probably, but the disease is very unpredictable. Is there anything to be done? Only somewhat. There are some drugs that appear to statistically slow the disease that did not exist 10 years ago, but they don’t always work and they can lose their effectiveness.

There are three main drugs--pick one.

So, she did. And the girl who hated needles learned to inject herself every night, and has done so for nearly 10 years now.

And she can still walk.

And although she hasn’t had a full blown exacerbation in a long time, she mostly manages day to day with only fatigue and transient tingling or weakness when the weather gets hot.

And her neurologist just gave her a disability rating of “0”

And she is my wife.

We are the lucky ones. We live in a time where there are some effective treatments available to slow the progression of disability and we can afford them. Even better, there are more effective drugs in development because of money raised for research and patient services.

I tell you this true story because this week is National Multiple Sclerosis Awareness Week, and I am going to raise some of that money.

My only athletic fundraiser is to raise money for Multiple Sclerosis research, which is making huge strides against the disease. This year I am riding the MS150 from Houston to Austin for the fourth time. But along with blowing past the overnight stop like I did last year, we're taking the fundraising up a level. I am raising my funds through the Janus Charity Challenge and all the way through Ironman Coeur d’Alene in June.

There are a number of ways that you can join the ride--by literally riding with me, by donating to the cause, and other ways as well. The most obvious way is to hit my fundraising link here or at the top of my sidebar. I want to raise $10,000 this year. If I do this, I will have raised $28,500 for Texans with Multiple Sclerosis, and while I have put in the initial seed money myself, I need the help of the bloggy peeps. However big or small your seed might be, plant it here and help me reach my goal.

Read about Multiple Sclerosis and all the progress being made, and help if you can. I’ll be continuing to share information about this disease and the MS150 through the event, and again through Ironman. Come along for the ride.

Happy Birthday

The man is 68 years old today--the same age as my dad, which I find disturbing in the extreme. But, unlike my dad:

1. If you have five dollars and Chuck Norris has five dollars, Chuck Norris has more money than you.
2. There is no 'ctrl' button on Chuck Norris's computer. Chuck Norris is always in control.
3. Apple pays Chuck Norris 99 cents every time he listens to a song.
4. Chuck Norris CAN eat just one Lay's potato chip.
5. Chuck Norris CAN sneeze with his eyes open.
6. Chuck Norris is suing MySpace for taking the name of what he calls everything around you.
7. Chuck Norris destroyed the periodic table, because he only recognizes the element of surprise.
8. Chuck Norris can kill two stones with one bird.
9. When the Boogeyman goes to sleep every night, he checks his closet for Chuck Norris.
10. Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.
11. There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of creatures Chuck Norris has allowed to live.
12. Outer space exists because it's afraid to be on the same planet with Chuck Norris.
13. Chuck Norris does not sleep. He waits.
14. Chuck Norris is currently suing NBC, claiming Law and Order are trademarked names for his left and right legs.
15. Chuck Norris is the reason why Waldo is hiding.
16. Chuck Norris counted to infinity - twice.
17. There is no chin behind Chuck Norris’ beard. There is only another fist.
18. When Chuck Norris does a pushup, he isn’t lifting himself up, he’s pushing the Earth down.
19. Chuck Norris is so fast, he can run around the world and punch himself in the back of the head.
20. Chuck Norris’ hand is the only hand that can beat a Royal Flush.
21. Chuck Norris can lead a horse to water AND make it drink.
22. Chuck Norris doesn’t wear a watch, HE decides what time it is.
23. Chuck Norris can slam a revolving door.
24. Chuck Norris does not get frostbite. Chuck Norris bites frost
25. Remember the Soviet Union? They decided to quit after watching a DeltaForce marathon on Satellite TV.
26. Contrary to popular belief, America is not a democracy, it is a Chucktatorship.

**credit given to Chuck Norris Facts

Working Out With Mickey

This is me` after today's ride in Galveston. I am wasted, and I haven't even had anything to drink.

Yet.

A number of things made the ride a true challenge.

1. Spring forward. SUCKS. Note to self: if you're going to drive an hour and a half to an early morning start of a group ride, don't do it on the Sunday you lose an hour of sleep.


2. Garminectomy: I charged my Garmin last night, but it refused to turn on this morning. So, the only computer I had along for the ride was a Mickey Mouse watch.

