On Guts

On Memorial Day, 2009, I returned to the site of my first ever triathlon. And on the day, I was fairly satisfied with the experience. After all it was not my "A" race of the season, and I had modest goals. I wanted to do better than my first triathlon, and I wanted to have a comfortable swim with my head in a better place than my previous efforts.

I did all that. I had a modest PR, finishing the course in 2:51:25, which is a few minutes faster than when I first did it. I had a modest swim PR, finishing the 1500m in a workmanlike 33:31, again, a little better than my first effort. I had a really fun/strong bike split of 1:13:13, which is an average of 20.3 mph over a course with lots of turns, some climbing, and several places where one has to slow to nearly zero mph to U-turn and then crank it back up to race pace. Then, in the heat of the day, being somewhat satisfied with the day's efforts, I "phoned in" the run, just lollygagging through the 10K, way below my potential.



I was pretty happy with the day's work, and had lots of fun. So . . . why am I becoming less satisfied with the race as time goes on?

Of course part of it is because I'm way too analytical for my own good and I think too much. It was supposed to be fun, and it was. It was supposed to be a day of play, and it was. It was supposed to be a super fantastic time spent with friends, and it was all that and a bag of chips.

But part of it is because I am just analytical enough to know that the unexamined life is not worth living. So, tolerate a little navel gazing before I make a bigger point that does not have so much to do with me.

Not to take anything at all away from an awesome weekend--but I've been thinking. (Uh oh). For this race, I aimed low and I hit the target. I swam better, but I swam easy rather than test what I was made of. I rode well, but biking is easy--I love the bike, especially on a technical, crazy-fast course. And when the run was harder than I wanted, I just couldn't be bothered. I aimed low rather than risk failure. Big deal. Sure, a good day of practice and preparation for Ironman Cozumel later in the season. But not very gutsy.

This race report, however, is not a pity party for Trigreyhound. In thinking about Monday, I really did learn something. I learned something about guts, but not from my own performance or from the performances of the fast kids. There were some extremely gutsy athletes out under the sun on the Cap Tex Tri race course. And if you look only to the race clock I beat nearly all of them. But somehow I don't think the race clock measures the winner of the guts race very well.

Everyone in the race, from the fast kids on down, is enduring something, whether it is the pain of the effort or the conditions or (very often) their own negative head talk about their performance or their chances for success. I'm sure we've all heard that voice: Why are you doing this? What is the point? You're not going to win. You're not even getting any better. I, myself, often have to deal with the critic on the shoulder who questions whether I belong on the course at all, and I'm at least a C+ athlete at this point.

Think, then, how much louder and more authentic the voice sounds with someone who is not a C+ athlete. For example, what of the first-time triathlete who doesn't (yet) have the skinny body and the muscles and the flash bike with the aero helmet? What about the woman who, 6 months ago, hated buying swimsuits and looking in mirrors who is now in spandex, out in public, racing and raising money for Team in Training? They were out there suffering in the sun, sometimes walking, sometimes barely running as I went by them at my "slow" pace. What's going on in their heads? Maybe they have a better and healthier thought life than me. Maybe they never doubt. Somehow, I think they do hear the voices or the criticisms or feel the judgments; yet, they keep on going. They show guts. They risk failure. They endure.

My time was faster, but I don't think I "beat" them.

And then there were the two racers that I want to point out in particular. Again, I passed them on the run, but I know for a fact that I did not surpass them. They were both younger than me, enough so that I might have been their father. They were running together, both dressed in red team jerseys. They both had haircuts that were high and tight, because they were both Marines, combat veterans. They both had jerky, labored running form, because they were each running on a prosthesis to replace a missing leg.

Not two years ago, these soldiers probably gave little real thought to injury or death, cloaked as they were in the immortality peculiar to young men and athletes. Their identity, to their very core, was likely bound to their physical strength and bodies that would obey their commands, bounce back and do it again the next day. Now, here they were, with bodies that were missing limbs, incomplete, unruly, difficult, nonresponsive. And yet, they aimed high. They risked failure. They endured. I ran right past them, but they've been in my thoughts ever since.




