Drew Streip's Love For Triathlon, which blossomed during his sophomore year of college before reaching a peak in May 2010, died Tuesday. It was two years old.
The infatuation grew from mere curiosity (spurred by the February suggestion by Bill Piper that Streip train for the April 2008 Trideltathon) into a serious hobby within a matter of months. When he realized the sport could replace the competitive void left by high school cross country, the hobby became a minor obsession.
Upon completion of his first international-distance triathlon, Streip's love for triathlon steadily gained momentum like a bike guided carefully down a hill. When the Love affair began interfering with his relationships, however, he realized the time was ripe for change.
Soon, he was single -- liberal with his training time, and promiscuous with his training partners. Streip's Love For Triathlon built for itself a virtual harem of swimmers, bikers and runners with whom to cavort, no strings attached. It propelled him to personal bests at 5K, 10K and Olympic-distance races. Life continued this way for a year, until the opportunity to settle down with a hometown half-Ironman presented itself.
New to the concept of committment to a race months in advance, Streip spent more time refining and less time relaxing. After a successful taper, and the race, which onlookers described as "intensely competitive...[but] kinda predictable," his Love For Triathlon seemed to be secure in its position as a lifelong partner.
After the honeymoon period, however, the next few months went from average (at best) to nightmarish: a series of injuries put his aspirations for long-distance triathlon on hold; training partners were difficult to find; his ability to run became a distant memory. Conflicting advice Slowtwitch.com's holier-than-thou Forum posters delivered the knockout blow to his Love: when it became clear that FTP, CdA and SRM were the triathletes' Three Wise Men, working their way toward the North Star over Kona, Streip steered his course away from Ali'i Drive.
On December 28, 2010 -- the day he realized that even though he had the money, he would never be able to subscribe to all their disc wheel, Mele Kalikimaka, Iron-War bullshit -- Streip watched as his Love For Triathlon ground slowly to a halt, spinning one final time before reaching its final resting place, the wireless computer (a minor extravagance) stopping at 0.0 mph.
His Love For Triathlon leaves behind an overall win at the Flintstone Triathlon, podium finishes at the 2010 Trideltathon and Booker T. Off-Road Triathlon, a pair of clip-on Profile Design T2+ aerobars and three University of Tennessee-themed triathlon suits.
Services will be held on beautiful country roads and mountain bike trails everywhere. The family asks that, in lieu of flowers, suggestions for new hobbies be sent to:
Drew Streip
dhstreip@gmail.com
______________________________
Health nuts are going to feel stupid someday, lying in hospitals dying of nothing.
-Redd Foxx
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
The Dad List
Normally I do my heavy thinking during my runs. But lately I've had to save my brain power for when I would otherwise be zoned out -- like watching "Two and a Half Men" and Internet-shopping for Charlie Harper shirts to impress the ladies.
A sticky-note app for my Droid is helping me keep track of my myriad great ideas. If I pull out my phone during conversation and write something down, don't blame it on technology (I figured out how to ignore people while appearing engaged years before even my first primitive cell phone).
Instead, blame my desire to be the best future father possible. The wave of pater-centric TV shows (OK -- maybe just "Shit My Dad Says") has got me planning for the future, to be the "every-man" dad who is both loving and practical, hard-nosed but forgiving. In other words, the old dudes from "Secondhand Lions," plus George Clooney in Ocean's 11, minus the grand larceny.
That's why I'm keeping a list -- The Dad List -- of the benchmarks I need to hit as a father. It's inspired by the young, 30-something guys I work with who are still learning how to handle sleepless nights and first Christmases; by iconic father-figures in pop culture; and, of course, by my own dad and grandfather.
Some of the items are no-brainers (teaching high-fives, riding bikes, playing catch) and some are what will be considered "outdated" traditions by the time I have kids (paper airplanes? Where's the remote control?). There are new-ish traditions, too -- like the elf on the shelf -- that I'm learning from young parents.
Of course, I have my own agenda. I'll only give one great idea away for now, but here goes. For my kid's first Christmas and/or birthday, s/he's getting a full toolbox and toolkit, a flashlight and a sewing kit -- all the things s/he'll need later, but will be "too cool" to ask for or appreciate as a teenager. It's a win/win. The baby will have plenty of beautifully wrapped presents under the tree. And 14 years later, they won't take my stuff when they pull the handle off the kitchen cabinet with their cargo short pockets while getting a midnight snack.
Genius, right?
Feel free to steal that idea. But in exchange, I'd appreciate if you left a comment with your best, classic, or unusual parenting milestones for me to add to The Dad List. Remember: if your suggestion doesn't engage me, I'll have no problem ignoring it (and you'll never know how I felt).
P.S. Merry Christmas!
A sticky-note app for my Droid is helping me keep track of my myriad great ideas. If I pull out my phone during conversation and write something down, don't blame it on technology (I figured out how to ignore people while appearing engaged years before even my first primitive cell phone).
Instead, blame my desire to be the best future father possible. The wave of pater-centric TV shows (OK -- maybe just "Shit My Dad Says") has got me planning for the future, to be the "every-man" dad who is both loving and practical, hard-nosed but forgiving. In other words, the old dudes from "Secondhand Lions," plus George Clooney in Ocean's 11, minus the grand larceny.
That's why I'm keeping a list -- The Dad List -- of the benchmarks I need to hit as a father. It's inspired by the young, 30-something guys I work with who are still learning how to handle sleepless nights and first Christmases; by iconic father-figures in pop culture; and, of course, by my own dad and grandfather.
Some of the items are no-brainers (teaching high-fives, riding bikes, playing catch) and some are what will be considered "outdated" traditions by the time I have kids (paper airplanes? Where's the remote control?). There are new-ish traditions, too -- like the elf on the shelf -- that I'm learning from young parents.
Of course, I have my own agenda. I'll only give one great idea away for now, but here goes. For my kid's first Christmas and/or birthday, s/he's getting a full toolbox and toolkit, a flashlight and a sewing kit -- all the things s/he'll need later, but will be "too cool" to ask for or appreciate as a teenager. It's a win/win. The baby will have plenty of beautifully wrapped presents under the tree. And 14 years later, they won't take my stuff when they pull the handle off the kitchen cabinet with their cargo short pockets while getting a midnight snack.
Genius, right?
Feel free to steal that idea. But in exchange, I'd appreciate if you left a comment with your best, classic, or unusual parenting milestones for me to add to The Dad List. Remember: if your suggestion doesn't engage me, I'll have no problem ignoring it (and you'll never know how I felt).
P.S. Merry Christmas!
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Observations
A hair stylist will ask if you want any work done on your eyebrows.
A barber will ask if you want a trim on your nose- and ear-hair.
Either way, it will come as a surprise.
__________________________________________________
Construction workers don't get bothered by anything.
Cubicle workers get bothered by nothing.
Semantics aside, there is a big difference.
A barber will ask if you want a trim on your nose- and ear-hair.
Either way, it will come as a surprise.
__________________________________________________
Construction workers don't get bothered by anything.
Cubicle workers get bothered by nothing.
Semantics aside, there is a big difference.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Zipp 808s and Heartbreak
I was positive that today, Monday, November 22, would be a revelation. That I would know for sure what's been bothering my knee. That, even if it was a torn meniscus or other easily diagnosed injury, I would have a name and defined treatment path.
But after scrolling through a cross-section of my knee from every angle, the view was inconclusive. Nothing to be overly concerned about. A slight abnormality, but the radiologist wasn't worried enough (or didn't even notice it) to make a note on the report. I heard the words "chondral sclerosis" and "maybe a little bit of pre-arthritis." But the official prognosis is still: Wait and See; Don't Run; See You in Four to Six Weeks.
This was doubly disappointing, because last week I received an invitation from Sports Bistro to join their ambassador team for next season. I've waited to even accept -- much less publicize -- my position, because I'd be a pretty crappy ambassador to the sport of triathlon as a gimp (and not even a gimp with an inspirational back-story of competing against all odds).
They say no news is good news. In this case, it's more like 24-hour MSNBC: still no real news, followed by sporadic hopeful updates that get quashed by the realities of more misinformation, then a bunch of commentators who are paid to say things that frustrate the hell out of me.
I spent Sunday following Ironman Arizona. That's looking farther and farther away, as I can only spin my wheels on the elliptical for the immediate future. I feel like I can save my money on lusty expensive bike wheels for the moment; it doesn't do any good to have a tricked-out tri bike if I can't run afterwards.
Please, somebody: when I'm at the YMCA, humming away on the rowing machine with my iPod earbuds drowning out the sound of the resistance fan, just sneak up behind me with a 35-pound barbell and put me out of my misery.
But after scrolling through a cross-section of my knee from every angle, the view was inconclusive. Nothing to be overly concerned about. A slight abnormality, but the radiologist wasn't worried enough (or didn't even notice it) to make a note on the report. I heard the words "chondral sclerosis" and "maybe a little bit of pre-arthritis." But the official prognosis is still: Wait and See; Don't Run; See You in Four to Six Weeks.