I.Kid.You.Not.

No elapsed, time, no heart rate data, no miles per hour. Just Mickey.

3. Wind: Sweet baby Jeebus I don't know how the wind could have been much worse. It was two out and backs for a total of 80 miles, and the wind we never really at our backs. Going out, it was enough crossways that you still felt wind in your face. Coming back, it was right in your face off the front quarter, blowing in off the Gulf. That is why 80 miles took an ungodly 4 hours 55 minutes. Which brings me to number:

4. Weather.com blows: Weather.com said the wind would be 15 mph out of the SSE, which would have given us a great tailwind on the homeward leg. Instead, the wind was out of the NE and built up to 20+ mph, meaning I was reduced to a snot slinging, slobbering, grunting, quivering mass of not-nice-word spewing . . . canine. If it didn't rhyme with duck, I pretty much didn't say it in the last 10 miles of my ride. If it did rhyme with duck, I said it repeatedly in all its forms--verb, adverb, adjective, gerund, and I don't know what else.

I couldn't even keep track of my progress or estimate how much longer the insanity would go on, because Mickey would not tell me how many miles I had left. He just smiled up at me and moved his four-fingered gloves around the dial ever so slowly.

And then at the worst possible moment, while clawing back into the wind, the song "It's a Small World After All" got lodged in my head like a blood clot.

Kill.Me.Now.

But the best part of the ride was seeing that my Iron Friend is totally ready for Ironman Arizona. She broke me like a twig by 70 miles, and she kept going for 100. I am told that I was able to do such things last year. It must have been my evil twin, Skippy, because this greyhound is feeling it tonight.

I guess this is a deposit into the Bank of Ironman, but the customer service at this Bank sucks.

Unexpected Heaven

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!--
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.*

Maybe it was the endorphins talking. I don't know. But things looked different at the end of running off the bike this morning.

I was surprised that Memorial Park emptied out the way that it did. The pre-dawn weather was perfect. The air was cool and fresh, like breaking open a huge head of lettuce on ice, putting it to your face and breathing in until your lungs won't hold any more air. There was just the slightest breeze, and the hum of early commuters from I-10 was just pleasant white noise behind the whispering pines and the birds. Near the end of the ride, the suddenness of dawn broke. Nature turned the lights on while the streetlights blinked out, one by one. The cool breeze warmed gently and pleasantly while the asphalt continued to whisper by underneath my wheels.

Apparently unaware of the weather conditions, the rest of the city must have overslept. The bike route and the running trail were only sparsely used. And, surprisingly, the park emptied out well before the sun came over the horizon and business hours approached.

The light was grey when I transitioned from my bike to run what was scheduled to be a 30 minute tempo session to finish out the brick. I decided to pay attention to the breeze on my face rather than the customary sluggishness and rebellion of my bike legs refusing to run. Through the breeze, I pulled my heart rate up and my pace down until the world eventually moved by under my feet the same way the asphalt had so recently shooshed by under under my wheels.

The last 5 minutes I did an ez cool down--out and back--first with the newly-risen sun on my shoulders and then, turning, on my face. In that last 2 minutes, when I turned toward the sun, I saw it.

Looking at last to the light, the empty park was bathed in 24 karat liquid gold--dew on blades of grass with the smell and song of dogwoods and rebuds newly bloomed. Cotton candy laced with jewels coated the sky, and in an instant, the bare clouds that were there let fall two medium hand fulls of shimmering coins -- not pennies from heaven but ingots of precious metal.

As soon as it happened, it was over. In that instant of present, which disappeared into past as soon as I noticed it, the sun rose too high to provide the refraction and the sprinkling raindrops stopped. I wondered, are we few the only ones who see these riches? The lemmings on I-10 in their cars and buses, what of them? I used to get in a car inside my garage, ride to the garage across from my office, walk in a tunnel to my desk, and reverse course in the evening to reach a television screen by the appointed hour. Would I have seen these riches then?

I believe in heaven, but I also think that sometimes the veil is lifted, and heaven happens right here. Heaven can kind of sneak up on you sometimes, and if you aren't looking, you'll drive right by. If you do, who's to say you're not already dead?

*Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, A Psalm of Life

True Confessions--Things That Make My Head Explode

Some among you may have formed the impression that I am a decent guy who rides on a fairly even keel, and may even be considered patient or kind. If so, your mistake is due to two things:

1. The magic of the internet where you can pretty much create anyone you want to be; and

2. My status as a professionally trained wordsmith who can weave a tapestry, yea an entire world of fictional believability using only the English language.

Those who think they have met me are deceived. I am not the short and wiry, middle-aged man with a receding hairline. That is merely an actor who I have hired to make the online persona believable. I am actually a stunningly attractic and tall blond woman in her early 30s, a hard-bitten New Yorker who writes a gossip column and commiserates with my friends about the abysmal state of New York men while drinking Grey Goose martinis, moving from conquest to conquest and casting about witty banter with devil-may-care sophistication.

OK, so that's not actually true. And I kind of stole that from a TV show, so it's not even really a display of any ability at fiction writing.

What you see is pretty much what you get, except that I am a lot less kind or patient than you might have been led to believe. Patience and mercy are not my best qualities. I am not longsuffering and slow to anger. In the words of Lyle Lovett, "that's the difference between God and me."

Certain things bring out the feelings that I am about to go Krakatoa. One of them is airport security lines, which I have survived four times this week without committing a homicide, although sometimes only narrowly. She probably does not know it, but she came within an eyelash of death-by-Krakatoa. You know her. The morbidly obese, mouth-breathing lady who stood in the security line for 15 minutes, heard the verbal instructions from the TSA representative, saw the instructional signs with pictures for the illiterate, and yet still waited until reaching the x-ray conveyor to clue to the fact that she needed to put a large assortment of hopelessly futile beauty supplies into plastic baggies while seasoned business travelers stacked up behind her.

I think the TSA almost "offed" her right there pursuant to some new power granted in an executive order. No one would have blinked.

Ditto for the blinged out refugee from a Hip-Hop video who tried to walk through the metal detector with a four inch wide studded belt and various and sundry chains.

Seriously, DID YOU NOT KNOW that this funny little door tries to find metal things? Do you THINK that the Mr. T rejects around your neck, and wrist and ankle and waist might not make the funny little door beep? You do KNOW that the beep does not mean you get a prize, right?

It's time like these that I start thinking evil thoughts about travelers in strollers and wheelchairs and trying to make predictions about which x-ray line will be the fastest.

COME ON GRANDMA! MOVE IT. YOU CAN TOTALLY GO FASTER THAN THAT. I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR TITANIUM HIP REPLACEMENT. WAND HER, SKIPPY!

Then there is the training plan. I know that I have done enough workouts and can do enough on the weekend that I am going to continue to improve and not lose any fitness, but the integrity of the graphs and training log are now all screwed up and my head is going to explode. Plus all this life stuff, what with the parenting and the earning a living and the husbanding, is making me tired and interfering with the MY TRAINING!

CAN THE WORLD PLEASE GO AWAY AND LEAVE ME ALONE???!!! I've got a sub-15-hour Ironman, completely pathetic, non-podium, generic, back-of-the-pack finish to train for!!

Oh, did I mention that I have to suppress a really selfish streak from time to time. Shocking, yeah, I know. Who knew?

I'm getting on that plane over there in one hour and heading home from Orlando. I hope I find my daddy/husband self again before I pull my car in the garage.

**breathing deeply**

Oh gawd, that screaming toddler with the mouse is is probably on my flight.

Make.
It.
Stop.

I am a bad, bad man.
(Your own true confessions solicited for the comment section).

Suburban Moms Gone Wild or the Near Death Of A Former Ironman

Often times, my Sunday post to wrap up a training week will be entitled, "Whiskey and Chocolate," two rewards for a week well lived, or at least well-trained. This Sunday, I only had the energy to drink, not to post.

This weekend, some adjustments in the training schedule were necessary. Why? Because I was the officer of the watch, the only parent on deck.

Mrs. Greyhound was away with all of her mom friends at a scrap booking retreat. Supposedly, this involves a bunch of middle-aged suburban moms sitting around all weekend eating junk food, drinking wine, and "making memories" in their elaborate scrapbooks (read talking crap about their husbands).

I suspect it involves mojitos and naked pillow fights. She denies this, but methinks the lady doth protest too much.

