Swine Flu Traced To Its Source

Top Ten List

And now, from the home office in Spring, Texas, top 10 reasons every middle-aged man should run (add your own in the comments):

10. Because the God of Training Peaks and his holy prophet Coach Kris said so, praise be to him.




9. Because you can't be young at heart unless you skip, and running drills are the only way to do skipping with any kind of plausible deniability.






8. Because if you weren't a runner, your fascination with Kara Goucher would be way too creepy.


7. Because a running playlist on your ipod is about the only legitimate way for a middle aged man to enjoy Justin Timberlake in a public setting--and no, you're not bringing sexy back.





6. Because you still love Guns n' Roses and Van Halen, but need something to do while you rock out. (And no, not the post-David-Lee-Roth Van Halen, the real stuff. Rock on.)

5. Because if your circle of friends is restricted to other 40 year old men, you're a bore.

4. Because if you're not an runner/triathlete and your circle of friends is still highly populated by fit women in spandex, you're a creep.





3. Because beer is a good thing, but love handles are not.

2. Because beer in a state of exhaustion is a foretaste of heaven.

1. Because when father time catches you, you hope he's clutching his chest and wheezing.

And now, yours?

Man On Wire

"This is your life, and it's ending -- one minute at at time."
--Fight Club

What a whirlwind the last couple of weeks have been. I'm usually pretty good at balancing training and working and family, keeping all the plates spinning and keeping all the balls in the air. But the thing is, when you live like that, there is very little margin for error. If the work creeps up ever so slightly, you start not to eat quite right or you lose a little sleep, and you miss a snack, and all of life starts to feel anaerobic. You never quite recover before the next interval. Everything starts to hurt a little more, you lose all intensity, your hobby starts to feel like a job and your job starts to feel like a sentence.

My job ramped up--in a massive way. One court hearing before the MS150 (brought about by bush league, chicken shit lawyering on the other side of the case) resulted in them spilling their guts on the courtroom floor when they realized the supposedly damaging document they were using as a prop was actually the wrong contract.

Then race home to fix quinoa and black beans for the peeps who were riding the MS150 with me.

Then watch a horrible looking storm front roll through and wonder whether Saturday was going to be rideable.



Then get up at o'dark thirty to fix breakfast for the peeps and see if we can ride.




Then drag them out to a ride start that did not occur because the lightening started just when we arrived--and I'm stressing about getting everyone out of bed and not showing them a good time (as if I can control the weather).


Then drive to Bastrop and settle for mere trainer rides when I wanted to ride across Texas with the peeps.

Then have the awesomest time ever with Terra Castro who came out to provide massages for the peeps. Best dinner conversation and smiles all around. Peeps are happy. Greyhound host is very happy.



Then ride through some of the toughtest wind ever on Sunday to finish up the ride.

Then race back to Houston so I could prepare to fly out on Monday morning to San Antonio for ANOTHER court hearing

Then two days of preparation and more bloodletting on the courtroom floor with the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals actually laughing at the other side's argument.

Then back to Houston where I missed my swim workout. (But thank God its a recovery week)

Then got three more appellate cases to put on the docket.

And I've got another brief due this week and two next week.

And all the while trying to be helpful (or at least not unhelpful) as Superpounce prepares for a very stressful piano performance

And looking at a full calendar of things to come

And it starts to feel that I'm not only a man on a hire wire doing a balancing act, but that I'm joined with a squad of ADD Spartan Cheeleaders bouncing up and down on my balancing pole while looking for their next hit of methamphetamine.

But at least I haven't spiraled into a multiple personality alter-ego bent on "project mayhem" or some other such stunt aimed at sticking it to the man and finding that primal man-ness that my generation has lost as nature's "middle children."

Oh. Wait.

Who is this guy who's life feels incomplete if he doesn't do 3 swims, 3 runs, 3 bikes and 2 strength sessions every week? What's that all about, Mr. Tyler Durden?

OK, so maybe I am a little "Fight Clubby" if you peel back enough layers on this triathlon thing. But you know what is not adding to the stress? This is the first year that I have someone doing the thinking for me. Someone else is watching the numbers and charting the workouts, and it is so much easier just to open the e-mail or sign onto Training Peaks, see what Coach Kris has on tap for the day, and just do it.

I used to think age group coaching was oh-so pretentious, or only for the fast kids, or not worth the money. Boy was I wrong.

If you really want to enjoy this sport to the fullest, get a coach.

