The Extra Mile

I don't mean to turn this forum into a look-at-me-because-I'm-so-different-and-special! blog -- I really don't. But what else should I be thinking about while working the desk at 5:31 a.m. on a Saturday?

I discovered the website XTri.com yesterday, and it is shockingly accurate at reflecting the thoughts that run through my ever-churning little mind.

Take, for example, this article on why triathletes shave their legs. It isn't about saving precious nanoseconds in a race. I do it, along with everybody else, for two basic reasons: it looks good, and it feels good.

Many guys will never know the pleasure of slipping into a cool, clean set of 300-thread count cotton sheets following a hot shower and some TLC on their lower limbs. Provided you take your time and don't go all Edward-Scissorhands on the man-fur, a clean shave on your legs feels as good as, if not better than, a clean shave on your face. And when those calf notches and formerly invisible veins are allowed to see daylight, you'll catch yourself looking down as you walk past full-length windows, thinking, "Damn, I look like an athlete!"

Or how about this simple, yet brilliant, guide to training? I feel like I've regularly deserted my friends during the last month, opting instead to take a 50-mile bike ride by myself, or push an extra run out of my legs.

Why? Because I know I have just hours each week to get better. My goal is to make my improvements appear effortless, just another piece of my daily puzzle. I've been reading The Perfect Mile by Neal Bascomb, a story not just about an athletic achievement, but of sacrifice and composure (particularly Roger Bannister, who, at the time of breaking the 4:00 minute mile, was a full-time medical student, 95% of the way to being a doctor).

I offer this as a reason/excuse/apology to my friends, both in and out of the Triathlon Club, who have noticed my absence. After fall break, when I hope to see the results of my recent dedication to training at the Hickory Knob Triathlon, I'll be more fun.

I promise.

Profile of a Triathlete

After waking for work at 4:30 a.m. and spending much of the next 3 1/2 hours reading articles like this New York Times brief on eating healthfully, I decided to track how much I eat in a normal day.

Note: I decided to do this after I had eaten lunch. Therefore, all the food is food I would've normally eaten; I didn't "watch my calories"; and the exercise is my normal volume. Leah Soro cooked dinner for me, so I only had control over how much I chose to eat (which, besides tasting delicious, felt like quite a lot).

4:30 a.m. snack:

Fig bar (1) = 160 cal

Grapes (bunch) = 75 cal

Coffee w/ creamer (2 cups) = 30 cal

Breakfast:

Scrambled eggs (2) = 140 cal

Whole-grain toast (2 slices) = 200 cal

Blackberry jam (2 tbsp) = 100 cal

Milk, 1% (1 cup) = 100 cal

Lunch:

Sandwich

Chicken (3 oz) = 100 cal

Provologne (1 slice) = 70 cal

Whole-grain bread (2 slices) = 200 cal

Pesto (1 tbsp) = 40 cal

Bell pepper / Spinach (1 cup) = 50 cal

Pretzels w/ mustard (20) = 110 cal

Orange (1) = 65

Post-swim snack:

Trail mix (2 oz) = 150 cal

Post-spin class snack:

Milk, 1% and Ovaltine (1 cup/2 tbsp) = 150 cal

Grapes (bunch) = 60

Dinner:

Chicken breast, wrapped in prosciutto (1) = 200 cal

Asparagus, roasted (5 spears) = 20 cal

Potatoes, roasted (about 1 whole) = 250 cal

Dos XX Amber (1) = 220 cal

Daily total: 2490 calories

Exercise:

Open-water swim (1 hour) = 600 calories

Spin class (45 min) = 350 calories

Based on the website Calorie Count, which was used in conjunction with my body measurements (5'9'', 142 pounds) and activity level, I was actually at a slight calorie deficit for the day. They estimate that I burn 2830 calories each day, counting my basal metabolic rate and exercise.

The good news? I eat a fairly balanced diet, exercise my fair share and have room for nearly 350 calories worth of dessert left over.

The bad news? I don't have any dessert. Anybody wishing to bring cookies to Vol Hall, apt. 1144, is more than welcome. I'll even give you a glass of milk to dunk in.

Poise and Ivy, Part 2

I've been racing for approximately 17 minutes, and my body and bike are basically fucked. I didn't waste time taking inventory of the damages, but the scraping of my CamelBak strap against my chest and the sharp pain from each deep breath tell me I might regret my choice to keep racing.