Anyway, if you are officer of the watch, and your "men" are a solitary, ten-year-old daughter, you can't exactly take off all day to drive out and do a four hour bike ride in the country. And yet Coach Book said to ride four hours, and I try to meet or exceed the expectations of Coach Book.

So, on the most BEEEE YOUUUUUU TEEE FULLL cycling weekend ever in South Texas, I was forced to spend three hours of quality time with Coach Troy on the trainer in my garage, beginning at 0415, doing the "tough love" spinervals session.

Yeah. I know. Joy.

The production values were OK, I guess. The music sounded like a combination of the background music on the Weather Channel and what I imagine would be in high budget porn: unrecognizable, exciting in only an artificial way, nearly all electronic, and musically bereft of content. Would it kill you to get the rights to use some face melting pop or rock tunes?

Now I know why they have the option to turn off the music, an option that I will use next time and plug in my ipod to control my own tunage.

That said the workout was hard and effective and passed the time. By the middle of the second hour, I was starting to see things, and I'm pretty sure that Terri, the triathlete on the back row of the DVD cyclists, was making eye contact.

She was totally into me.

But by the end of three hours , I was afraid that Bruce, the triathlete in the front row, was also getting fresh.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

So, I spent one manly hour of quality time with the "King Arthur" DVD, spinning out the legs at low zone two while watching hewn limbs and severed heads. And I'm certain by the end of hour four, Keira Knightly was totally giving me the look.

Maybe it was the caffeinated gels.

Coach Troy says that 3 hours on the trainer is equal to four hours on the road. Well, in order to do my dad duties, I spent four hours on the trainer, then added in a recovery run Saturday, 14 miles running Sunday and a long swim of 3100 yards.

By the time Mrs. Greyhound got home, I was unable to tell whether she gave me the look or not. I am still spent.

I am still not altogether sure that last year's Ironman still lives here.

The Life

If I weren’t a triathlete, I would not know the musical whisper of chain and wheels and smooth pavement on a dark morning. I wouldn’t know the feeling of my thighs pumping up and down like pistons with the breeze swooshing past my face before the rest of the city even wakes up.

If I weren’t a triathlete, I wouldn’t know the new-found assurance of lifting weights at the gym--knowing that even as mediocre as I am, none of the bulky metal heads can use those big muscles to beat me to the line in any discipline at any distance.

If I weren’t a triathlete, I might be the average middle aged man. My largest feature would be my belly instead of my spirit.

If I weren’t a triathlete, I’d get a whole lot more sleep. I probably would not have been outside on Wednesday morning to see the iridescent peach, pink and purple in the dappled clouds announcing the coming of the sunrise. If, on the off-chance I had been outside, would it have even mattered. Would I have noticed the sunrise or felt the same sense of presence had I not just completed a swim?

If I weren’t a triathlete, I probably would not have been in the finishers chute for the Austin Half-Marathon on Sunday. And if I had been there to spectate, I wouldn’t have felt the fullness of air in my lungs and the honest pain of escaping the gravitational pull of being “like everybody else.”

If I weren’t a triathlete, I probably would not have discovered that encouragement is lighter than air. I saw Kathleen with about 5 miles to go and was bridging up to her. I reached her about the time we hit a stiff hill and told her to grab my wheel and I'd pull her up. I don't think I annoyed her, and I tried not to be a chatty Kathy. There were long periods where I just listened to her footsteps and breathing, but for the next four miles I talked her through climbing and descending about 200 yards at a time, and in the process focused on my own form. When you find your friend on the race course, and you make it your mission to fill her sails with encouragement, you get pulled along too. Who knew?

If I weren’t a triathlete, I might not have discovered that being first to the line is not nearly as delicious as watching a friend's eyes open to the whole new self that they never knew. I told her that I expected her to beat me to the line, and after the last hill, I accelerated. So did she. I pulled ahead. So did she. Faster I went. She went faster still. A couple more surges and she was gone. She finished her fastest 5k ever in the last 3.1 miles of a VERY hilly half-marathon. I took the finisher's medal given to me and put it around her neck with a smile that was almost as big as her own. That finish for her is just another beginning.

If I weren’t a triathlete, I would be poor indeed.

Where Did That Come From?