Get.
A.
Coach.

Please Stand By

There's been so much to blog about, but no time to do it. For that, I apologize and hope that I don't forget it all before I have a chance to get back to it. For now, I've had an MS150 sandwich--that is a weekend event sandwiched between two hearty slices of court hearings and appellate arguments that required lots of prep time and left me with no energy or time for writing. Boooooooooo. It also slammed me with work that stacked up while I was in court, so I can't even write now. I need a clone to get all this done.

Coach Kris probably thinks I'm dead because I haven't been on training peaks, but I've only missed one workout, Coach, and that in a week where I probably need more recovery anyway.

So, bear with me and please stand by.

So, is this a problem?

She Told Me Her Name

She finally told me her name.

She shall be called, "Delilah."

She is the nubile, young object of the songwriter's obsession. "Oh, what you do to me." When you love her, you don't mind the laughter of your friends because you know that "none of them has felt this way" and "a thousand miles seems pretty far, but they've got planes and trains and cars; I'd walk to you if I had no other way."



But she's more than that--more than just a willowy, young thing.





She is a temptress of Biblical proportions who will have her way. Sampson, shorn of his locks, will become as weak as any other man if he abandons himself fully to her wiles. It matters not if you can slay thousands of Philistines with the jaw bone of an ass. Delilah will empty you.



She is Delilah.



Let it be written.

Let it be done.

Get On Your Bike And Ride

It is that time again, time to get on our bikes and ride from Houston to Austin with 14,000 of our closest friends, the largest charity cycling event in the nation, in order to raise $17 million to wipe out multiple sclerosis. The chronic, currently incurable, and potentially crippling disease affects millions of people, but it is important to me because it is in our house. Mrs. Greyhound has it.

We have been very lucky, both because her course of the disease in the past 10 years has been remarkably benign, and because we can afford the treatments that can help stave off disability--treatments that did not exist 15 years ago, and would not exist now but for research that is funded in part by the MS150. But even there, our co-pays for these expensive drugs have risen dramatically. If I were not blessed with a good job, we'd be in a bad situation. And many MS patients lose their jobs due to disability. Part of what the MS150 does is provide services and treatments to people like that.

The other part is funding research. Houston, where we live, has premiere research being conducted to develop new drugs. One of the biotechnology companies in the Woodlands is responsible for a drug that has shown remarkable promise in Stage II clinical trials in halting the progress of the disease and restoring lost function. And the Baylor MS Center in Houston's Medical Center is developing an MS vaccine in which material from a patient's immune system is removed from the body, modified, and then reintroduced in order to alter and shut down the immune response that causes the body's immune system to improperly attack the central nervous system as if it were an invader. If and when that is perfected, a cure will have been achieved.

I have not been as aggressive in fund raising for the ride this year, and I'm working on a vehicle to fund raise directly for the Baylor MS Center through Ironman, but I do hope you'll consider donating by clicking HERE or on the widget in my sidebar. This year is my fifth year to do the ride, and as always, we'll be doing up the ride in style.

I will be joined by three triathlete friends, and we will be doing the ride m-dot style. My posse includes Houston blogger and Ironman veteran Coach Liz, Austin blogger, super fast marathoner and Ironman veteran Carrie from Tri-to-be-Funny, and lastly, the non-blogger doctor/triathlete Carrie is currently shacking up and sleeping with . . . her husband Shawn. Rather than stop at La Grange about 100 miles into the ride, we'll be riding on to the Lost Pines Resort in Bastrop, which oughta be about 130 or so miles. We'll probably run off the bike, break our arms patting ourselves on the back, and then top off the day with massages by professional triathlete and massage therapist, Terra Castro.

So, yeah. When you're on Team Greyhound, we take care of you. We do it up right. If you see us on the road, ride with us. And whether or not you're riding this weekend, click on the fund raising link and be generous.

BLARRRRRGH!

I can't swim 10x100m @ 1:55.

I can't. Not possible.

I can't follow that up with 6x 25m @35 and a 500m time trial.

Training Peaks can say it all day long, but it might as well say:

"Remove your own spleen and describe the procedure in the blue book that has been provided for you. You will find rubbing alcohol and a scalpel under your chair."

I tried my hardest. I can't.
I can't.
I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.I can't.

I'm condemned to the ignominy of greater than 2:00 per 100m and a transition area devoid of bikes.