I was faster, but I most certainly did not "beat" them.

That's what I want to foster in myself. I want to aim high. I want to risk total, abject failure. I want to bite off more than I can chew, and then chew like hell. And I want to keep on learning from the people on the course who really beat me. Semper Fi.

Time Keeps On Slippin'

Well, it's been a quiet week in Spring, Texas, my home town, out on the edge of the Megalopolis.

The weather gave us a head fake this week. Last week, mother nature seemed to leap ahead into the dog days of July with temperatures in the 80s and 90% relative humidity before the sun came up. Windows all over the neighborhood sweated in the darkness, and everyone was required to out the trash or pick up the paper before taking a shower, lest the whole routine of morning ablutions become moot in the sweaty aftermath of merely walking to the curb.

Then, this past weekend, a line of storms came through with a cold front, and we were mercifully transported back into late march. Monday and Tuesday morning the air was cool and crisp and dry. The temperatures and calm conditions in the upper 50s before sun up during a morning ride or swim were pretty much how I imagine heaven will be one day. It was a weird inversion, because at the same time we were experiencing heaven on earth, Minnesota was having high humidity and temperatures in the 90s--call it Houston on earth.

But mother nature and father time were only playing a temporary trick on us, sort of an "Indian Spring," like Indian Summer, only in Houston, our severe weather is follows spring. Things are back to normal weather wise, if not with father time.

This morning, I felt completely out of sorts. It is the first Saturday morning in moths that I did not have to get up early for a bike ride or a run or a race. I went to bed at my normal "toddler hour," and my eyes clicked open like a dairy farmer with insomnia at 0400, but I rolled over and went back to sleep. After a total of 9.5 hours of sleep, I woke again, and I could not remember where I was or what day it was or what I had to do. Usually, I wake with a training peaks workout and a long list of work to-do's, and my little dog brain is synching with Mircosoft Outlook as surely as if my Blackberry connected to an electrode in my skull.

But today, nothing. And it was weird. I don't know what I did with my time before I was swim-bike-running 12 to19 hours a week.

And the time distortion will continue this weekend. On Monday, Memorial Day, I have a race. It's not the first race this season, but it's my first race. Like, EVER. In 2006, The Cap Tex Tri was my first triathlon ever, and now I will return to the race for the first time since. In weird ways, I have the same feelings I had three years ago.

Back then, I was afraid I might not finish, mostly because of the long 1500m swim. Two Ironman finishes later, I'm still scared, not of failure to finish, but simply of failure. I really love the winding, up and down bike course, and I know I can muddle through the run, but for the Love of God I'd finally like to swim decently in the open water. For me, this means just being able to pay attention to my form and swimming long and strong if not fast. But, I'm afraid I'll have my typical freak out and muddle through swim.

Which would put me right back in 2006, which would be weird.

And Father Time taunts and confuses me in all sorts of other ways. My parents arrive today, and when you no longer live with parents, time rushes in all at once. My mother assumes that everything that she has experienced since Christmas has been communicated to me, by telpethy if not by telephone. So while she will have told me fourteen times about an inconsequential event involving a remote acquaintance from our church, she will have neglected to say, "oh, by the way, your dad has had trouble walking. Didn't I tell you?"

That is the reason their trip is rescheduled--to accomodate testing on Tuesday concerning a ruptured lumbar disc that has been troubling him since February. In the last year, dad has gone on a medecine (prematurely in my view) for dementia, has decided to retire, unretire, and retire again, and has become more enfeebled than I think is stricly necessary. And my experience of it is even more rushed, for it happened in one visit in December and a couple of phone calls since. I want to tell him to fight it, but this is foreign to their experience. If the doctor says you need a pill, you take a pill. If the surgeon ways you need surgery, you have surgery. And if you feel old, you stop going to the gym.

Meanwhile, I wax and wane. When I ran with Scuba Steve this week, I felt no different than I remember feeling in my 20s--only I am fitter now. I felt like I had more in common with this 23 year old engineering student than with my 40 to 50 year old law partners. And looking in the mirror, sometimes I see a lean young man in top condition, and others I see a middle aged man in denial--one who is never going to podium or excel no matter how much training is involved.