Soon I realize that my lower back feels like I've worked in a stock room for the past decade. I constantly get out of the saddle to stretch it while losing any and all momentum I was fortunate enough to have accumulated on the undulating trail.

Allow me to describe the loop: a 7.25-mile loop that seems to climb for the first three miles, twist and turn for another three, and end with relatively flat, fast doubletrack. At the bottom of one singularly difficult switchback that starts an impossible climb (both the girl directly in front me and I have to walk it both times) a course spotter shouts encouragement.

"Alright man, lookin' good! You're in sixth place!" he tells me the second time around. This surprises me just a bit; I've spent the last hour and a half riding as hard as I can, which is not as fast as it would be sans wreck, yet somehow I haven't lost much ground.

I've halted to catch my breath. I've walked up hills. I've scooted around corners, over roots, through mud. I've come to a complete stop to drink from my CamelBak, totally defeating its purpose.

Without bragging, I'm possibly more filthy than I have ever been in my life. Every inch of bare skin is carpeted in a seemingly impermeable veil of wet, dank mud. Leaves cling to my freshly shaven legs and to my previously clean drivetrain. The fall already made my chain about as useful as a wet noodle, but the mud bogs it down without regard to its already flimsy state.

Not all of the dirt is on my outside, though. I eat a heaping tablespoon of soil during the race, taking in grit and sludge every time I drink from my water bottle or eat a packet of Gu.

Another spotter stands near the end of the loop, pointing out mile 7 and 14. I don't have a computer, which makes judging how far I've raced (and conserving the necessary energy) nearly impossible the first time around. The second loop should be easier, but I'm tired from being restricted to three gears, and from throwing my chain every time an incline taunts me.

I thought mountain biking was my bread and butter, but the course makes me momentarily reconsider. As my mud-caked knobbies hum down the asphalt toward transition, I realize I have rarely been so relieved to dismount the old aluminum hardtail that is painted black and blue, much like the current state of my torso.

Poise and Ivy, Part 1

This is not an exposition on life. It's a story about a bike wreck, and about the pain that comes from winning (yes, winning). And maybe perseverance. If somehow it reveals the secret of happiness, all the better. But the thick skin of mud and grease and urushiol really is the centerpiece.

August 8, 2009. Morristown, Tennessee. The alarm is set for 6 a.m., early enough to repack the truck and find the registration table for the XTERRA Panther Creek Triathlon.

Unfortunately, because Allan and I have been sleeping cramped in the bed of my truck on a pallet of four flannel sleeping bags, slow-cooking for the last eight hours in 90+ degree heat while rain seeps in through the screen windows and eventually the tailgate, we are reluctantly awake at 5:51.

The ends of our sleeping bags (and, subsequently, our feet) are damp from the downpour. With just the pale glow of campground lights to guide us, we stumble around, trying to repack our bikes and gear into the truck. The day brightens with each passing minute, as much as a bleary, rain-soaked day can. We find the transition area at the boat dock, and as I try to keep my checkbook dry, the volunteer tells me I will have to pay $15 extra for a T-shirt because I didn't pre-register. Needless to say, I'm not a happy camper.

During a brief hiatus in the rain, we start the 800-meter swim. Whether by talent, luck or some combination of the two, I am one of the first to exit the water and start preparing for the 14.5-mile mountain bike ride. Though the transition is relatively slow -- putting on gloves and a CamelBak takes nearly 60 precious seconds -- I feel good as I mount my trusty Trek 6700 and and turn left onto Deer Run trail.

Within the first 200 yards, I've passed one competitor, a guy who looks to be a little older than me and also a serious cyclist. Racing in the wet is new to me; I normally respect Mother Nature and stay off trails in such conditions because, by nature, I'm an "environmentalist." But I feel good. Confident, like my tires are sticky, like they belong on the rain-slicked roots and limestone.

I'm wrong. I'm too fast--not the usual complaint of a semi-serious competitor. The trail is too eroded; the roots are too diagonal. I'm too cocky. I'm also hurtling over the handlebars, toward a still-unidentified blunt object with which my ribs become forcibly acquainted.

A groan / expletive escapes. The pain in my tailbone and lower back don't register until I pull myself to my knees. The wind is out of my sails, "sails" being a pleasantly nautical-themed substitution for "lungs." I can't move.

He passes me and asks if I'm ok. I don't know yet, and I say so. I can talk; that's a good sign.

Two more guys pass me, also checking on my condition. Yeah, I say.