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

And all you swimmer kids can just STFU with your turning up your noses at a mere 2:00 per 100m. You people who warm up at 2:00 per hundred and swim an Ironman in an hour. PTUI!

I find it startlingly easy to play Chopin nocturnes or Beethoven slow movements on the piano. What's so hard about that? Didn't you take piano from your mummy from the age of 5?

And writing a 50 page brief with a 100 or so citations to authorities in a couple of days? Piece 'o cake. What? You find this complicated?

I guess you mighta' missed something staring at the black line on the bottom of the pool.

But I WANNA SWIM!~ WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And enough with the "technique technique technique"

BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHH

I TOOK lessons from Total Immersion. I glide. I float fine. I drill. But apparently I'M JUST FREAKIN' SLOW.

And I'm getting slower

And I gained a pound

And I fell asleep at my desk like an octegenarian

And I want to be 6'4" and look like Tom Selleck.

BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHH

Rule No. 1

1st RULE: You do not talk about FIGHT CLUB.

2nd RULE: You DO NOT talk about FIGHT CLUB.

In the midst of all the work craziness this week, I confess that I have felt a little like someone who got beat up at fight club but couldn't talk about it.

I really don't want to be "that guy." You know the one--the guy who tells everyone in the office about his sprint triathlon or his charity ride or his marathon. I make allowances for "that guy" if folks are new to sport, because it's neat that they're excited about they're newly found health and fitness. Heck I probably was "that guy" not long ago.

But if you're four or five years in, it starts to get a bit unseemly if you talk as if you're the second coming of Dave Scott every time you do a 5k fun run or a 10 lap pool workout.

So, I very rarely tell people at work if I'm racing, especially a normal, build up race. It's a "need to know" kind of thing. If you "need to know" why I'm not available, you'll get told. If you don't know, you don't need to know.

But then, I'm sure that there are some people who wonder why I've been gimping around this week like I can't walk--sort of like the office worker who comes in with the shiner and can't talk about fight club. But you guys are in fight club--so I can talk, right?

Well, to tell the truth, I've got blisters that are all the more painful in my lawyer shoes, the result of trying to be a sockless tri-geek on race day. That was the end of the race. Going backwards in time, I ran the last 3 miles with a decent stride, but the first three and a half miles were severely hampered by a back spasm off the bike. The bike rocked -- nearly 20 mph average speed. Passed lots of people like they were tied to posts. Great fun--until the back started to get tight. Gotta get that bike fit looked at again.

Of course, I had a lot of people available for me to pass. That huge sucking sound you heard to your south on Sunday was me sucking in the water--literally and figuatively. It was overcast, I couldn't see, the wind kicked up some chop, I swam or got blown off course, and mostly I just had my typical beginning of the season freak out. I swam a better pace for all 4k of my two Ironman swims than I swam on Sunday for 1k. Which is why there were HUNDREDS of people in front of me on the road.

And I'm starting to get pissed off at this problem of the transition area being devoid of bikes when I get out of the water.

And the pissed-offedness state is usually about the time that I start to solve problems. I don't have to be Andy Potts for crying out loud, but this swimming like Mr. McGoo has got to stop.

So, there. That's why I've got a shiner and can't walk too well. Next up, the MS150.

You Must Do This

"Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result."*

I learned something again yesterday from a bunch of kids. By that, I mean not only that I learned again from kids, which will repeatedly happen if you wear a little humility, but also that I learned the something that I already knew again--this time from kids.

You see I went to Superpounce's school, where Superpounce and a group of her classmates were performing a mini-recital of their solo pieces during band class. Since I play piano (the permanent side-effect of growing up in a house where your mom is a piano teacher) I am Superpounce's accompanist. So, I was there not only to listen, but also to perform.

It was funny remembering back to days when I was in band, remembering the feelings of nervousness before the performance, wrestling with an instrument that did not always want to obey your commands, feet tapping madly to try and hold the elusive pulse of the music, and fingers stiff and unresponsive on foreign-feeling keys. The kids were so nervous that the row of them, all seated in chairs, looked as if they were about to be admitted to the principal's office for corporal punishment rather than simply playing a 2 or 3 minute piece for parents who adored every imperfect note coming from their instruments. You could not have found a sorrier looking lot if you had announced that summer vacation had been canceled.

But they all gave it a try, mostly because the grownups made them, and they all felt the "flight or fight" response--bullets whizzing by figuratively--and they all survived. And as a result, they all grew. They all learned. They all expanded. They all felt something and knew for a fact that they were really alive.