And it is difficult to know what to feel or what to think. But right now, I feel like Father Time better learn how to swim, because if I see him, I'm going to kick his ass.

And that's the news from Spring, Texas, where all the schools are exemplary, all the food is fast, and all the commutes are below average.

Race Ready--if I can walk

I can totally tell that my fitness is getting sharp, because the fitter I am, the harder it is to get out of bed in the morning, pull myself out of a chair or haul my carcass out of my tiny car. By that measure, I'm the second coming of Dave Scott, because I'm stiff, sore, cranky and tired.

I blame Coach Kris (and I can only assume he will want some credit if I PR). He has not increased my training volume, but the volume and intensity of the running has ramped up, presumably getting me ready for the Cap Tex Olympic Distance Triathlon on Memorial Day. With Coach Kris' permission, I'll give you a little taste of the running of the hounds this past week or so.

Begin with Thursday night's track workout--nothing too crazy, just warmup, striders and then 8x400m above 5k pace with 200m recoveries. But add in the wussy factor, the liquid heat of Houston air, and the fact that I only max out at 185+ beats per minute on my heart rate, and the torture session looks something like this:



Two days later was the brick workout plus Mother's Day Mall Shopping in the jungle that I described here. Running off the bike in 91+ humid degrees is a unique pleasure here in the Gulf Coast.

Then was The Mother's Day Massacre--twice around the Rice Campus/Hermann Park Zoo loop with an added out and back to tack on time.



The workout was supposed to be 1:40:00 of long running with 3 to 4 times 6 minute intervals up into heart rate zones 4-5a. There are Five Zones? Sersly? Who knew?

When you're a long and slow diesel like me, that translates to "run harder until it kinda sucks a lot." Here's what that looks like:



I elected to do the intervals near the start of the run, relying on Scuba Steve and Coach T to join me for the last 45 minutes of the run to pull me through to the end.

Then, this morning was another rumble in the jungle. The weather was so schwetty in the Bayou City that my shoes were flinging water by the end of what I'll call the "Wonky 10K." The Holy Prophet of Training Peaks described the workout as "BT: Surges. Warm up. On a 10k course run 2 minutes (recover for 1 minute), 1 minute (recover 30 seconds), 30 seconds (recover 30 seconds) at ~5k pace. Repeat for entire course. Cool down."

Uhm, yeah. Cool down. This is Houston. Cool is not going to happen again until October.

I used a modified out and back on Buffalo Bayou:


And the data looks like this:


Scientifically, all those lines and the high heart rates translate to, "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" By about the 5th or 6th 2 minute interval, I was suffering acute booty lock when I tried to pick up the pace. And with an average heart rate above my anaerobic threshold, and a max hear rate in the 170s, it was a painful way to start the day--and not even that fast.

But I am told that that which does not kill me will only make me stronger. Apparently, Coach Kris is willing to test the hypothesis, although I am not yet sure whether I am getting the actual therapy or whether I am the "kill 'em" control group.

Thank goodness the taper has begun.

Welcome to the Jungle

Welcome to the jungle

We got fun 'n' games

We got everything you want

Honey we know the names

When you're training for Ironman, Saturday morning is always time for the long ride. As I have chronicled, riding on the streets in Houston can be a bit of a struggle as slow-witted pachyderms in their SUVs and Pickup Trucks compete with you for habitat. But this particular Saturday, I only had one SUV that refused to yield place, and that probably out of ignorance or inattention rather than malice. Today's jungle excusion was difficult for a different reason.

In Houston, you know that the day is going to be a challenge if the windows are sweating with condensation before the sun comes up. This means that, in contrast to the interior of your home, which feels like a low-humidity meat locker, the outside environment is doing its best to mimic Equatorial Guinea. At 0530, when you stumble out to get the paper, the humidity clamps a hot, wet washcloth over your face, and you're cast into the sauna.