This was doubly disappointing, because last week I received an invitation from Sports Bistro to join their ambassador team for next season. I've waited to even accept -- much less publicize -- my position, because I'd be a pretty crappy ambassador to the sport of triathlon as a gimp (and not even a gimp with an inspirational back-story of competing against all odds).
They say no news is good news. In this case, it's more like 24-hour MSNBC: still no real news, followed by sporadic hopeful updates that get quashed by the realities of more misinformation, then a bunch of commentators who are paid to say things that frustrate the hell out of me.
I spent Sunday following Ironman Arizona. That's looking farther and farther away, as I can only spin my wheels on the elliptical for the immediate future. I feel like I can save my money on lusty expensive bike wheels for the moment; it doesn't do any good to have a tricked-out tri bike if I can't run afterwards.
Please, somebody: when I'm at the YMCA, humming away on the rowing machine with my iPod earbuds drowning out the sound of the resistance fan, just sneak up behind me with a 35-pound barbell and put me out of my misery.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Check it Out
Rap and hip-hop have taken a serious turn for the worse.
I can say this without batting an eye, because there is a new book out: The Anthology of Rap. Everybody knows that anthologies are strategically released during dips in the market to try to create renewed interest, whether it's a DVD box set of "I Love Lucy" or 43 Miles Davis CDs, packaged in a trumpet case, for just $750 dollars-American. (Try to remember the last time you heard real jazz. See?)
Granted, Eminem still lights up any track he touches. And it'll be interesting to see what Lil' Wayne comes up with, fresh out of prison.
Blame Billboard for propagating weak flow and slant rhymes as Top-40 material. Blame whoever killed (or didn't!) Tupac and Biggie. Blame teachers for giving young kids on the streets, the would-be rappers, a passable education and a ticket out of the hard knock life.
But definitely blame will.i.am for having the balls to even record this verse:
Compare that to the farcical rap battle in "Malibu's Most Wanted" in which Jamie Kennedy, as B-Rad, rocks the mic with this gem:
I'd rather go fly a kite
Or go on a low-carb diet
That means no more pasta
Ya'll rappers is too slow,
And I'm kinda fasta
I got a watch
It's a Swee-otch
And when my mother does my clothes
To get 'em clean she uses blee-otch
In hindsight, "Malibu's Most Wanted" may have been a forecast of today's rap game. B-Rad's biggest blunder was the belief that his prose would amount to "a million-dollar rhyme, right thurr." Will.i.am seems to be suffering the same delusions of self-importance -- but unfortunately for consumers, his played-out raps really are money in the bank.
I can say this without batting an eye, because there is a new book out: The Anthology of Rap. Everybody knows that anthologies are strategically released during dips in the market to try to create renewed interest, whether it's a DVD box set of "I Love Lucy" or 43 Miles Davis CDs, packaged in a trumpet case, for just $750 dollars-American. (Try to remember the last time you heard real jazz. See?)
Granted, Eminem still lights up any track he touches. And it'll be interesting to see what Lil' Wayne comes up with, fresh out of prison.
Blame Billboard for propagating weak flow and slant rhymes as Top-40 material. Blame whoever killed (or didn't!) Tupac and Biggie. Blame teachers for giving young kids on the streets, the would-be rappers, a passable education and a ticket out of the hard knock life.
But definitely blame will.i.am for having the balls to even record this verse:
We just had to kill it
We on the radio hotter than a skillet
We in the club making party people holla
Money in the bank, we be getting top dollar
I’m a big baller,
You a little smaller
Step up to my level, you need to grow a little taller
I’m shot caller
Get up off my collar
You a Chihuahua
I’m a Rottweiler
Compare that to the farcical rap battle in "Malibu's Most Wanted" in which Jamie Kennedy, as B-Rad, rocks the mic with this gem:
I'd rather go fly a kite
Or go on a low-carb diet
That means no more pasta
Ya'll rappers is too slow,
And I'm kinda fasta
I got a watch
It's a Swee-otch
And when my mother does my clothes
To get 'em clean she uses blee-otch
In hindsight, "Malibu's Most Wanted" may have been a forecast of today's rap game. B-Rad's biggest blunder was the belief that his prose would amount to "a million-dollar rhyme, right thurr." Will.i.am seems to be suffering the same delusions of self-importance -- but unfortunately for consumers, his played-out raps really are money in the bank.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
I Kneed Help
Sincere apologies for the title, but really -- this is getting ridiculous. It's been nearly two months since Atomic Man and my knee is still not functioning properly. After a total of probably five running-free weeks (and not in the Ryan Hall way) I'm searching for answers. Although I haven't found the right answers yet, but I have learned a few things along the way.
My first thought was that I needed a mental break anyway, so a physical break at the same time would give me a perfect month to reflect on my training and racing, not to mention my job, my friends and my life in general. Then things would come back together and I would be back in base-training mode.
When my knee wasn't healed after a week, I was frustrated, but not worried. After a few weeks of ice, rest and high-dose NSAIDS (which I suspect contributed to my five canker sores) I was pissed. After a few more weeks of biking, but not running, I was ready to see a doctor. Then I waited another week.
The problem is, I don't remember a specific injury. There's no swelling. It doesn't hurt enough to render me physically inable to run, though at 22 I've finally developed the good sense not to push it. Cycling doesn't bother it, but it sometimes hurts to tie my shoe. I can swim with no problems, but getting in and out of my car can be a chore.
I saw a doctor yesterday, who pronounced my (unnecessary, IMHO) X-rays perfectly clear. He diagnosed a weak hamstring and gave me a sheet of exercises to strengthen the offending area, with a two-month check-in date. I left the office less than comforted, because I didn't ask enough questions or point out my defenses, like:
Weigh in, because I will listen. Speaking of weighing, if I go much longer without running, I'm going to throw away my scale -- because now, rather than maintaining endurance, I've been reduced to looping 10-minute kickboxing and cardio-blasting, better-booty-sculpting workout videos on the DVR. I just want to enjoy good food -- sweet or savory, doesn't matter -- and know that my regular workouts will take care of the waistline until it's time to really get in shape again.
My first thought was that I needed a mental break anyway, so a physical break at the same time would give me a perfect month to reflect on my training and racing, not to mention my job, my friends and my life in general. Then things would come back together and I would be back in base-training mode.
When my knee wasn't healed after a week, I was frustrated, but not worried. After a few weeks of ice, rest and high-dose NSAIDS (which I suspect contributed to my five canker sores) I was pissed. After a few more weeks of biking, but not running, I was ready to see a doctor. Then I waited another week.
The problem is, I don't remember a specific injury. There's no swelling. It doesn't hurt enough to render me physically inable to run, though at 22 I've finally developed the good sense not to push it. Cycling doesn't bother it, but it sometimes hurts to tie my shoe. I can swim with no problems, but getting in and out of my car can be a chore.
I saw a doctor yesterday, who pronounced my (unnecessary, IMHO) X-rays perfectly clear. He diagnosed a weak hamstring and gave me a sheet of exercises to strengthen the offending area, with a two-month check-in date. I left the office less than comforted, because I didn't ask enough questions or point out my defenses, like:
- I was already strengthening before this injury
- Maybe a weak hammy is the root cause -- but something actually happened to my knee to make it hurt when it flexes sideways, or to make my knee sore the day after a run
- How do I know when to try to run again? I alternate between standing and sitting at work, and it's still sore. What would actual movement do to it?
Weigh in, because I will listen. Speaking of weighing, if I go much longer without running, I'm going to throw away my scale -- because now, rather than maintaining endurance, I've been reduced to looping 10-minute kickboxing and cardio-blasting, better-booty-sculpting workout videos on the DVR. I just want to enjoy good food -- sweet or savory, doesn't matter -- and know that my regular workouts will take care of the waistline until it's time to really get in shape again.
Friday, October 15, 2010
College, From Two Angles
Things I Miss About College
- Class: Possibly the highlight of college. I got what I paid for.
- Drunk texts: Whether I sent or received the messages, and whether they were well- or poorly received, it was nice laugh off boozy communications.
- Girls: Thousands of 'em. All over the place. Hot, too.
- Front-yard parties: What's better than the great outdoors? Drinking in the great outdoors.
- Unlimited meal plans: I lamented not having this plan as a "triathlete" with license to eat 50% more than Freshman-15 Drew.
- Walking everywhere: Nothing was ever out of reach; plus, it helped fight the aforementioned Freshman 15. No risk of drinking and driving if you can stand The Strip.
- TRECs: When you think about it, college is like a resort with expansive pools and a great workout room. Plus, Smoothie King!
Things I Don't Miss About College
- Class: How much time did I waste learning stuff I already knew? Or stuff I might never use?