You must do this too. Not band necessarily, but pushing yourself out there where your fight or flight instinct kicks in, where you risk failure, where you hear the buzz of bullets whipping by your ears, and where you discover the exhileration of "being shot at without result." You must. This place is where the growth happens. This place is where you find out that you are so much more than you thought. This place is where you find out that limits weren't really limits at all--in hindsight they look like rationalizations or even excuses.

This place is where the living happens.

And what's more, there's no grownup to push you off the chair in the band hall and make you do it. YOU are the grownup now. If you don't push yourself off the chair, you're liable to rot there. No growth. No discovery. Self-imposed limits. No living. Not really.

Where is this place? What is "THIS?"

Only you can tell. For me, at least right now, its Ironman. There is something about plunging into an open water swim at dawn with 2000 people, something that would have ended my life not 4 years ago, that makes you pay attention and notice the life that's happening in front of you. One date every year where I risk utter failure doing something hard focuses all the rest of the year--not only the training that must occur to survive the day, but also every thing else in life that must co-exist with the training.

But it doesn't have to be Ironman--even if you've done one before and even if you want to do one again. There's not always time, and you can't betray who you are as a parent or spouse or professional. It doesn't even have to be athletic. It just has to involve bullets--that risk of failure.

You just have to look in the mirror and find something that lights your fire--and where you risk failure. The bigger the risk, the bigger the reward.

Then you have to go. After all, "Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts."*

But you must do this.

If you are to grow and to live, you must.

*Sir Winston Spencer Churchill

One Thing

Sometimes you need that "One Thing" to help you keep it all together. It might be completely psychosomatic, like Dumbo's feather, but it still works. As long as you hold it, the rest of the chaos doesn't seem so troubling.

When I went to bed Friday night, I knew only one thing about the coming weekend---I was going to ride my bike Saturday morning for three hours. I had a brand new bike that had never been ridden, the weather was dry (for a change), and the rest of the weekend might well be given over to managing an emergency legal project with too many cooks in the kitchen and lots of moving parts.

But they can wait. Saturday morning for three hours is mine. And that helped a lot.

And The One Thing did not disappoint.

I had spent stolen hours during the week putting her together with the help of Phil Shama of Shama Cycles. Even though his main line of business is selling and fitting high end, custom bikes to people, not giving over part of his shop to instruct a cheapskate in how to assemble a bike, he believes to his core that sustainable and profitable businesses are built on relationships. So, when I asked, he was pleased to show me some wrenching basics and talk me through assembling the lions' share of the parts and components.

I was also pleased to buy the components needed to finish the bike from him, as well as a bike fit, and likely anything I'll need for either of my bikes well into the future.

The bike is an all carbon, RS2 from from Pedal Force with a SRAM Red Gruppo, SRAM S40 wheels, and weight weenie pedals, bars and stem I got from Shama Cycles.





The bars are particularly nice because they are narrower than most stock bars and fit my torso and shoulders better than any bike I've ever ridden.



By the end of the week, we had a bike that weighed only slightly more than 15 pounds--barely legal.



But we also had a deluge of rain so I couldn't ride it, and we had an appellate emergency in Corpus Christi that threatened the entire weekend.

But three hours on Saturday morning were mine. The weather was cold and very windy, but riding the new bike was still a pleasure. She responded immediately to the pedals without feeling whippy, and gave a great feel of the road while still feeling smoothe. The SRAM wheels sliced the wind and dampened the road vibrations. The SRAM Red shifters and compact cranks were magical, clicking precisely into the chosen gears and making me feel I had power to burn.

Phil's bike fit was also perfect. And at the end of three hours the bike was still charging to the top of hills instead of throwing out an anchor to stop me, and I was fresh enough to keep going.

And I will keep going, as soon as I save some defendants from a bandit trial judge in South Texas.

But now, what to name her. She won't tell me her name yet, but as you can see, she's nearly all black, sleek, with red accents, climbs and accelerates like a bird of prey, and is silent as a whisper on the roads. But what is her name?

MoFo

Yep, that's the run course for Ironman St. George. How about a side of hills to go with your supersize bucket of hills.

But Supalids, a/k/a Mrs. Wilson, and I have made a pact. Not one more word of self-pity about the difficulty of the Ironman St. George course. We have the best group of online and real life friends, and we are going to motivate each other to kick this race's arse. I feel a little bit like Samuel L. Jackson when he says "the Line" and gets down to business: “I've had it with these mother [bleeping] [hills] in this mother [bleeping] race!”