Perfect training conditions for Ironman Cozumel, to be sure, but unpleasant to say the least. Coach Kris ordered up a 2.5 hour ride followed by a 15 minute brick run, ordinarly plenty of work but nothing to write home about. This day, however, the sweat was dripping and flying off my bike helmet before I'd even made 15 minutes of work. And by the time I was running off the bike, the sun was in full force. I wimpered my way through the run-off (read "shuffle off") and headed for the AC. I had drunk 1.5 litres of fluid during the ride, and consumed 2 litres of fluid in the hours afterward, but there was little evidence of it. I was wrung. out.

But there was more jungle to come--actually the wildest and jugleiest jungle of them all. For you see, it was the day before mother's day, which means shopping is required. And this particular day, the recesison was nowhere in evidence. The traffic jams and parking lots were such that you would have thought it was the last shopping day before Christmas, except it was a billion degrees outside.

Yes, those of you with weak constitutions might want to skip the rest of the post, for Greyhound went shopping.

Even more, I took two girls shopping: Superpounce and her newly-teenaged friend Mini-KT.

OK, to say that I went shopping is to exaggerate, like many of the feats described herein. But this is my blog, and I at least get to be the hero of my own narrative. Actually, I mostly functioned like an undercover, surveillance detail from the NSA--watching from a distance and loitering outside stores as Superpounce and Mini-KT texted me about where they intended to shop next.

Between Aeropostale, American Eagle, the Food Court, and Justice, we were able to spend a little time at Macy's in order to find someing Mom-er-iffic for today.

And I survived the jungle by making it much of the way through the Weekend Journal.

10 Risks Of Swim Training At L.A. FATness

Long time readers will know that I used to swim in the beautiful, outdoor, saline pool at the Woodlands Athletic Center. I joined as part of the masters group, but I also had privileges to swim any ole' time I wanted. Alas, the WAC is no more. True, the local school system has built a natatorium that would exceed the facilities at many a university; but, I can only use that when the masters are practicing, not for individual swim practice.

When the WAC closed, I was forced to join yet another gym in order to have access to a pool within a reasonable distance of my house. Apparently the "Think Method" of swim training--wherein you just imagine you are a really good swimmer--does not work. Who knew?



The pool that is closest to my home is the local "L.A. Fitness" a/k/a L.A. FATness. It has an adequate, 25 meter, indoor pool, and it opens at 0500 in the morning, so it has become logistically very easy to get in the swim workouts before work. That said, there are certain dangers and risks to swimming regularly at L.A. FATness, and I thought I would put them out there, sort of as a public service. No need to thank me, I'm just here to help.

1. STEROIDS: Apparently, steroids is a danger amongst the population of middle-aged, hairy, iron-pumping, 40% body fat male clientele because there is a "STEROIDS WARNING" posted in bold type in the locker room warning me that my wang might shrink and my boobies might grow. Again, who knew?

2. Heat prostration: While it is definitely easier to slip right from bet to the tepid waters of L.A. FATness than it was to brave the cold pool deck at the WAC, swimming a couple of sharp 100s will make you sweat--inside the pool.

3. Objects are slower than they appear: If you swim at L.A. FATness, you can quickly develop a distorted view of your swimmy luciousness. Yesterday, for example, I was fingertip drilling across the pool in my slowest, easiest and most efficient glide and I went right by someone flailing out 25s at about 30 strokes per length. My tiny brain, for a moment, thought, "wow, I rock"--until I remembered that the better measuring stick is the masters group, where it often appears that I'm swimming in super slo mo as others glide Phelps-like to and fro.

4. Swimming in disinfectant: L.A. FATness has developed a prophylactic measure to be taken against swine flu. Swim in their pool. It has the taste, smell, clarity and viscosity of a bottle of Clorox. If you have any living organism on you, it will die upon entering the pool. If you swim more than three time per week, you will fade, more than 5 times a week, expect to completely disappear.