- Drunk texts: The day I learned to keep my phone from beeping every three minutes until it woke me up was a milestone. Also, sorry to anybody I drunk-texted. I don't remember it -- I swear.
- Girls: Thousands of 'em. All over the place. Hot, too. Too hot for me. Wasted opportunities.
- Front-yard parties: I never had real fun, especially once I realized that UTPD doesn't need a real reason to crash the party: Kegs full of flat, cheap beer. Mingling. Ugh.
- Unlimited meal plans: How much poor-quality food can you stuff down in a single setting?
- Walking everywhere: The sweat stains on my shirts and shorts were pretty embarrassing. The Strip gets really old.
- TRECs: Meat-heads and guys with huge biceps/chicken legs abound. Smoothie King practically robs college students blind -- $7 for 1,500 calories of chalky protein? No thanks.
In other words, everything that is awesome about college also sucks. Is the shot glass half full, or half empty?
Sunday, October 3, 2010
"I Just Really Want to Lose Three Pounds."
I conquered a feat of gastronomical proportions this weekend: the KFC Double Down.
After more than six months of promising myself that I would eat one, I finally ran out of excuses not to try this abomination. I didn't get one after the Rev3 Half Ironman, nor the 103-mile ride over the Cherohala Skyway. Ditto my Atomic Man 1/2 marathon, the Booker T Washington tri, or my Flintstone Triathlon victory. Not even after a normal, long-ish bike ride or run.
No, this "sandwich" was consumed after arguably my least-active week of the entire year. Following a week of recuperating my knee -- with little to show for it, by the way -- and eating accordingly less than I'm used to, my stomach craved a fat-frenzied protein pounding. And who am I to deny the onslaught? I waited until I was suitably hungry, then hit the drive-thru at the closest KFC.
My first complaint was that KFC shares a building (and kitchen) with Long John Silver's. I was jonesin' for some steak fries, but they only serve run-of-the-mill Silver's fries. Strike one. The drive-thru also took a really long time, but I'll excuse it because my Double Down was piping hot.
I had to take a picture. My fingers left a slight grease stain on my phone's touch screen. I was momentarily delayed in savoring the awesomeness.
The first bite set the bar. It was hot and juicy, with a crispy fried coating. The cheese was melted and creamy. The bacon and special sauce gave it a surprising, spicy, smoky kick -- they set off each of the 13 secret spices of the original recipe. In short, it was a delicious mouthful of food.
And then I began to notice the less pleasant sensations. Where did KFC find so many pieces of chicken shaped perfectly for a sandwich? Why is this meat so uniformly dense? How did I convince myself to ingest so many potential carcinogens and heart disease risk factors in one setting?
As the sandwich -- and I use that term loosely, considering there's no bread -- gently cooled down, the chicken became a little tougher to chew. The cheese became more noticeable as its own entity. The bacon took a little more tooth to cut through. It lacked the greasy, brand-new taste of seven minutes prior. I finished the sandwich and the mismatched fries, overstuffed from the weighty ingredients.
Hours later, I still felt uncomfortably full as I went to sleep. I wasn't exactly hungry when I woke up, either. I'm glad I challenged myself, though, to go through with it. At $5 ($7.08 with fries, and tax) it's an expensive undertaking for what it is. I would be much more pleased in the taste category with a Five Guys burger, or some Zaxby's chicken fingers -- and I know from experience that I wouldn't have the same gut-bombed feeling.
On the fast-food spectrum, KFC should stick to home-grown classics like regular fried chicken. Leave the creations to the other people, like Hardee's. They've always got some ridiculous Philly Cheesesteak Grilled Portabello Chipotle Girthyburger promotion going on. That's for some other time. In the meantime, I'm going to start a 3-day juice fast to clear the polyps inevitably growing in my large intestines.
*Don't judge me. Or, if you have to judge me, note that I didn't order any biscuits or sweet tea. I still respect myself...a little bit.
After more than six months of promising myself that I would eat one, I finally ran out of excuses not to try this abomination. I didn't get one after the Rev3 Half Ironman, nor the 103-mile ride over the Cherohala Skyway. Ditto my Atomic Man 1/2 marathon, the Booker T Washington tri, or my Flintstone Triathlon victory. Not even after a normal, long-ish bike ride or run.
No, this "sandwich" was consumed after arguably my least-active week of the entire year. Following a week of recuperating my knee -- with little to show for it, by the way -- and eating accordingly less than I'm used to, my stomach craved a fat-frenzied protein pounding. And who am I to deny the onslaught? I waited until I was suitably hungry, then hit the drive-thru at the closest KFC.
My first complaint was that KFC shares a building (and kitchen) with Long John Silver's. I was jonesin' for some steak fries, but they only serve run-of-the-mill Silver's fries. Strike one. The drive-thru also took a really long time, but I'll excuse it because my Double Down was piping hot.
I had to take a picture. My fingers left a slight grease stain on my phone's touch screen. I was momentarily delayed in savoring the awesomeness.
The first bite set the bar. It was hot and juicy, with a crispy fried coating. The cheese was melted and creamy. The bacon and special sauce gave it a surprising, spicy, smoky kick -- they set off each of the 13 secret spices of the original recipe. In short, it was a delicious mouthful of food.
And then I began to notice the less pleasant sensations. Where did KFC find so many pieces of chicken shaped perfectly for a sandwich? Why is this meat so uniformly dense? How did I convince myself to ingest so many potential carcinogens and heart disease risk factors in one setting?
As the sandwich -- and I use that term loosely, considering there's no bread -- gently cooled down, the chicken became a little tougher to chew. The cheese became more noticeable as its own entity. The bacon took a little more tooth to cut through. It lacked the greasy, brand-new taste of seven minutes prior. I finished the sandwich and the mismatched fries, overstuffed from the weighty ingredients.
Hours later, I still felt uncomfortably full as I went to sleep. I wasn't exactly hungry when I woke up, either. I'm glad I challenged myself, though, to go through with it. At $5 ($7.08 with fries, and tax) it's an expensive undertaking for what it is. I would be much more pleased in the taste category with a Five Guys burger, or some Zaxby's chicken fingers -- and I know from experience that I wouldn't have the same gut-bombed feeling.
On the fast-food spectrum, KFC should stick to home-grown classics like regular fried chicken. Leave the creations to the other people, like Hardee's. They've always got some ridiculous Philly Cheesesteak Grilled Portabello Chipotle Girthyburger promotion going on. That's for some other time. In the meantime, I'm going to start a 3-day juice fast to clear the polyps inevitably growing in my large intestines.
*Don't judge me. Or, if you have to judge me, note that I didn't order any biscuits or sweet tea. I still respect myself...a little bit.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
The Rules. Mostly for men.
1. Men should never talk just to hear the sound of their own voice. We have many stupid, pointless thoughts that should die a silent death.
2. The perfect woman will understand the importance of the pre-race dump -- but she will never say the words "pre-race dump."
3. Once a week, eat a meal until you're completely, uncomfortably stuffed. Then have dessert.
4. Using a coupon to buy two of something that you wouldn't normally buy one of is not saving money. Don't let women tell you otherwise.
5. Everybody screens phone calls (besides technologically inept individuals or those with broken phone displays). It's not rude or hurtful. Just have a system in place -- and stick to it. For example, no calls during meals; no extended conversations in the presence of another person; text messages often will suffice.
6. Remember to call back.
7. It's almost always easier to gain weight than to lose it.
8. It's almost always easier to lose money than to gain it.
9. When someone asks why you're so dressed up, it is code for, "How did I not notice you were so attractive before?"
10. Blogs are for people desperately seeking attention. Even if the site doesn't make money through prominent advertising placement, it is entirely self-indulgent. That's OK. Nobody is forcing you to read it.
11. Twitter is never OK. (But "$#!t My Dad Says" has made a lot of people happy.)
2. The perfect woman will understand the importance of the pre-race dump -- but she will never say the words "pre-race dump."
3. Once a week, eat a meal until you're completely, uncomfortably stuffed. Then have dessert.
4. Using a coupon to buy two of something that you wouldn't normally buy one of is not saving money. Don't let women tell you otherwise.
5. Everybody screens phone calls (besides technologically inept individuals or those with broken phone displays). It's not rude or hurtful. Just have a system in place -- and stick to it. For example, no calls during meals; no extended conversations in the presence of another person; text messages often will suffice.
6. Remember to call back.
7. It's almost always easier to gain weight than to lose it.
8. It's almost always easier to lose money than to gain it.
9. When someone asks why you're so dressed up, it is code for, "How did I not notice you were so attractive before?"
10. Blogs are for people desperately seeking attention. Even if the site doesn't make money through prominent advertising placement, it is entirely self-indulgent. That's OK. Nobody is forcing you to read it.