FINE!

If I have to be a freaking goat, I'll become a freaking goat. A skinny whelp like me ought not be afraid of elevation gain. When I started this nonsense I couldn't even swim for goodness' sake.

And this is Ironman, after all. If you want to avoid some toil, go do a fun run or a charity ride. It's time to HTFU. Dream big or go home. Live on the edge or you're taking up too much space.

FINE!

No more self-pity allowed.

980 Grams

"Holy Crap."

Yeah. Thanks Coach Kris for that John-Madden-like command of the obvious. "Holy Crap" was his expert analysis of the Ironman St. George bike course. That's the triathlon equivalent of "Boom. He's a really big pass rusher." Obviously, I'm just yanking his chain. I'll need someone who knows what they're doing to get this flat lander prepared for a mountain stage to be followed by a marathon.

But in addition to Coach Kris, I have another secret weapon that I'm going to roll out later this week. She now has crank, fork, seat post, saddle, wheels, brakes and cassette installed. And what's more I got to do it myself--well mostly myself except where my ignorance cried out for help--at the Cycling Valhalla known as Shama Cycles under the tutelage of Phil Shama, bicycle customizer extraordinaire.

He may be having second thoughts about letting a two-left-handed, all thumbs, wannabe back in his sanctum sanctorum, and he may never do it again, but I am so thankful that he is tolerating my questions and showing me the ropes. If true business is built on relationships, I know which bike shop will be getting my dollar for all the tires, tubes, bottles and assundry items one needs to purchase over time.

I feel like the sorcerer's apprentice--learning a trade for when this law stuff peters out. It was fascinating to fit together all the shiny new components and to marvel at the amount of technology that -- let's face it -- goes into a toy -- a play thing for the well-heeled professional competing for the "ultimate prize."

Then we ordered some special bars, carbon pedals and carbon bottle cages to finish her out on Wednesday when I'll try my hand at installing the SRAM Red derailluers, shifters, and cables. **drooling here**

Phil--who is also an extraordinarly knowledgeable bike fitter--also did a preliminary fit.

The 49 cm, all carbon, road frame fits like a glove. And it weighed in at . . .

980 grams.

Yes, that's less than 1 kg for the frame. Any lighter and we'd be talking about some theoretical, subatomic anti-matter that has negative mass.

Now . . . this climbing rocket of a bike, plain black carbon with red accents and bar tape, needs a name.

Product Review

Like many of you that cycle, I am well and truly sick of being endangered by motorists who do not give us enough room on the roads. Sometimes the motorists are stupid and are intentionally trying to bully us off the road--like a certain Deputy Constable from Montgomery County. Other times they're just ignorant and don't know how to safely pass a cyclist. Well there's no cure for stupid, but ignorance can be educated away.

"Share the road," is fine, I guess, but it's just too general and might even imply that cyclists are required to get out of the way and "share" with cars. In reality, it is cars who are to yield the right of way to cyclists that they overtake on the road, passing only when they can safely do so.

That message is what this "3 Feet Please" jersey is for--to educate and remind motorists concerning how much space they should give us on the road. There are two versions, one with a blank front for states that don't have a safe passing law, and one with a front that says, "It's The Law."

I bought one here with my own money and I have no connection or association with the cyclist who developed the jersey. I bought the one with "It's the Law" on the front in anticipation that Texas will pass the "Safe Passing Bill" currently pending in the Legislature. And even if they don't it is still against the law to fail to yield the right of way, and 3 feet seems little enough to ask.

The jersey is a high quality Voler jersey with superior graphics. It is a looser club fit so order a size smaller if you want skin tight. It is cool and wicks moisture well, and comes in short or long sleeve. As far as materials or workmanship, it is as good or better than any of the other jerseys I own, so you don't have to skimp on functional equipment just to send a good message.

I wore mine last weekend as I was riding an unfamiliar and potentially highly trafficked route. It could have been my strobe blinky light (which can be seen from space) or my special attention to take the lane where it was not safe to share, or it might have been that I was riding in a more enlightened area of Texas than my normal Houston route, but whatever it was, the cars did seem to give me more space and I only had a couple of incidents in which motorists (one of which was a motorcycle in too damn much of a hurry) failed to give me enough space. Even there, none of them were as close as I commonly get in the Houston area.