5. Hair Dryers: I don't use a hair dryer. The only hair it is appropriate to blow dry is the hair on one's head, and mine is cropped so short it needs neither drying nor coming. At L.A. FATness, however, there are two problems: 1) John Edwards wannabees with copious feathered locks c1985; and 2) hairdryers are apparently used to dry hair folicles in nooks and crannies of all sorts south of the Mason-Dixon line.

And just FYI, the crop top muscly girls that are in the L.A. FATness artwork, or the incredible butterfly swimmer dude--never seen them at the club. Never.

6. Simulated Open Water Swimming: I suppose I should thank swimming-trunks-IM-guy for the excessive turbulence he creates when heaving his prodigious girth through 5x100 IM on the 5:00. His butterfly, in particular, turn the little L.A. FATness pool into a terrifying ocean swim. But the L.A. FATness water tastes like a combination of bleach, rubber and White Rain hairspray. I need to improve my open water skills, but would prefer to do so without choking on eau d'jazzercize.

7. You ain't all that: Like speed, your perception of duration will be warped upon swimming at L.A. FATness. If you swim a 60 minute workout, some of the other lanes will empty twice before you're done, as the L.A. FATness crowd swims their 500 meters of floaty breast stroke and head-up length of freestyle. Before you throw out a shoulder patting yourself on the back, Greyhound, remember that the transition area is still devoid of bikes when you emerge from the water.

8. Elevators: I know it is probably required by the American With Disabilities Act, but L.A. FATness has an elevator to the second floor loft where the cardio equipment is. And every time I am there, I see people taking the elevator up one story -- avoiding the stairs on their way to do "cardio." HUH????


9. Showers That Save The Earth: L.A. FATness is doing its part to save the planet, in this case by using the aerating shower heads that turn a dribble of water into a dribble of water and air. Corporate Fat Cats and Robber Barons like me, however, cannot make it through the day if we have not pillaged the earth by pasting ourselves to the other side of the shower with a fire hose of hot shower water.

10. No Excuses: If it is too easy to skip masters, it is also too easy to swim. There is NEVER any excuse to skip Coach Kris' swim sessions. It shows up in your e-mail box, and you know it must be done. L.A. FATness calls.

Now, this is an interactive medium. Some of your favorit gym training risks go in the comments.

Super Cop

Today I experienced the antidote to Officer McBreakfast Taco.

I was riding my normal training route in and through the Woodlands and was proceeding along a side street with plenty of room for both car and cyclist. I was politely and safely passed by three cars/SUVS in a row. Maybe it was the ginourmously visible yellow, safe passing jersey:



Or maybe it was the blinky light that can be seen from space.



But apparently, this was not enough for a dumb sh*t motorist that I will call "Frat Boy"--you know the type--20 something, hipster side burns, too sexy for my baseball cap/God's-gift-to-babes self-image, and get-off-the-road and ride-on-the-sidewalk-faggot attitude.

Frat Boy, in his black Nissan, four cylinder-fake-sports-car with his nicotine habbit, tried to force me out of the lane and squeeze by to get to the upcoming traffic light. And this right after three other cars had passed properly and given me nearly the whole lane. Bad move, Frat Boy, because see, you have to stop at the traffic light, and I'm going to give you an unwanted education on the traffic laws. I've got sweatshirts older than you, Sparky. And if you want to go, you'll wind up in jail and bankrupt, because that's how it works when you go with the legal beagle. And if you're rude, you're also going to get a piece of my mind. And because today is today, I've got another surprise for you. (You'll see).

Of course, he was rude. Of course, he told me to "get out of the road." (Any of this sounding familiar?) Of course, he let go some F-bombs and called me a faggot. I asked Frat Boy if he'd like to discuss this with a police officer right then and there. He (having quickly run through his limited vocabulary) told me to F off, and get the F out of his way and get my hand off his f-ing car because I was a faggot, blah blah blah.