A girl passes me, with an obligatory "Alright?" All she gets is a grunt.

Back on my bike, my ass isn't sure it wants to continue. There surely are scrapes, but it's not the time to check. I start pedaling slowly, approaching the next turn cautiously. So far, so good, except for the clicking sound from my chain. Soon, my rear derailleur ghost-shifts one gear higher and returns. After about 20 more pedal strokes, it happens again. This is going to be a long day.

Harold and Kumar storm the White House

Actor Kal Penn has become the latest example of celeb-turned-political activist.

All congratulations to an already-successful person taking one of the jobs that normal people would have gotten.

Wait, who am I kidding? This post was created specifically for a celebrity (and it doesn't hurt to add a little more color to the White House). However, it does beg the question: how long until the release of the straight-to-DVD movie "Harold and Kumar fix U.S. / Asia relations"?

In defense of Twitter

While businesses and professionals have embraced Twitter as the new revolution, the news and entertainment media have been quick to dismiss the service as a superfluous addition to the smorgasbord that lies before my generation of techno-wastrels. Everybody from CNN to The Daily Beacon is accusing "tweets" of marginalizing organized thought and perpetuating the myth that minutiae matters.

Well, the time has come for an honest and decent man to give the ubiquitous microblog a helping hand.

To begin, some questions: Is Twitter a vice, one of which to be ashamed? Is it hurting anybody? Would staging an intervention be appropriate? If congressmen stopped tweeting, would the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan come to a halt? Would North Korea cease the launch of their satellite / missile? Would the economy stop its seemingly endless free-fall?

The answer to each question, of course, is an emphatic "No way, Jose!"

So how bad can it really be?

In defense of Twitter, it is a harmless outlet for the delusions of importance that every single human feels from time to time. From the actually important (Barack Obama, Bill Gates) to the faux-famous (Mark Zuckerberg) to the so-unimportant-that-they're-somehow-important (Paris Hilton), the endless stream of tweets, twitterers and followers is nothing more than an expression of freedom of speech.

Twitter has plenty of good qualities, too. For starters, it's absolutely, totally free. If you tweet from a computer, it's free. If you tweet from your iPhone, Blackberry or PDA, it's free---except for your monthly service, which you pay anyway and are unlikely to give up. If you tweet from a standard cell phone, it's free---standard text charges apply, but what the hell? Compose an update or two.

The next best thing? Absolutely nobody can force you to use it or update it. My journalism teachers recommended I get an account, so I did. Do I think it's kind of dumb? Sure---but nobody can accuse me of neglecting to follow orders. I have "device updates" turned off, so I am not bombarded 24/7 with "tinyurls" I can't even access on my basic cell phone. Essentially, it is just a bunch of status updates that I only check on a computer. No harm, no foul.

So if people want to pretend that other people actually follow them, go ahead. I'm not part of Gawker's "Twitterati," nor do I want to be. Maybe people Facebook-stalk me; maybe they follow my few tweets; maybe they read my blog...or maybe they don't. This blog is no more legitimate than my own Twitter account, except that it is more well-written and thoughtful (I hope), and longer than 140 characters.

The point is, Twitter is not hurting anybody. Except, of course, the rare update-whore who gets his fix during class or a board meeting. But if it wasn't Twitter, it might be something else more dangerously addictive, like Facebook's Scramble or online Sudoku.

Twitter = my anti-drug

If you know me, this will make sense

Newrotic... mellow dramatic... what do these seemingly incorrect word combos have in common, besides being totally made-up? They're part of my new school of philosophy, as related to the cycles of my ever-developing thought processes.

Not unlike Stephen Colbert's "truthiness," these descriptors are meant to appeal to the guilty pleasures we all have, but can't describe or admit to without suffering embarrassment at the hands of our supposedly more level-headed peers. It's time somebody came clean and gave these internal conflicts the attention they deserve. I'm no Freud (who would want to be?), but I suspect I'm not the only person experiencing these influxes and withdrawals of emotion.

I dream big, but maybe not big enough. I don't want to be a modern-day robber baron/press mogul like Rupert Murdoch...but I sure don't want anybody to outperform me at what I do choose to pursue. It's evident, then, why I was sick to my stomach upon earning a C-minus on my editing midterm. Pardon my slang, but WTF? I know I'm not yet a trained professional, but come on--that's my career choice.