So, Trigreyhound gives this two very enthusiastic thumbs up. It's a good educational tool, it makes you highly visible, and it just might save your life. If there were hundreds and thousands of such jerseys on the roadway, maybe the safety message would start to take hold. I encourage anyone who rides on the road to click on over to here and pick up one for yourself.

I TRIPLE Dog Dare You!

Naw, he ain't gonna do it. He's chicken.

I ain't chicken. I just don't need to be sticking my tongue to no pump handle, or signing up for an Ironman five months after just doing one.

See, I told you he won't. He's chicken.

I ain't chicken. Besides, who's gonna wanna do an Ironman in Utah? I mean, sersly, Utah?

Bock bock bock. Everyone's doing it. C'mon. Don't be a baby. Just one more won't hurt you.

I ain't a baby. I just don' wanna.

Are so a baby. Who care's what mom says? Are you gonna go home and cry? Is baby gonna cry?????

I'm not a baby.

CRY, BABY, CRYYYYYYY---

Are you kidding? Sign up for another stupid Ironman? That's dumb!

That's 'cause you know it'll hurt!

You're full of it!

Oh yeah?

Yeah!

Well I double-DOG-dare ya!

NOW it was serious. A double-dog-dare. What else was there but a "triple dare you"? And then, the coup de grace of all dares, the sinister triple-dog-dare.

I TRIPLE-dog-dare ya!

Supalinds (a/k/a "Mrs. Wilson") created a slight breach of etiquette by skipping the triple dare and going right for the throat!

Better just call the fire department now, because it is done. I'm in.

The Continuing Saga . . .

I've received several inquiries along the lines of "what ever happened in your cage match with Officer McBreakfast Taco. Those of you who are new to the blog can follow the link to get the details about how a Deputy Constable tried to bully me off the road, and when I stood my ground and later complained to his superiors, backdated a ticket which I beat in court.

Since my last letter outlining what the Texas Transportation Code requires concerning the rights of cyclists, I received a form letter reply, this time signed by the actual, elected constable. It said:

Dear Mr. {Real Lawyer Name}:

Our department is in receipt of your letter dated December 22, 2008. The policy of this department is that all deputies handle citizens in a respectful and courteous manner. We appreciate your concerns regarding this issue.

Sincerely,
David Hill
Constable Pct. 5 Montgomery County

While I am sure they "appreciate" my concerns, I'm not sure they believe them. Nor do they "appreciate" that what I'm really concerned about is having the law properly enforced.

Soooooo . . . one more letter on my scary lawyer letterhead, this time insisting upon a face to face meeting with the elected constable himself:

Dear Constable Hill:

I am in receipt of the attached letter in reference to the incident on April 19 in which Deputy Constable Williams, himself in violation of the law, tried to bully me off the road. He maintained that cyclists were to remain out of the active traffic lane of FM 149, and later backdated a ticket to that effect. The D.A. properly dismissed the ticket.

In your letter, you maintain that “[t]he policy of this department is that all deputies handle citizens in a respectful and courteous manner.” Nowhere, however, in all the correspondence regarding this matter, has your office stated whether it is the policy of the department to protect cyclists’ rights under the Transportation Code to use the roads as all other vehicles. Nor has there been any commitment to train Deputy Williams and his colleagues concerning what the law requires.

I therefore request a meeting at your earliest possible convenience to ask you in person what the policy of the department is to be. Are cyclists to expect that the traffic laws will be enforced as written? What is the policy of the department to be concerning officers who fail or refuse to conform to the law? I will be calling to confirm this request when I receive indication that my letter has been received.

Very Truly Yours:

{Real Lawyer Name}


I will get my meeting. When I do, one of two things will happen. If things go well, I will be sweetness and light and offer to light a candle rather than curse the darkness. I just want officers to know how bikes are supposed to use the road. I am even willing to create and conduct, on my own time, training for law enforcement officers concerning what it's like to ride on the roads and what the laws actually require of motorists and police officer.

If things do not go well, then those of you in the peanut gallery who are lawyers already know the implications of "policy" type language in a demand letter.

I hope things go well. I am ready for this to be done.