11. Twitter is never OK. (But "$#!t My Dad Says" has made a lot of people happy.)
Monday, September 20, 2010
Meet the Flintstones
So, I won my first race this Sunday at the Flintstone Triathlon. Yay! Three cheers! Etc, etc.
The fact is, I experienced more negative emotions about this race than any other competition I've ever been in. (There were some dark days during high school tennis, but we'll excuse those as youthful indiscretion.) I'm an adult now, and I'm frankly embarrassed by the pessimism.
I had built up this race for a month. It was a small, start-up event in Chattanooga Valley. There would be limited competition. I would be in peak shape coming off my half-marathon (which I would have run faster than 1:30:09). In other words, I promised myself I would win.
Then my knee started feeling funny. I wasn't necessarily worried, but it wasn't such a sure thing. I started telling myself that it would be the last race of my season if I could manage a win. Then, I promised it would be the last race, win or not. I needed a break.
Sunday morning, I hated life. I drove to Flintstone alone in the dark, as my parents were out of town. I hated myself for being there so early, because the other people there were clearly tri-geeks with no other life. Their more-expensive, super-aero bikes intimidated me. So did their "140.6" stickers. I considered abandoning the race to go on a long, lonely bike ride, except I'd already paid $55 (plus internet service charge?!). I promised never to go to another race by myself.
I hated packet pick-up. Everybody else was with a spouse/boyfriend/girlfriend/friend...and/or making stupid jokes that only triathletes would make at 6:32 a.m. I made stupid jokes just to fit in. Then I hated myself for that.
I hated getting called out for not having a swim cap. On the 10-mile bike ride, two people passed me. I immediately resigned myself to finishing off the podium, because I was then in 4th place. Then I hated myself for mentally quitting. Somehow, though, I kept them in sight as we started the run together. I had two miles to run myself into first place.
Unfortunately, I didn't see Denny nearly a quarter-mile in front of us. I passed one guy in transition and one on the run, and thought I was in first until I saw Denny's bald head across the lake. And Brandon was behind me, running barefoot to save precious seconds in T2. I was running so hard that every footfall felt like one step closer to a complete collapse.
At various times during the run, I tried convincing myself I would be happy with second place. After all, I like Denny; I would rather be beaten by a friend than an unknown. But I was turning myself inside out to catch him, torn between winning and quitting. He deserved a victory as much as I did, having led the race from the gun. I hated wanting so badly to win, and I hated thinking I could live with giving less than 100 percent.
I kicked. If he had answered, things might have turned out differently. But I surprised him, and it worked. We both staggered across the finish line, completely gassed. I still feel bad for taking a win; after all, his wife and kids were there. It's not like I had anybody to celebrate with. And at the end of the day, it's a 48-minute race, not a half-Ironman. I drove home with another T-shirt, a candy jar of Atomic FireBalls and an upset stomach.
To top it off, I have a renewed desire to stay fast. So much for taking a break: I can't even keep a promise to myself to relax. I hate acting like a Type-A person, even though I'm not one. Yet I kind of hate not being one, because it means I will never fully achieve my goals.
So is a win a win? Ask somebody with more experience.
The fact is, I experienced more negative emotions about this race than any other competition I've ever been in. (There were some dark days during high school tennis, but we'll excuse those as youthful indiscretion.) I'm an adult now, and I'm frankly embarrassed by the pessimism.
I had built up this race for a month. It was a small, start-up event in Chattanooga Valley. There would be limited competition. I would be in peak shape coming off my half-marathon (which I would have run faster than 1:30:09). In other words, I promised myself I would win.
Then my knee started feeling funny. I wasn't necessarily worried, but it wasn't such a sure thing. I started telling myself that it would be the last race of my season if I could manage a win. Then, I promised it would be the last race, win or not. I needed a break.
Sunday morning, I hated life. I drove to Flintstone alone in the dark, as my parents were out of town. I hated myself for being there so early, because the other people there were clearly tri-geeks with no other life. Their more-expensive, super-aero bikes intimidated me. So did their "140.6" stickers. I considered abandoning the race to go on a long, lonely bike ride, except I'd already paid $55 (plus internet service charge?!). I promised never to go to another race by myself.
I hated packet pick-up. Everybody else was with a spouse/boyfriend/girlfriend/friend...and/or making stupid jokes that only triathletes would make at 6:32 a.m. I made stupid jokes just to fit in. Then I hated myself for that.
I hated getting called out for not having a swim cap. On the 10-mile bike ride, two people passed me. I immediately resigned myself to finishing off the podium, because I was then in 4th place. Then I hated myself for mentally quitting. Somehow, though, I kept them in sight as we started the run together. I had two miles to run myself into first place.
Unfortunately, I didn't see Denny nearly a quarter-mile in front of us. I passed one guy in transition and one on the run, and thought I was in first until I saw Denny's bald head across the lake. And Brandon was behind me, running barefoot to save precious seconds in T2. I was running so hard that every footfall felt like one step closer to a complete collapse.
At various times during the run, I tried convincing myself I would be happy with second place. After all, I like Denny; I would rather be beaten by a friend than an unknown. But I was turning myself inside out to catch him, torn between winning and quitting. He deserved a victory as much as I did, having led the race from the gun. I hated wanting so badly to win, and I hated thinking I could live with giving less than 100 percent.
I kicked. If he had answered, things might have turned out differently. But I surprised him, and it worked. We both staggered across the finish line, completely gassed. I still feel bad for taking a win; after all, his wife and kids were there. It's not like I had anybody to celebrate with. And at the end of the day, it's a 48-minute race, not a half-Ironman. I drove home with another T-shirt, a candy jar of Atomic FireBalls and an upset stomach.
To top it off, I have a renewed desire to stay fast. So much for taking a break: I can't even keep a promise to myself to relax. I hate acting like a Type-A person, even though I'm not one. Yet I kind of hate not being one, because it means I will never fully achieve my goals.
So is a win a win? Ask somebody with more experience.
Friday, September 17, 2010
"Words without thoughts never to heaven go."
-William "Shake-n-bake" Shakespeare
For a long time, I’ve been unable to pinpoint exactly why I found the idea of living by favorite quotes so ridiculous. Last night, for reasons that cannot be explained, it struck me—enough that I had to get out of bed at 2:12 a.m. and blindly scribble it in silver Sharpie on the back of an envelope.
My logic is this: quotes are a means to sum up what you believe, by using someone else’s undoubtedly more eloquent prose.
If you can choose just one favorite quote, you undoubtedly are eschewing many great ideas, either by choice or bad luck.
But if you expand your list of quotes to include representations of everything you believe, you’ve missed the point of so succinctly summarizing your ideals. The clash of syntax (not to mention plain old core beliefs) between great minds of different periods offends my sensibilities as a writer devoted to forming new ideas.
My ironically poorly constructed argument originated in the depths of the Slowtwitch.com triathlon message board, wherein many users feel the need to append their signature with a quote. Thus, the most frequent posters broadcast their choice message exponentially more than trolls like me who read but rarely respond, for fear of semi-public humiliation at the hands of dudes with too much free time.
References to alcohol among posters are common. For example, In vino veritas—or, “In wine, there is truth.”
Is that Latinglish phrase the root system of his beliefs, from which all other ideas grow, nurtured by sauvignon blanc? If so, he should really consider changing his singularly boozy façade. If not, why is that his motto? Is it a combination of old-guy wisdom and youthful hipster irony?
Or take the oft-cited David Auerbach quote: “In wine there is wisdom, in beer there is strength, in water there is bacteria.”
Amusing, to be sure. But when several regular contributors use that as their signature line, you get the feeling that maybe they’ve forgotten how quotations are supposed to reveal something unique about themselves.
This painful phenomenon has been increased by Facebook. Rather than list one or ten favorite literary and academic quotes, people have taken to showcasing their mundane conversations and misunderstandings as Apatow-worthy comedy.
But these homemade quotes are like a kindergartner’s macaroni necklace: sometimes cute and endearing, but not to be worn alongside pearls. “You-had-to-be-there” humor is lost on a computer screen. And I dare say that not one of my friends is as inherently quotable as “Anchorman.”
So, I beg you, be a free thinker. Express yourself, explore your own voice. Crack open a bottle of red—maybe there is some truth in it.
Just please, please: don’t make a habit of quoting yourself, nor should you rely on store-bought quotes to tell the story of who you are.
For a long time, I’ve been unable to pinpoint exactly why I found the idea of living by favorite quotes so ridiculous. Last night, for reasons that cannot be explained, it struck me—enough that I had to get out of bed at 2:12 a.m. and blindly scribble it in silver Sharpie on the back of an envelope.
My logic is this: quotes are a means to sum up what you believe, by using someone else’s undoubtedly more eloquent prose.
If you can choose just one favorite quote, you undoubtedly are eschewing many great ideas, either by choice or bad luck.