When I was forced Tuesday to acknowledge a factual mistake at work and issue a correction, it compounded my miseries. All at once, I lost credibility; now I'm tasked with starting at the bottom and earning back the trust of my readers (and editors).

The challenge, however, is in how I handle the situation. Do I complain to everybody I come into contact with? Yes--and I'm sorry. But I don't want to be "that guy" who complains about all the (mostly voluntary) work he does, so I play it off with dry sarcasm to deflect the criticism. Hence, freaking out while still trying to appear cool, calm and collected = mellow dramatic.

And sure--I'm a little neurotic. Once upon a time, it was hip to be a worrisome, sexually frustrated, self-examining dude (think High Fidelity), but that ship has sailed. Now it's an antiquated way to steal a cheap laugh. It's still fine to turn the camera inward, but don't assume that everybody is fascinated by an uber-introspective loner. Learn and teach, but don't preach. Maybe others feel the same way; be a guiding light. That's newrotic--worrying about the little things, and applying them to the outside world. It's not all about you.

This made more sense when it was only in my head. I'll try to develop it later.

Five days...

...is how long I made it without eating any meat. And you know what? I'm fine with that. Those 15 meals were long enough to prove that 1) I can survive without the animal flesh, and 2) I'm a happier, healthier person with it.

The first two days weren't too inconvenient. If you think about it, all my meals of PB&J sandwiches, bagels or pasta exclude meat on a regular basis, so I felt like I was giving up surprisingly little.

Then the hunger set in: a constant gnawing within my stomach walls. I was unsatisfied, even when I had just eaten.

"But you're not full," my stomach would say. Well, yeah...that's true. Being a little hungry doesn't necessarily mean you didn't eat enough, though.

"But wouldn't you feel better if you ate some more hash browns, or maybe that doughnut? How about a handful of chocolate chip cookies?" It was beginning to taunt me.

I gave in to the demands. Sometime Sunday, I realized that cutting out meat was leaving me with unrealistic cravings. Hash browns fried into oblivion have absolutely no nutritional value. Two slices of bacon would have provided me protein and fat, at about the same caloric cost.

To dedicated vegetarians, I say: Give me animal flesh or give me death!

Not really; I actually admire people who can eat a veggie diet with no significant shortcomings. But I was sluggish, tired, hungry, cranky and quite possibly unpleasant to be around (although a 3rd party source would have to confirm that). All I could talk about was my diet. And I don't want to be that guy.

To "celebrate," I ate a well-made regular-size Baja Chicken sandwich on wheat bread from Quizno's. I think I can keep the red meat out of my diet for the most part, but without my bird flesh, I'm a fowl person.

(Let that one sink in.)

Homecoming

Sunday, the Delta Co. 4th CEB came back to Knoxville from a 7-month deployment to Iraq on missions that included minesweeping, bunker building and demolition.

Before the buses pulled in, I talked to two wives who were waiting. Both had given birth while their husbands were gone, and both Marines were on the phone with their wives during the delivery. Both men met their children, one son and one daughter, for the first time Sunday. Both men are barely older than I am. And both men had to leave the country knowing that they would be leaving their wives to care for the children alone.

So it's clear why, when the Marines cautiously stepped off the buses still wearing camo and carrying M16 assault rifles, I was swept up in the same wave of emotion that flooded the wives (and mothers, fathers, girlfriends, sons and daughters). I wanted to capture the moment with the cell phone-sized Flip video camera; I wanted to show everyone who wasn't at the Marine Corps Reserve Center what it's like to embrace a lover and an infnant after missing the entire pregnancy.

But I didn't realize that I would be on the verge of crying myself, as the troops wove through the crowd.

It was almost enough to keep me from doing my job properly. For starters, it's hard to hold that tiny camera steady anyway. Throw in a choked-back sob, and that's a recipe for shaky footage.

Second, I felt like I was destroying the unity. I would love to be the omniscient, omnipotent reporter: hearing all the stories at once, seeing all the tears fall in unison, feeling all the sighs of relief - without a single person noticing my presence.

That's not the way news works, though. When there is a story, you cling to it and try to extract every bit of useful information - all without annoying, berating or otherwise insulting your subject.

It is a draining process, then, to come back to the news desk and condense all the worries and reliefs of the past seven months into a 15-inch story, devoid of 95 percent of the raw emotion that surrounded the homecoming. I can't give you the American flag flapping in the breeze; I can't give you the snowflakes sticking to the desert camo fatigues; and I sure as hell can't give you drool of 14-week-old Derrick Sloan on the front of his tiny cheap white cotton homemade T-shirt.