Spring Classic

***This post must be read with the accent and inflections of Phil Liggett, Paul Sherwin, and Bob Roll***

Phil: In some parts of the world, the first signs of spring lead to thoughts of baseball, or cricket, or flying a kite in Hyde Park with the children. But not so for the hard men of the professional cycling peloton. Spring means hard weather and hard racing on even harder courses. These masters of the pave hurl their bodies into the breach and very often find out that Mother Nature is a hard mistress indeed. Cold temperatures, mud, water, and impossibly slippery and rough roads are the essence of the spring classics. And Mother Nature turns to glance over her shoulder as if to say, "are you coming or not?" And the answer is, "not."

Paul: Well indeed, Phil. As a fomer professional cyclist and member of that peloton I can tell you that back in the day, the thing that made cyclists like Eddy Merckx and Bernard Hinault so fearsom within the peloton was their ability to race all styles of races, not only the Grand Tours, but these Spring Classics as well. They're names, the Badger and the Cannibal, were not mere idle talk. They were earned here on the cold, hard pave before the flowers bloomed. Bob?

Bob: **huh huh** Lance is Awesome.

Phil: Yes, indeed, Bob. Lance is Awesome, and I'm sure that if he were here, he would be loving this cold and wet weather and dominating the field. But Lance has chosen not to race today, in order to let some of the other riders have a chance. Tell me Paul, how would you describe the conditions and how does it feel to ride a bike out in weather like this.

Paul: Well, Phil, the temprature is one thing, but the wind and the damp make it feel ever so much colder. This morning in Galveston, the hard riding age groupers of Houston Racing Triathlon club were tuning up their machines for a cold, wet, and windy ride along the coast. They have been heard to say, "there's no such thing as bad weather, only inadequate equipment." So, toe warmers, hats, gloves, tights and jackets were common currency of the day. And yet, there is only so much warmth one can purchase with one's equipment. By the time one reaches the finishing line, the extremeties are numb, and it is only one's zeal that keeps one going. Bob?

Bob: **huh huh** (hands gesticulating wildly) Lance is AWESOME.

Phil: Yes, indeed, Bob. Lance truly is awesome. Was Lance at the training ride this morning Paul?

Paul: No, Phil. Notwithstanding his awesomeness, Lance was not there. And its a good thing too. The wind this morning was cold and fearsome, cutting directly across the course that runs along the ocean. The effect of all this is that one feels as if one is riding into a headwind all day long, both ways on an out and back course. And since these are American triathletes, they do not draft. It is a point of honor not to take aid from domestiques or from . . . uhm . . . physicians . . . er . . . Italian obstetricians . . . who happen to train lots and lots of cyclists.

Bob: But the Awesomness, it was like . . . (WAVING HANDS) . . . LANCE . . . it was . . . . **hyperventilating**. . . A-W-E-S-O-M-E

Phil: There there, Bob. So, who was you pick to win today's stage, Paul?

Paul: Well, really, Phil, the whole point is that whomever shows up on a day like this, early in the spring, in adverse conditions, and puts the time in is a winner, in a sense. They're all putting deposits in the bank on which they can with call later in the year.

Phil: Well, I quite agree, Paul. But I'm going to pick Robbie McEwen to win the bunch sprint at the end. And you, Bob?

Bob: Lance. 'Cause he's **whispering** awesome.

Phil: But I thought we already established that Lance is not here.

Bob: Are you saying Robbie McEwen in absentia is better than Lance in absentia?

Phil: I would never say such a thing, becasue if I don't kiss the Patron's ring, I won't get any more interview time. But, it's a flat course and a sprinter's finish so--

Bob: Get thee behind me, Satan. Lance. He's awesome.

Time Warp

Supposedly, all seconds are equal. The clock ticks mercilessly by at the same pace all the time. Supposedly. But I don't believe it. I don't experience time that way.

I closed my eyes and then opened them again, and it was Monday morning. And then time ticked . . . slowly . . . by . . . and I swam . . . lap . . . upon . . . . laa-a-a-a-a-a-p.

And I closed my eyes, and then immediately opened them again, and it was Tuesday morning. And then time ticked . . . slooooooooowly . . . by . . . and . . . I worked . . . . in . . . . the . . . o-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-fice. . . . .

And then I closed my eyes again, and immediately opened them and it was Wednesday morning, but I did not know what day it was or what I was supposed to do for several minutes.

And I worked.

And I worked out.

And time . . . ticked . . . by.

And then I blinked and it was Thursday morning. And Thursday crawled by with work and working out.

And then I only half blinked and it was Friday morning. And I'm starting to feel a little bit like Groundhog Day. Working. Working out.