But if you expand your list of quotes to include representations of everything you believe, you’ve missed the point of so succinctly summarizing your ideals. The clash of syntax (not to mention plain old core beliefs) between great minds of different periods offends my sensibilities as a writer devoted to forming new ideas.
My ironically poorly constructed argument originated in the depths of the Slowtwitch.com triathlon message board, wherein many users feel the need to append their signature with a quote. Thus, the most frequent posters broadcast their choice message exponentially more than trolls like me who read but rarely respond, for fear of semi-public humiliation at the hands of dudes with too much free time.
References to alcohol among posters are common. For example, In vino veritas—or, “In wine, there is truth.”
Is that Latinglish phrase the root system of his beliefs, from which all other ideas grow, nurtured by sauvignon blanc? If so, he should really consider changing his singularly boozy façade. If not, why is that his motto? Is it a combination of old-guy wisdom and youthful hipster irony?
Or take the oft-cited David Auerbach quote: “In wine there is wisdom, in beer there is strength, in water there is bacteria.”
Amusing, to be sure. But when several regular contributors use that as their signature line, you get the feeling that maybe they’ve forgotten how quotations are supposed to reveal something unique about themselves.
This painful phenomenon has been increased by Facebook. Rather than list one or ten favorite literary and academic quotes, people have taken to showcasing their mundane conversations and misunderstandings as Apatow-worthy comedy.
But these homemade quotes are like a kindergartner’s macaroni necklace: sometimes cute and endearing, but not to be worn alongside pearls. “You-had-to-be-there” humor is lost on a computer screen. And I dare say that not one of my friends is as inherently quotable as “Anchorman.”
So, I beg you, be a free thinker. Express yourself, explore your own voice. Crack open a bottle of red—maybe there is some truth in it.
Just please, please: don’t make a habit of quoting yourself, nor should you rely on store-bought quotes to tell the story of who you are.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The Manhattan Project
After an agonizingly drawn-out summer of trying to train through the heat and humidity, the weather broke exactly long enough to complete the Atomic Man half-Ironman in Oak Ridge.
Just 10 days after blistering my feet beyond belief on an eight-mile tempo run with 90 degrees of late-afternoon sun beating down on me, I lined up to contest the third leg of our relay. Jennifer had already swum 1.2 miles in 26 minutes, exiting the water as the second relay swimmer. Incidentally, her wave started six minutes behind the first wave, and she was still ahead of the majority of the pack.
She handed off the timing chip to Allan, who proceeded to ride faster than approximately a bajillion people on the 56-mile bike ride -- which included several trips up and over K2, Everest and the Continental Divide. He put another nail in the coffin, passing a guy while running his bike down a grassy knoll into transition. Then it was my turn not to let those two bad-asses down.
Maybe I started off a little quick; I didn't start my watch until after mile 1, but the next 8 miles were all in the 6:28 to 6:58 range. It was only in the last four or five miles that the rolling hills and side stitches caught up to me, but that's my usual race plan: go out hard and risk an epic implosion. And in reality, my pace only dropped to a still-faster-than-normal clip, for a race average of 6:52/mile (7 seconds off my goal pace).
My race nutrition included one apple-pie-flavored Hammer Gel around mile 7, several splashes of water and a couple sips of Gatorade. The liquids were as likely to wind up in my shoes or behind my sunglasses as they were to find my mouth, which was the price I paid for not slowing down at most of the aid stations. But the relatively cool temperature, abundant shade and pre-race whole-wheat bagel with Nutella kept me from cramping -- even after the uphill finish atop the overlook.
Now I'm left with a couple questions. First and most important, Do I really enjoy racing 13.1 miles? My argument against the distance includes the hours of stomach discomfort afterwards; the aching in my legs two days removed; and the increased mental and physical recovery to be ready for more training and racing.
Second, Am I better suited to shorter races given my current training volume? I'm young and healthy enough to fake it, but even most competitive 5K runners train twice as much per week as I do.
Answers: I don't know yet / Who cares? I'm not getting paid to race, so I'll do whatever I (and my friends) want. We rocked the Atomic Man: first relay, third overall. I added another towel to my "RaceDay Events" Home Furnishings collection. And I had an awesome Labor Day weekend with friends, food, football and fireworks.
Next up is either the Symphony Classic 5K, or the Flintstone Sprint Triathlon. I'm ready to mix up my training with some mountain biking, hiking, trail running (yes, Cathi -- I will make time in my busy schedule) and fried apple pies -- fresh from the Apple Barn in Pigeon Forge, not a plastic tear-off packet.
Just 10 days after blistering my feet beyond belief on an eight-mile tempo run with 90 degrees of late-afternoon sun beating down on me, I lined up to contest the third leg of our relay. Jennifer had already swum 1.2 miles in 26 minutes, exiting the water as the second relay swimmer. Incidentally, her wave started six minutes behind the first wave, and she was still ahead of the majority of the pack.
She handed off the timing chip to Allan, who proceeded to ride faster than approximately a bajillion people on the 56-mile bike ride -- which included several trips up and over K2, Everest and the Continental Divide. He put another nail in the coffin, passing a guy while running his bike down a grassy knoll into transition. Then it was my turn not to let those two bad-asses down.
Maybe I started off a little quick; I didn't start my watch until after mile 1, but the next 8 miles were all in the 6:28 to 6:58 range. It was only in the last four or five miles that the rolling hills and side stitches caught up to me, but that's my usual race plan: go out hard and risk an epic implosion. And in reality, my pace only dropped to a still-faster-than-normal clip, for a race average of 6:52/mile (7 seconds off my goal pace).
My race nutrition included one apple-pie-flavored Hammer Gel around mile 7, several splashes of water and a couple sips of Gatorade. The liquids were as likely to wind up in my shoes or behind my sunglasses as they were to find my mouth, which was the price I paid for not slowing down at most of the aid stations. But the relatively cool temperature, abundant shade and pre-race whole-wheat bagel with Nutella kept me from cramping -- even after the uphill finish atop the overlook.
Now I'm left with a couple questions. First and most important, Do I really enjoy racing 13.1 miles? My argument against the distance includes the hours of stomach discomfort afterwards; the aching in my legs two days removed; and the increased mental and physical recovery to be ready for more training and racing.
Second, Am I better suited to shorter races given my current training volume? I'm young and healthy enough to fake it, but even most competitive 5K runners train twice as much per week as I do.
Answers: I don't know yet / Who cares? I'm not getting paid to race, so I'll do whatever I (and my friends) want. We rocked the Atomic Man: first relay, third overall. I added another towel to my "RaceDay Events" Home Furnishings collection. And I had an awesome Labor Day weekend with friends, food, football and fireworks.
Next up is either the Symphony Classic 5K, or the Flintstone Sprint Triathlon. I'm ready to mix up my training with some mountain biking, hiking, trail running (yes, Cathi -- I will make time in my busy schedule) and fried apple pies -- fresh from the Apple Barn in Pigeon Forge, not a plastic tear-off packet.
Friday, August 27, 2010
The Last Cup
The Last Cup
He hesitated after flicking the Splenda packet three times with his middle finger to settle its contents at the bottom. A familiar thought--is this the packet that's going to kill me?--crossed his mind. His lips pursed slightly; his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. Then he tore open the tiny paper container and dumped it into the mug.
It was impossible to know, really. Everybody died from something. If he used real sugar (either pure cane or turbinado -- everybody knew that refined granulated sugar directly caused diabetes, love handles and general unattractiveness) he would die from that, too. Maybe it would be the creamer: 40 calories per teaspoon which he would have to account for later by tacking an extra half mile onto his run. Or maybe the coffee itself was the culprit: no calories, fat or sugar, but it was just a matter of time until he succumbed to debilitating heart palpitations. He should quit.
But he still had enough grounds for at least three days, and he hated wasting food. He would drink his last cup on Friday morning. That way, the headaches would last through Sunday, and by Monday he would be ready to face work without a crippling caffeine deficit.
Maybe he would try green tea. It didn't taste as good, but it was equally cheap and easy to make, and thus a suitable replacement for his morning habit. It's worth noting that he was only 22, and had only been a coffee drinker for a year. The graveyard hours of his part-time job necessitated something to keep him awake and occupied, so coffee it was. In reality, he didn't ever feel more awake or alert after ingesting caffeine. He had just grown used to having a hot drink that took him approximately half an hour to finish, and those 30 minutes made him feel like the Real College Students for whom coffee was a way of life -- but not like those Last-Minute-Crammers who lived on 5-Hour Energy and Adderall through finals week. They were just dumb.
Coffee also presented an intellectual challenge that he both reveled in and rebelled against. Learning the different roasts; various brewing methods; proper bean harvesting locales -- he could be a pseudo-expert just by reading and drinking. Also, why did other people know so much more than he did? He didn't like being out of the loop. But the hipster-artisan-barista trend, and his disdain for hipsters and overly expensive consumer goods, was one he hoped he could bypass. He wanted to be a Classic Coffee Drinker, the type who could tell a good cup from a great cup, but who also understood its more utilitarian properties. He didn't want to be a Starbucks Pro, a champion of flavored syrups and seasonal creations and disposable income.