But Frat Boy miscalculated, and I was so emboldened because I was thinking ahead. You see, all those cyclists in the Woodlands today were doing a triathlon. (Not me, I was just training). And that meant nearly every intersection was blinking red with one lane blocked off and a line of cars waiting to get through an intersection controlled by at least three police officers. So, while Frat Boy waited in the line of cars (evil laugh here), I biked 400 yards up the shoulder to the next group of police officers, told the officer in charge that there was a motorist in the line who needed an education on the traffic laws and maybe a ticket as well because he had tried to squeeze me out of the lane with his automobile and then threatened me.

And I was standing there with my new-found friends in law enforcement (wearing my "I'ts the Law" jersey) as Frat Boy approached the intersection. And I identified his sorry a$$ for the four officers controlling traffic. And he saw me identify his sorry a$$. And I watched as the officers directing traffic ordered Frat Boy to turn into the parking lot where they intended to have a little talk about what the law requires and how grownups are required to behave when they are behind the wheel of a deadly weapon.

Go ahead, Frat Boy.

Make. My. Day.


***After Action Report***

Things I wish I had done:

1. Should have photographed his license plate and his face. I carry a camera for just such a purpose. The first thought should be to go for the camera and the cell phone. Bullies are cowards when they've been called out of their vehicles and identified.

2. I wish I had brought my laminated copy of the traffic laws to toss in his open window as I spit on his car and rode away to taunt him into trying to attack me in front of the officers so they'd put him in jail.

OK, that's not exactly true, but it's a nice fantasy.

The Biggest Winner

"I want to be muscular, like Jillian."

That's what Superpounce told me not long ago. I nearly jumped up and high-fived myself. And this may be the prime reason why every middle-aged man should run and exercise: so healthy habits of self-determination will rub off on the progeny.

You see, as the dad of a daughter, I've probably become a little bit more of a feminist than I otherwise would have been. Part of that has been an increased awareness of the differences between the difficulties faced by boys, and those faced by girls in their respective struggles to reach healthy adulthood. As a dad, I figure that a good portion of my job is to make myself obsolete--transport this child from helpless infancy to healthy adulthood where I'm nice to have around, but strictly speaking, no longer needed.

Either shortly before or shortly after Superpounce was born, I read several books about the unique challenges of bringing up girls and how important Dad's messages are to girl growing. One of those books was Reviving Ophelia by Mary Pipher, Ph.D. The book chronicles how girls enter a dark tunnel around age 13 or so, becoming less confident, more subservient to boys, less likely to learn, more likely to suffer from eating disorders, etc. It hypothesizes how media messages and other societal forces play a role in causing this tunneling, and (if I recall correctly) notes positive influences like sport and the influence of a father that combat those forces.

With that book on my mind these past 11 years, I have observed and influenced the objects of Superpounce's pop culture admiration to notice and impact what is influencing her. When she asked to be a cheerleader, for example, I declined. "Why cheer for someon else," I inquired, (especially boy football players). "Wouldn't it be better to be the one people are cheering for?"

I've also been trying to model good "dad" behavior by admiring strong women worthy of admiration--watching women's sport, avoiding air-headed pop culture fluff, surrounding 'Pounce and the family with good people, Ironman finishers and other athletes of all types, and of course doing my best to walk the walk with my own conditioning. None of this is in hopes that 'Pounce will be a scholarship athlete and live out any athletic fantasy of mine from days gone by. She does have my genetics, after all, and I can only smile when the small, skinny daughter of a 5'5" dad dreams of playing basketball.

The reason, in addition to my own health, is so that Superpounce will say something like the words I heard while watching Biggest Loser--as a family while she works out as she always does. "I want to be muscular, like Jillian." Those words carry more than admiration of a pop-culture icon. They also buy into her message self-worth and power and her rejection of victimhood. "I want to be muscular, like Jillian," is effectively the pop-culture opposit of "I wanna be rich like Paris Hilton" or "I wanna be skinny, like Lindsay Lohan," or "I wanna be a singer, like Brittany Spears." Those words made me feel like "The Biggest Winner."

Sure, she can be rich if that's in the cards. She can even be a knock out and a singer. She can be or do anything she wants. But she can do it from a position of physical and personal power rather than personal exploitation or pain.

Because she's muscular like Jillian. Look out, world.

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.