The grind of the job is getting to me, and the recess of my Ironman training is in danger of becoming part of the grind instead of part of the recess. I know exactly why, and it has nothing to do with volume or lack of desire. Sure, Coach Kris has been challenging me, especially in the pool and on the bike, but it's no defect in the training schedule that is giving me the blahs.

If I were a kid, I'd say I need some spring break right about now. I love training. That said, I've been training too much by myself. I need to get myself back to a masters workout or a group ride or long run. And I don't really like racing. But that said, It's been about long enough since the marathon. It's time for an event of some kind to knock off the cobwebs and put this fitness to some real use.

Thankfully, it's just about that time. Tomorrow is a group ride with the Greatest Tri-Club on the Planet down at Galveston on the course for the Lone Star Triathlon--my first tri of this season. And in a couple of weeks, it will be time for the MS150, in which my Iron Posse will be riding plumb past the day one break point and staying at the Lost Pines Resort in Bastrop where we will be pampered and met by a Surprise Celebrity.

So, it's time to stay focused, hang on just a little bit longer, and then start withdrawing some of the deposits I've been making in the fitness bank.

Did Clark Kent Take Naps?

This week, Coach Kris must have decided that I don't shower near enough, nor do enough laundry, nor change clothes with enough frequency, because today I get a lot of practice in all of these disciplines.

Coach Kris bellied up to the Ironman bar and ordered me a drink, saying, "make his a triple." The day started at LA FATNESS for a swim that left my ears ringing--work set consisting of 2x700m negative split each and descend. The fat, hairy, swim-trunk-festooned late-sleepers must have wondered why the skinny, hairless little man was weeping on the side of the pool. Then . . .

Shower, change clothes and repeat.

Mid day will be strength training with the Serbian Overlord, MIKI, whose kettlebell routine was rejected by the Obama Administration because it did not meet the guidelines for humane interrogation under the Army Field Manual. Then . . .

Shower, change clothes and repeat.

AND, in the evening, it will be time to bike a little. Not too much, just enough to get another set of clothes really sweaty so that I can . . .

Shower, change clothes and repeat.

Meanwhile, I am turning an Audi into a locker room, because there are no more telephone booths in which to change back and forth from Clark Kent to Superman, I'm getting frequent flyer miles on my washing machine, and I'm wondering where I can get back that hour of sleep I lost this weekend in switching from normality to Daylight Sleepiness Time.

Do you think Clark could nap in those telephone booths?

My Poor Little Soldier

I swear to you this just happened not more than 30 minutes ago. I could not keep my eyes open after my windy ride, and just as I'm about to sleep it off, Superpounce wakes me up and asks me if a friend can come over "when I'm done with my nap."

**blink**

Yeah. I guess that would be now, wouldn't it?

Anyhow, first day back on the tri-bike in months, and as I'm getting ready this morning I remember, "drat, I'm out of lube."

See, my favorite anti-friction lube is made by Brave Soldier. Well that's not exactly true. My favorite lube has nothing to do with triathlon, but rather with one of the few activities for which I'd cancel a bike ride.

Anyway, Brave Soldier stays in place, works all day, and has a brisk, mentholy kind of feel that makes my little brave soldier feel all cool and comfy. (But fair warning, I'm not sure how pleasant that would feel if, say, you are the kind of triathlete that does not have a brave soldier, but instead (not to be indelicate) has a more "open" system).

But I'm out of Brave Soldier anti-friction cream, so I just HTFU and go.

Well, not harden, actually. Not literally. That would be very counterproductive. I Just stop complaining, slather on a little body glide, put on my most comfortable bib shorts, and get after the ride.

But I discovered something quite unpleasant during the ride. Again, it was my first time back on the tri-bike in months, and the first time in the aero position in those bib shorts. And much to my horror and discomfort those shorts get all sorts of folds and creases in the aero position right where I have all sorts of folds and creases. And my brave little soldier's base did not have any Brave Soldier to smooth things over.

Then, my riding companion and I discovered that part of the reason we were going so well on the way out was the massive headwind we would face on the way back. And me without a full night's sleep and dehydrated and underfed with an unhappy little soldier. But Coach Kris said 3 hours on the bike, and 3 hours of honest work is what I gave him. It was just a lot harder than the effort he had asked for, or that I intended to give.

But now my nap is over, and being dad replaces all the Ironman athlete fantasies of the morning ride.



After rides like that, you wonder, "who was that guy who ran a marathon off the bike last June. He sure looked like me, but it must have been someone else."