He had read somewhere that coffee, like any addiction, wasn't love at first taste. If the author was right, that meant he'd had to learn to like it. Of course he'd hated coffee when he tried it as a 12-year-old, but he had also hated asparagus, macaroni and cheese and anything that wasn't chicken fingers. He remembered drinking iced coffee a year ago and enjoying it. It wasn't an addiction that deserved to be lumped in with cigarettes and Robitussin; it was an acquired taste, like wine. People drank wine all the time without being addicted to it. And if coffee was really dangerous, it would have its own laws, besides that fair-trade liberal bullshit. That author sucked.
He sipped the coffee, burning his tongue in the process. He didn't mind. Everybody dies from something.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Put your fast foot forward
It's been too long since I've been on dirt. Months of being a roadie have softened me, stolen my resolve to rip. The hiatus has killed my confidence and robbed me of my dirt legs. I feel vaguely soilsick as I buck over the whoop-dee-doos that used to disappear under my wheels.
But most tragically, I feel slow.
I can still outride my dad and his friends, of course, though not by much. The long breathers I used to take every so often -- long enough for the fog to disappear from my glasses and the sweat to dry on my face -- have been reduced to minor lapses in my suffering. I can already hear tires rumbling toward me on the trail, and I haven't yet grabbed my water bottle.
Conventional wisdom says the person who rides fastest gets the longest breaks. Conventional wisdom forgets that the person who rides fastest might also hurt the most.
Indeed my lungs hurt, my legs hurt, and so does my pride. I'm caught between multiple rocks and at least one hard place. I'm quick enough not to really be slow, but I'm too slow to really be fast.
What ever happened to pounding pavement in the quest of becoming better XC racers? Cadel Evans, once a cross country racer, now has a second career as a GC contender at the Grand Tours. Lance Armstrong can show up to the Leadville 100 and make 14,000 feet of off-road climbing look like a weekend spin in his pancake-flat native Texas.
On the other hand, I approach this 6.5-mile loop as enemy territory, every rock and tree stump a threat to my flow.
Feeling fast isn't just about the numbers on my computer, or the time it takes to complete one lap. Those kinds of metrics can be influenced, favorably or not, by soil conditions and humidity -- even whether I ate Italian or Indian the night before.
Really feeling fast is about being deaf to everything but the whoosh of air in my ears. It's about riding so hard uphill that sweat washes over my top tube, then dropping off the backside and being bone-dry at the bottom. Fast is when smooth banked corners feel like straightaways, and horizontal feels like vertical. It's about longing to session a section of trail I nailed, but knowing it won't be the same a second time.
Today, I have none of that.
It's sweltering, and my breathing is labored at the slightest incline. The soupy humidity nullifies my sweat -- nature's AC, if I could even inert myself to a sustainable cooling speed. No, I move at a snail's pace, but with a hummingbird's heart rate. I sometimes imagine a side view of my torso -- head and shoulders completely still, gliding through space, while my legs and bike absorb the rollers underneath. Today, each earthy undulation murders my momentum, reminds me that I can no more control this aluminum appendage than the sky above and the trail below.
One lap down, zero laps to go. These 6.5 miles took me nearly as long as two laps would have in my heyday. I roll into the parking lot, ready to load my bike and towel off. But I must wait -- my dad has the keys.
I'm still faster than the old guys.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Home Field Advantage: The Rev3 Report
An overly dramatic race recap
* * *
The air was uncharacteristically chilly Sunday morning at 6:45 when Melissa Gill and I put the finishing touches on our transition areas. If I had to guess, there was about $20,000 in bikes and wetsuits within a water bottle squirt of my slot, rack 322. My friend and resident Ironman veteran, Todd Montgomery, was racked just one stand over. When I later passed him on the run course, he probably wished he could take back some of the pre-race advice he gave me.
Professionals hit the water at 7:45. They were already passing the dock ten minutes later when it was time for my wave to start. If the air was cold, the water felt at least tepid through my wetsuit. I swam the straight out-and-back course on cruise control, slapping at ankles in front of me, trying to conserve energy. The extra 400 meters, compared to an Olympic-distance race, were noticeable but not overly draining. And I have yet to sprout extra limbs or feel my stomach ripped apart by water-borne bacteria from the Tennessee River (knock on wood).
T1 was a flourish of cowbells, Gatorade and a chat with my wetsuit twin. My first flying bike mount worked flawlessly, and soon I was cruising down Martin Mill Pike. Two police motorcycles came into view, and a blur on a Cervelo P4 (Bjorn Andersson) whooshed by. Seconds later, the power train of Chris Lieto, Matt Reed and Terenzo Bozzone also passed. They were less than 40 minutes from the end of their race, and I was less than 40 minutes into mine. I savored the proximity to greatness for a moment, then put my head down and cranked.
Before the race, my plan was to take the bike easy. But Todd told me to let it all hang out; I would probably run the same speed either way. As it turned out, that was good advice. I held my position the whole ride, even passing a few people on the hills with which I am excruciatingly familiar. Three instances of discomfort stuck out. At mile 9.67, a number etched indefinitely in my brain, I hit rough asphalt and my computer ceased functioning. As the proper Euro cyclist would attest, I rode strictly according to feel -- and the sensations were good. Around mile 35, my glutes and hamstrings started to fatigue, prompting some low-gear spinning until the burn died down. And the sharp plastic corners of the Gu packs taped to my top tube clawed into my knees. Lesson learned.
At T2, I heard shouts from familiar voices, although I couldn't exactly make out where they were coming from, or to whom they belonged. Todd had told me about the blisters he suffered at his last 70.3, so I pulled on socks. With my visor, watch and race belt, I started my first half-marathon. Fast. And why not? The sensations were good.
Allan sneaked up beside me on his bike. "Hey man, how do you feel? Good? Yeah, you're looking pretty strong right now." Then he peeled off, leaving me to my thoughts. What if I bonk? What if I totally rock this thing? There are a lot of sponsors here...what if I got some kind of offer? What if my parents don't make it on time for the finish? When am I going to hit the wall?
My legs did start to feel heavy after a few miles. But (warning: gross stuff ahead) I had been trying to pee on myself for the last five miles of the bike and the first three miles of the run -- and it just wasn't happening. So I had to duck off the greenway to relieve myself, which gave my legs just enough of a break. I caught Todd and we talked for a minute; I'm not sure what race etiquette dictates, but I kept pushing. I wasn't trying to race Todd directly. I was racing myself and the possibility of an epic slow-down, so I just wanted to pad my time until I reached the crash point.
But I never broke stride. I steadily picked runners off, all the way to the final turnaround at mile 13. I choked up when I entered the finish chute, just as I had choked up two or three times before on the run, when I realized I was going to be alive and well at the end of the day. Nearly the whole crew -- Allan, Leslie, Justin, Emily, Matt, Ali, Devon, my parents -- were at the finish line. And Melissa was crossing the line not too long after that.
So my first 70.3 is in the books. In short, I exceeded my very ambitious goal of breaking five hours, finishing in 4:56. I ran a 1:32 half-marathon (a PR by default). I won 2nd place in my age group and placed top-20 overall. And I have the best friends and parents in the world (or at least ZIP code 37916), all of whom helped me get through my biggest race in practically my own backyard.
* * *
The air was uncharacteristically chilly Sunday morning at 6:45 when Melissa Gill and I put the finishing touches on our transition areas. If I had to guess, there was about $20,000 in bikes and wetsuits within a water bottle squirt of my slot, rack 322. My friend and resident Ironman veteran, Todd Montgomery, was racked just one stand over. When I later passed him on the run course, he probably wished he could take back some of the pre-race advice he gave me.
Professionals hit the water at 7:45. They were already passing the dock ten minutes later when it was time for my wave to start. If the air was cold, the water felt at least tepid through my wetsuit. I swam the straight out-and-back course on cruise control, slapping at ankles in front of me, trying to conserve energy. The extra 400 meters, compared to an Olympic-distance race, were noticeable but not overly draining. And I have yet to sprout extra limbs or feel my stomach ripped apart by water-borne bacteria from the Tennessee River (knock on wood).
T1 was a flourish of cowbells, Gatorade and a chat with my wetsuit twin. My first flying bike mount worked flawlessly, and soon I was cruising down Martin Mill Pike. Two police motorcycles came into view, and a blur on a Cervelo P4 (Bjorn Andersson) whooshed by. Seconds later, the power train of Chris Lieto, Matt Reed and Terenzo Bozzone also passed. They were less than 40 minutes from the end of their race, and I was less than 40 minutes into mine. I savored the proximity to greatness for a moment, then put my head down and cranked.