So, I could barely walk this week, and I was pretty sure I would not run this weekend. But this morning I felt good enough to give it a try, so I decided to treat the Austin half as a long run with a few thousand close friends. The results:

1:56:??
Avg pace 8:48
Avg HR 148 (!!!)

And the best part was coming up on Kathleen in the last 5 miles and poking her with a sharp stick every time she wanted to slow down! (Actually, I was nicer than that, but I'll let her tell the tale of how she beat me to the line).

It was a very, very good weekend.

More tomorrow.

Peace. Out.

Goals: I Haz Dem

moar humorous pics

So, this weekend is the Austin Marathon and Half-Marathon. I have the half-marathon in my sidebar race schedule, but my goal is a big fat question mark.

Literally, it says "????"

It's not as if I don't have goals, it just seems like the dang little birds won't come down out of the tree where I can reach them.

See, I originally signed up for the marathon. It feels like it has been so long since I ran a good road race and was able to run hard. I thought that after Ironman Wisconsin, I could take a break and then build up for a good marathon time. I've gone 3:53:41 for the marathon, and I had hopes of going faster, especially since my long run times were comfortably averaging better than 9 minutes per mile.

Then, I ran a 5 k and the running gods decided to rip my left hamstring out of my a$$ cheek and tear my calf muscle to boot.



So, I changed the goal. Maybe I can run a reasonable half-marathon time.

Then, I mixed in some strength training, including squats.



My 41-year-old hips don't lie. They told me, "dude, you're 41 years OLD--REPEAT IT WITH ME, OLD!!!



"Sure, you could leg press the whole stack on the weight machine when you played soccer, but that was 25 years ago. Your left hip flexors, gluteus minimus, psoras major and your general groinal area are now on strike.

"Oh, and you've got a cold, so all that respiration you were counting on doing, forget it."

So, I changed the goal again. Maybe, I can finish if I run really slowly and carefully, if my heart doesn't explode, if I don't start bleeding from my ears and eyeballs, and if my head doesn't start spinning 360s while projectile vomit spews out of my mouth. After all, it's only a flesh wound.



"I'm INVINCIBLE!"

(all together now) "You're a looney."

I ran a little today, and I ran a little yesterday. Some of it was painful, and sometimes the offending areas loosened up OK. Doc says the joint is OK. It's just muscular soft tissue stuff. So, we'll just have to see, but if I go any slower, I feel like I'll be going backwards.

Being the Valentine

I wasn't planning on posting today, but then I read this. In a day when much of the entertainment media and the public are focused on "getting some," it was really nice to be reminded that love is more about giving and bearing burdens. Can you substitute your name in all these blanks where the word "love" once appeared:

________ is patient.
________ is kind.
________ does not envy.
________ does not boast.
________ is not proud.
________ is not rude, is not self-seeking, is not easily angered, and keeps no record of wrongs.
________ does not delight in evil but rejoices with truth.
________ always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
________ never fails.

She was being the Valentine.

41 Year-Old Virgin

Do not be deceived, gentle reader. The Greyhound is not the Alan Alda-esque, sentimental softy that you might think. He is a cynic--a cold-blooded, dispassionate, jaded cynic who has no use for fakey Hallmark holidays like Valentine's Day. That's why I give you this present for Valentine's day from the bottom of the dark and empty pit where my heart would otherwise be:

[Video of "Love Stinks" removed to quieten down the blog again]










How'm I doin'?





Didja believe me?




Not buyin' it huh?




OK, so don't tell, but Superpounce and Mrs. Greyhound are getting Valentine's Day presents after all. They will each receive Pajamagrams with handwritten notes from the man of the house.

Uhm, that's me.

Then of course, there's a further gift that only Mrs. Greyhound will enjoy. The oh-so-smooth silkiness of Greyhound's new legs--sans hair pants. As racing season approaches here in the south, I decided to clean up my act and get smooth again, but not by stealing my wife's razor, like some triathletes. Indeed. Mrs. Greyhound is not down with shaving because of all the pricklies.

So, I went for a manly waxing. My first ever. Maybe my last. We'll see.

Legs only, mind you. I did not invoke the name of Kelly Clarkson even once, and I didn't cry.

Much.

I know, no pictures means it didn't happen, but you'll have to visit Steve in a Speedo if you're that kind of sicko. Believe me, it DID happen.