But they were all there Sunday, and they won't be forgotten.


P.S. I was scared out of my mind when I arrived at the reserve center. Two Marines, both carrying loaded M16s, stopped me; one put his hand on the hood of my truck as if he would personally stop me if I tried any funny business. He questioned the media presence, and when a man carrying a fully automatic machine gun doubted my legitimacy, my first instinct was to tip my (imaginary) hat, throw the truck in reverse, and head home.

Musings: The Beginning

Here's the deal: I offer introspection on various and sundry topics, you give feedback, and eventually I compile the entries into some kind of volume that makes people laugh.

So, first topic: Seating in Public:

This one has bugged me since high school when I first started to going to church with any regularity. Everyone had free range to choose seats, from the front row to the balcony (yes, it was a big-ass church).

After a few months, I noticed a pattern. Cappuccino and doughnut people sat in the balcony, and upward-palmed hand-wavers sat in the first couple rows. Week in and week out, people occupied the same seats according to their worship comfort level.

The phenomenon continues in college. Eager hand-raisers / forceful answerers stick together like they're in their own gravitational field. But what's more, people sit in relation to familiar students.

I usually sit in the fifth row, left side in Anthropology 120. The outdoorsy-fratty guy sits in front of me, the annoying person who comes late (and always walks over me even though there are plenty of open seats) sits to my left, and the girl who looks like a sunken-eyed skeleton with skin sits two rows in front of me. That's just the way it is.

But if I choose to sit two rows closer in the third row, they all follow suit and sit in the same relative position. They all look really confused and uncomfortable for a minute. They all get on with class as usual, except for the kink I threw into the system.

But I'll be damned if at least one of them doesn't get there before me the next class period and sit in their "rightful" seat, putting everyone else back in their place.

I'm not sure why this occurs, but allow me to speculate:
1. It helps them pay attention better by having the same perspective of the board every day. I doubt this, but it's worth investigating. Some people swear by their habits; I prefer to move around a bit to alleviate the tedious nature of a 10 a.m. lecture.

2. People are no better than sheep (or cows, or other herd-able organisms). We shamelessly follow crowds, even for something as trivial as seating, because of mob mentality - or sheer laziness.

3. My personal favorite: Sitting in the same place in a big room makes you invisible. You'd assume the teacher would begin to recognize students; no, it's like being assigned a number. They might notice a gap on a slow day, but not enough to pinpoint the skipper. It's safety in numbers at its finest.

This is a small gripe, and not a very funny one, but they'll get better. I promise.

Why I chose this path

Sometimes I just want to talk about things. Today is one of those times.

I had a mini-epiphany in my PR class today: I will be as successful as I want to be. Sitting in the third row from the front, listening to a guest speaker and the ensuing student comments, I realized I have what it takes. That is, as long as I don't get in my own way. It's not about the degree I get; it's about the skills I have.

*sigh of relief*

Second, and just as exciting, I finally felt like a runner again. The run from the Runner's Market started at probably 23 degrees, and finished probably five or six degrees cooler. But it didn't matter; I ran across Kingston Pike, into Sequoya Hills, down to Cherokee Boulevard, and made my way back in time for dinner at Agave Azul.

Seeing the snow on the ground, waving to people walking dogs, struggling to talk to friends while my own breath clouds my vision - that's why I run. Who else got to see the whole neighborhood blanketed in white powder? Only the handful of dedicated / crazy friends that runs together every Wednesday night. It snowed on us tonight, flakes coming down and clinging to my clothes, until my body heat melted them away.

That run kicked my attitude back into high-gear. It doesn't matter how fast or how far you go; it matters how much fun you have. Time for me to lace up my big-boy shoes and get back on the pavement.

Working the 9-to-5

It's Saturday morning, and I just finished my first week as an intern at the Knoxville News-Sentinel. I put in seven hours yesterday, and apparently everything I write will now be in AP style...

But in a week's time, I have already submitted five stories, two of which will run front page tomorrow. 'No pressure or anything,' they say; 'it's not as if we have a circulation of 100,000 or anything.'

And the first story, seen here on the website, has already garnered 80 responses. Not too shabby.

Besides the working life, I'm trying to stay in shape. I'm getting over a chest injury at the moment, and I'm going to try a cross country race tomorrow. We'll see how it goes!