Before the race, my plan was to take the bike easy. But Todd told me to let it all hang out; I would probably run the same speed either way. As it turned out, that was good advice. I held my position the whole ride, even passing a few people on the hills with which I am excruciatingly familiar. Three instances of discomfort stuck out. At mile 9.67, a number etched indefinitely in my brain, I hit rough asphalt and my computer ceased functioning. As the proper Euro cyclist would attest, I rode strictly according to feel -- and the sensations were good. Around mile 35, my glutes and hamstrings started to fatigue, prompting some low-gear spinning until the burn died down. And the sharp plastic corners of the Gu packs taped to my top tube clawed into my knees. Lesson learned.
At T2, I heard shouts from familiar voices, although I couldn't exactly make out where they were coming from, or to whom they belonged. Todd had told me about the blisters he suffered at his last 70.3, so I pulled on socks. With my visor, watch and race belt, I started my first half-marathon. Fast. And why not? The sensations were good.
Allan sneaked up beside me on his bike. "Hey man, how do you feel? Good? Yeah, you're looking pretty strong right now." Then he peeled off, leaving me to my thoughts. What if I bonk? What if I totally rock this thing? There are a lot of sponsors here...what if I got some kind of offer? What if my parents don't make it on time for the finish? When am I going to hit the wall?
My legs did start to feel heavy after a few miles. But (warning: gross stuff ahead) I had been trying to pee on myself for the last five miles of the bike and the first three miles of the run -- and it just wasn't happening. So I had to duck off the greenway to relieve myself, which gave my legs just enough of a break. I caught Todd and we talked for a minute; I'm not sure what race etiquette dictates, but I kept pushing. I wasn't trying to race Todd directly. I was racing myself and the possibility of an epic slow-down, so I just wanted to pad my time until I reached the crash point.
But I never broke stride. I steadily picked runners off, all the way to the final turnaround at mile 13. I choked up when I entered the finish chute, just as I had choked up two or three times before on the run, when I realized I was going to be alive and well at the end of the day. Nearly the whole crew -- Allan, Leslie, Justin, Emily, Matt, Ali, Devon, my parents -- were at the finish line. And Melissa was crossing the line not too long after that.
So my first 70.3 is in the books. In short, I exceeded my very ambitious goal of breaking five hours, finishing in 4:56. I ran a 1:32 half-marathon (a PR by default). I won 2nd place in my age group and placed top-20 overall. And I have the best friends and parents in the world (or at least ZIP code 37916), all of whom helped me get through my biggest race in practically my own backyard.
Terrenzo Bozzone: great athlete, cool dude...and orange glasses.
Thanks to my friends, parents and Rev3 volunteers for making it a great race!
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Track Workout
The title is not what you think. I'm not talking about repeat quarters, or a tempo run. The New York Times Magazine ran an interesting story about people who record myriad personal data, from the basics like weight and sleep, to minutiae like intake of caffeine and flaxseed.
Most self-respecting (and self-classified) athletes keep some kind of workout log. With new gadgetry, it's becoming easier to analyze your performance down to the footstep. Personally, I only keep track of distance, time, and pace if I get really adventurous. Anecdotally, I seem to be performing better and getting injured less since I've cut out extraneous sweets, for budget reasons as much as health. But I could have just been having a long string of bad luck.
I relate to this sentiment, pulled from the NYT story:
"Watch out for those machines, though. Humans know a special trick of self-observation: when to avert our gaze. Machines don’t understand the value of forgiving a lapse, or of treating an unpleasant detail with tactful silence. A graph or a spreadsheet talks only in numbers, but there is a policeman inside all of our heads who is well equipped with punishing words. 'Each day my self-worth was tied to the data,' Alexandra Carmichael, one of the founders of the self-tracking site CureTogether, wrote in a heartfelt blog post about why she recently stopped tracking. 'One pound heavier this morning? You’re fat. Skipped a day of running? You’re lazy. It felt like being back in school. Less than 100 percent on an exam? You’re dumb.' Carmichael had been tracking 40 different things about herself. The data she was seeing every day didn’t respect her wishes or her self-esteem. It was awful, and she had to stop."
The idea of self-punishment rings true. At the point you realize that eating well, sleeping 8 hours a night and maintaining a certain weight amounts to better performance, you are naturally inclined to kick yourself if you deviate too much from that formula. If you are the type of person to have a performance goal, like a 5-hour Half-Ironman, you are probably the type of person to worry about each step on your path to that goal.
With that knowledge, there's a decision to make. Stick to your guns, track your progress, and attribute your performance (good or bad) to the rigor of your plan; or, take a step back, relax, and accept that whatever happens, will happen.
Neither of these is more right than the other. Each extreme will work for some people and not for others. In fact, elements of both probably infiltrate most peoples' decision-making process. If there's one thing I preach (and try to practice), it's moderation. Now, excuse me while I get off my soap box; I have a big race next week and it's time to go swim.
Most self-respecting (and self-classified) athletes keep some kind of workout log. With new gadgetry, it's becoming easier to analyze your performance down to the footstep. Personally, I only keep track of distance, time, and pace if I get really adventurous. Anecdotally, I seem to be performing better and getting injured less since I've cut out extraneous sweets, for budget reasons as much as health. But I could have just been having a long string of bad luck.
I relate to this sentiment, pulled from the NYT story:
"Watch out for those machines, though. Humans know a special trick of self-observation: when to avert our gaze. Machines don’t understand the value of forgiving a lapse, or of treating an unpleasant detail with tactful silence. A graph or a spreadsheet talks only in numbers, but there is a policeman inside all of our heads who is well equipped with punishing words. 'Each day my self-worth was tied to the data,' Alexandra Carmichael, one of the founders of the self-tracking site CureTogether, wrote in a heartfelt blog post about why she recently stopped tracking. 'One pound heavier this morning? You’re fat. Skipped a day of running? You’re lazy. It felt like being back in school. Less than 100 percent on an exam? You’re dumb.' Carmichael had been tracking 40 different things about herself. The data she was seeing every day didn’t respect her wishes or her self-esteem. It was awful, and she had to stop."
The idea of self-punishment rings true. At the point you realize that eating well, sleeping 8 hours a night and maintaining a certain weight amounts to better performance, you are naturally inclined to kick yourself if you deviate too much from that formula. If you are the type of person to have a performance goal, like a 5-hour Half-Ironman, you are probably the type of person to worry about each step on your path to that goal.
With that knowledge, there's a decision to make. Stick to your guns, track your progress, and attribute your performance (good or bad) to the rigor of your plan; or, take a step back, relax, and accept that whatever happens, will happen.
Neither of these is more right than the other. Each extreme will work for some people and not for others. In fact, elements of both probably infiltrate most peoples' decision-making process. If there's one thing I preach (and try to practice), it's moderation. Now, excuse me while I get off my soap box; I have a big race next week and it's time to go swim.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Introducing the New Site
I'm proud to finally unveil the fruit of my labors: The Triathlon Lifestyle, Made Easy
This is a website devoted to triathlons, food, friends, and anything else I care to throw in there. It was created during JEM 422, and I hope to make it applicable to all readers.
This introduction comes with a few caveats:
This is a website devoted to triathlons, food, friends, and anything else I care to throw in there. It was created during JEM 422, and I hope to make it applicable to all readers.
This introduction comes with a few caveats:
- It was created with iWeb on a Mac. Therefore, I need to find a reliable way to keep it updated.
- My domain might expire in two weeks when I graduate; I should probably check on that.
This blog will continue to chronicle the trial (pun wholly intended) and errors of The Word Magician as he embarks on his career search. I'm beating the path; all you have to do is follow it. As always, thanks for reading!
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Dogwood 5K Race Recap
*Note: I was waiting until pictures of the race were posted so I could steal one. But, just like the TriDeltathon, they managed not to take a single picture of me. C'est la vie.
I made a promise to myself (and to Jennifer Torrance) Friday night: that I would rise with the sun to race the Dogwood 5K on Saturday morning. The forecast predicted rain, thunder, lightning, gale-force winds; basically, the end-times.
I made a promise to myself (and to Jennifer Torrance) Friday night: that I would rise with the sun to race the Dogwood 5K on Saturday morning. The forecast predicted rain, thunder, lightning, gale-force winds; basically, the end-times.
My promise came with a caveat to myself, though. If it was raining terribly hard, I was hitting Snooze. I went to bed early, though I had a terrible night of sleep. I took it as a bad omen that I woke at 2 a.m. to use the bathroom and felt my toe in undeniable pain. And I outfoxed my alarm by a good 15 minutes. But even with the early waking time, the rains appeared to have bypassed Knoxville.