I hope she likes it . . . when the swelling goes down.

Below The Neck (SFW)

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

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

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



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

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

But I'm not bitter.

Really, I'm not.

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





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enough With The Drama

MEMORANDUM

TO: Lower Muscular-skeletal System

FROM: Management (Brain, Heart and Spirit)

RE: Persistent System Failures

DATE: February 8, 2008

As the Greyhound nears the end of base period, management feels the need to evaluate the performance of the various parts of this Ironman effort and to address what management feels are weak links in the chain. That evaluation has been performed and the purpose of this memorandum is to inform you of certain deficiencies that management feels must be remedied.

Management is of the opinion that the physical plant of the lower, left side has not been performing in a satisfactory manner. Management is of the considered opinion that demands upon the system have not be excessive. On the contrary, appropriate amounts of stress have been followed with appropriate amounts of rest, recovery and nutrition. Nevertheless, the lower left part of the Greyhound has been in a persistent state of complaint and now of failure.

Before the Ironman program began, it was the upper hamstring, otherwise known as the ass. Then, the hamstring proper and the calf on the left side. Now, perhaps as a result of strength training and quality run workouts, it is the connective tissue around the left hip that is refusing to perform as required. Such refusals can no longer be tolerated.

The vision of management is a youth-oriented program. As a result, spirit and heart are performing like that of a man in his mid-to-upper twenties. Not to be outdone, the mind appears to have regressed somewhat past the point of a college sophomore. (This is not altogether positive, in that such a mind dwells all to often on boobies and beer, but this shortcoming will be addressed by management at the proper time and place.)

The body, however, apparently did not receive the memo, because the left side in particular appears content with the standards one would expect of a senior citizen with a handicapped parking sticker. For the record, Greyhound likes to run, and it is the considered opinion of management that pool running and elliptical training sucks donkey balls.

Enough with the drama. There will be no prizes for overcoming injury, and the Greyhound does not seek to be considered as a "challenged" athlete. We expect all systems to perform with reasonable success when placed under reasonable demands.

And lest you be taking solace from the recent strike of unionized writers, please be reminded that this neither a democracy nor a union shop. Units of capital who chose to perform as expected will be rewarded. Those who do not, will receive the economic disincentives inherent in their free choices as market participants.

We are going to Ironman in June and you are coming. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. You have one recovery week to figure out which way it is going to be.

1s, 3s, 7s and Rest

I made the Masters coach smile this morning

He is a somewhat crumudeonly old guy who was present at the creation--that is the creation of the planet and the creation of Greyhound as a swimmer. He "knew me when" I could barely huff through a set of 10 hundreds on 2:30. Today he saw a different guy.

The main set was 5x200 descending. I am in the slow lane. (Remember, my masters group won the Long Course Nationals this year). So we were doing our 200s on 4:30. I touched at 3:50, 3:48, 3:45, 3:42 and 3:42.

He smiled and gave me a, "good job."

That's as good as it gets.

In running, I did my typical route for a middle distance foundation run last week, and realized with a little more than a mile left that I would average quicker than 8 minutes a mile, and with no great effort involved.

Swimming with a "1" in the 100 time, a "3" in the 200 time, and running with a "7" in the time for mile splits. Those kinds of changes are like pulling out your compass and finding true north to be exactly the opposite of where you thought it would be.

As much as I am surprised by needing to reorient my brain to what is "good," I suppose I shouldn't be. I have been trying to do the little things daily in terms of technique and training and quality efforts. Any physiologist would tell you that the little things add up to eventual improvement. Doing the right thing usually gets results, which is not to say that doing the right thing is easy.

Which brings me to Wednesday.

On Wednesday, my sidebar says, "rest." The reason for the odd spacing of the rest day is because a great man is now at rest. My grandfather, about whom I have written before, breathed his last at about 2:00 in the afternoon on Saturday. His funeral is Wednesday. He is at rest. And he is one who "did the right thing." In fact, he did the right thing so often and with so much predictable regularity that I often feel very inadequate by comparison.

He was married to the same woman for 65 years. They were with each other 24/7/365 because they worked together in the family business. They taught Sunday school together to three generations of kids and attended the same church beginning in 1946. He tended her on her sick bed for two years before she died. He persevered through his own failing health, through invalidity and suffering that basically scares me to death. Yet, he laughed with me in our last phone call together no more than a week ago. I never saw him lose his temper, never saw him lose hope, never saw him give up.

He made it seem so easy, the daily grind of goodness. Wasn't it ever hard for him? It sure is for me. I try to do the right thing, but I so often want to do something else, either out of laziness or just because the wrong thing is so much more exciting or inviting. Wrong would hardly be tempting if it wasn't attractive, right? I am sure I make some right choices out of habit, but I often feel like the right thing is a chore, and it does not seem to get any easier. Is it always this hard? Did he think so?

He never swam, or biked or ran for training purposes, but his quality numbers were very good. He seemed to know what to expect when he looked in the shaving mirror in the morning, or the eyes of his high school sweetheart every evening. Now, he is resting, and I am wondering whether his numbers are something I could ever match.

Irony Ironies

As I begin my third season in the multisport life, there are a number of odd and sometimes ironic I've noticed. Maybe you've noticed some of these too.

1. Can't stay awake in the daytime? Can't stay asleep when you're in bed? You might be a triathlete and you're probably a bit overtrained.

2. Locker rooms? Full of ironies. Men? Not exactly designed for aesthetic appeal. Women? Aesthetic masterpieces. And yet the girly locker room has (I am told) a separate dressing room for each shower, while the men's locker room is full of random, undesired, communal nakedness.

3. More on locker rooms? Plush locker rooms with puffy white towels. And yet the former athletes can't manage to put one around the waist and privatize the junk. Why do I say former athletes? Another irony. The inverse relationship between aesthetic merit and clothing.

Translation: the higher the BMI and the more body hair on a person, the more likely it is they will be buck naked. (This rule apparently holds true in locker rooms, on beaches, wild parties . . . .)

4. I have more gym bags than days of the week, my own locker, and the best locker room in town. So why is my car turning into a locker room complete with dirty socks, discarded clothing, bike helmet, shoes, bike, swim gear . . . and yet I'm a neat freak in the gym locker room.

5. Cars? More oddities. Are you unable to carry a small child in your car? They're not allowed to sit in the front seat because of the airbag. They can't sit in the back because the seats are folded down to transport your bike.

6. And Irony. Why is it that the more fit you are, the more crippled you feel getting up out of a car after a long drive? Do you look forward to a six hour bike and dread a six hour drive? You swim bike and run for 13 or 14 hours and yet would rather have your teeth drilled than be in the car for that long?

If your life is this odd or ironic, you're probably a triathlete.

Real

I don't live very close to where my work and local tri-friends live. And for that matter, there are not hoards of people training for Ironman anyway. So, I wind up spending a lot of time on the weekends all by myself.

Sometimes when I do that, I know that I am not really training hard enough, not really pushing myself, not taking many risks. I'm just putting in the time. That is especially true when I am riding on a trainer. I show up. I usually hit the approximate heartrate zones. But, it almost doesn't feel real if I am the only one who is involved. Sort of like "if a tree falls in the forest and there is no one around to hear it, does it really make a sound?"

This past weekend was for real. Lisa of Ferrari Flies and Robyn of Iron (who totally needs to get a blog) were coming north of town with a group of HRTC-ers who are training for Ironman Arizona and Ironman CdA.




Lisa, the "skinny jeans" ringleader and her bike, The Silver Streak.



Feel the lust for Robyn of Iron's pinked out bike.

I think this is a first Ironman for both of them, and they are both totally on track to have a strong race. Lucky me, I latched on for the ride with several others, and it was for real.

It was about 41 degrees when we rolled out at 7:30 and very damp. The slate gray cloud cover pressed down and drifted through the pines of the Sam Houston National Forest. Very soon we could not feel our fingers or our toes. There was great conversation to hold off the chill, some fog, cattle, one dog attack, 60+ miles of Texas countryside, and in the last hour, beautiful sunlight. The group of us did an honest to goodness ride with hills and some tempo and a run off the bike.

Of course the best part was not having to wonder if "it really made a sound." I think each of us pressed a little harder during those parts of the ride where we would not have bothered had we been alone. I know I did, and I can feel it today. It was real training with real people that will result in real improvement.

I need to do this "people" thing more often.