Somewhat grudgingly, I pulled warm-ups over my singlet and shorts. I planned to get there early to make sure I at least got a T-shirt for my troubles (they aren't guaranteed for "game-time decision" entrants). It's a pleasant sage-green, though -- a color conspicuously absent from my wardrobe until now.
I've been working out once a week lately with the group of fast guys from the Knoxville Track Club, so I had an idea of who I could try to keep up with. The runner in question was Greg Johnson, a master's runner whose speed seems to increase with his age. I last ran a 5K exactly one year ago at this race; Greg has done at least two in the last three weeks. Needless to say, he has a better awareness of his capabilities. So he was my rabbit.
First mile, I came through in 5:30. I was about five steps behind Greg the whole time, and felt comfortable. Second mile, my split was 5:38. I slipped past Greg and one other kid who was visibly (and audibly) hitting the wall. It was a miracle, in my mind, that I didn't blow up and bog down. Maybe the training actually works!
Then, the guy who won the 5K at the Knoxville Marathon tried to pass me. I decided to stick with him; then I surged, and opened up a gap. That space grew until the end, where I stopped my watch at 17:19 -- a new personal best by 1:20. To top it off, I won a $20 gift certificate to the Runner's Market for the age-group victory.
So what's the grand conclusion -- work hard? Sleep 8 hours a night? Eat your vegetables? Maybe. What I learned is this: Only run a race once a year, and a PR is almost guaranteed.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
An Open Letter to: Sara Nasab
Dear Sara,
You had the chance to live the American dream on Sunday: to bring diversity and unity to the sport of triathlon where there is none (scroll all the way down); to ride on the front, not the back, of the proverbial tandem bicycle; to sit at the proverbial lunch counter while TriDelts serve you; to to stand at the proverbial Brandenburg Gate and say, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this giant blue inflatable arch!"
But instead, you painted your face so as to hide amongst the fairer-skinned masses, indistinguishable from the other WASPs only by the fact that you weren't wearing The Emperor's New Compression Clothes (from 2XU, as seen in the spring/summer '10 catalog) and pushing around a bike that cost your kid's first semester of prep school tuition when you were struggling to put broccoli on the table but told your family you were just saving extra money for the family vacation to Cabo.
A wise author once wrote that the best-laid plans of rice and (ra)men go oft awry. Well, at least they had a plan. This could have been you. But you blew it.
Love,
Drew
You had the chance to live the American dream on Sunday: to bring diversity and unity to the sport of triathlon where there is none (scroll all the way down); to ride on the front, not the back, of the proverbial tandem bicycle; to sit at the proverbial lunch counter while TriDelts serve you; to to stand at the proverbial Brandenburg Gate and say, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this giant blue inflatable arch!"
But instead, you painted your face so as to hide amongst the fairer-skinned masses, indistinguishable from the other WASPs only by the fact that you weren't wearing The Emperor's New Compression Clothes (from 2XU, as seen in the spring/summer '10 catalog) and pushing around a bike that cost your kid's first semester of prep school tuition when you were struggling to put broccoli on the table but told your family you were just saving extra money for the family vacation to Cabo.
A wise author once wrote that the best-laid plans of rice and (ra)men go oft awry. Well, at least they had a plan. This could have been you. But you blew it.
Love,
Drew
Monday, April 19, 2010
Intensity
I'll just get it out of the way early. By far, the funniest moment of the weekend was watching one of the later finishers of the Trideltathon run across the finish line with her helmet in hand. She was so intense and focused that she forgot to take off her protective headgear after cycling.
We could all learn something from her single-minded determination to get to the finish line as quickly as possible, with total disregard for the conventions of triathlon. Cold? When everybody else is shivering in little more than glorified, sweat-wicking skivvies, wear stylish pink and black sweats.
Of course this is in jest. She is just one of the 325 people who entered the race, each of whom has some fatal flaw which is probably deserving of its own blog post, a la Stuff White People Like. I should mention that triathlon is just begging to be on that list; the above competitor might have been the only non-white person at the entire event. Triathlon is dangerously approaching the whiteness level of tennis, pre-Serena and Venus Williams.
This weekend also saw Collegiate Nationals come and go -- and I don't regret missing it at all. The swim course was cut in half; water temperature was 54 degrees; heavy rains flooded (and rerouted) the run course and caused confusion on the bike. For the people who built their seasons around this race, it was surely a disappointment as two relatively unknown athletes claimed the titles.
Meanwhile, in Tennessee, the TriVols were dominating the Trideltathon. Matt Robbins took second; Ashley Quinn, Leslie Cagle and Emily Mitchell destroyed the 20-24 age group; Victoria Moss raced her first triathlon. I finished third overall, a pretty solid improvement from this race two years ago when I was competing in my first triathlon. All I have left is the REV3 long-course triathlon . . . and graduation. I'll take the race.
Of course this is in jest. She is just one of the 325 people who entered the race, each of whom has some fatal flaw which is probably deserving of its own blog post, a la Stuff White People Like. I should mention that triathlon is just begging to be on that list; the above competitor might have been the only non-white person at the entire event. Triathlon is dangerously approaching the whiteness level of tennis, pre-Serena and Venus Williams.
This weekend also saw Collegiate Nationals come and go -- and I don't regret missing it at all. The swim course was cut in half; water temperature was 54 degrees; heavy rains flooded (and rerouted) the run course and caused confusion on the bike. For the people who built their seasons around this race, it was surely a disappointment as two relatively unknown athletes claimed the titles.
Meanwhile, in Tennessee, the TriVols were dominating the Trideltathon. Matt Robbins took second; Ashley Quinn, Leslie Cagle and Emily Mitchell destroyed the 20-24 age group; Victoria Moss raced her first triathlon. I finished third overall, a pretty solid improvement from this race two years ago when I was competing in my first triathlon. All I have left is the REV3 long-course triathlon . . . and graduation. I'll take the race.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Observations of the Week
Besides being busy and highly stressful, this week represents something more comforting. Well...I take that back. This observation is also stressful: There are just three weeks (21 days) until the half-Ironman, and my graduation follows three days later.
Time is short, so I'm paying attention to every little thing I do. Here's what I've noticed about both training and life in general.
1. Stay hydrated. I tried a 40-minute tempo run last night, but I spent three hours walking around the Knoxville Zoo without water. So around 35 minutes, the wheels came off, leaving me lightheaded, dizzy and with a little bit of chest pain.
2. It doesn't matter how fit you look -- it matters how fit you are. "You look fit" is the best, most nebulous compliment you can pay a runner, as this blog entry points out. Read the comments, and it's amazing how often this is thrown around. I've heard variations ("Your legs are skinny! I mean, you have runners' legs..." and "You look thin. . .") just in the two days since I read this.
3. Pay somebody to work on your bike. I've been riding bikes for 17 years, and I still screwed up my drivetrain in less than five seconds with a few wrong twists of the barrel adjuster. It took me 30 minutes to even get it close to fixed. Either take up an apprenticeship, or get a favorite bike shop and mechanic.
4. Take care of yourself. Get in a habit of eating right after a workout, taking cold/ice baths after hard runs and bike rides, using anti-chafe cream, wearing proper clothing, stretching...the list goes on. Neglecting any one of those things can throw off all the hard training you do. That's why my website is called "an active lifestyle." To race your best, you have to live your best.
Until next time, peace, love and chain grease.
Time is short, so I'm paying attention to every little thing I do. Here's what I've noticed about both training and life in general.
1. Stay hydrated. I tried a 40-minute tempo run last night, but I spent three hours walking around the Knoxville Zoo without water. So around 35 minutes, the wheels came off, leaving me lightheaded, dizzy and with a little bit of chest pain.
2. It doesn't matter how fit you look -- it matters how fit you are. "You look fit" is the best, most nebulous compliment you can pay a runner, as this blog entry points out. Read the comments, and it's amazing how often this is thrown around. I've heard variations ("Your legs are skinny! I mean, you have runners' legs..." and "You look thin. . .") just in the two days since I read this.
3. Pay somebody to work on your bike. I've been riding bikes for 17 years, and I still screwed up my drivetrain in less than five seconds with a few wrong twists of the barrel adjuster. It took me 30 minutes to even get it close to fixed. Either take up an apprenticeship, or get a favorite bike shop and mechanic.
4. Take care of yourself. Get in a habit of eating right after a workout, taking cold/ice baths after hard runs and bike rides, using anti-chafe cream, wearing proper clothing, stretching...the list goes on. Neglecting any one of those things can throw off all the hard training you do. That's why my website is called "an active lifestyle." To race your best, you have to live your best.
Until next time, peace, love and chain grease.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Beware the Fred
This morning, I set out to ride 62 soothing, relatively flat miles on my bike. I drove down from Knoxville to Chattanooga, then woke up at 6:30 to drive another hour to Cohutta, Ga. Then I (and by "I," I mean my dad) paid $35 which presumably covered a donation to the Cohutta Fire Department, some good-ass post-ride chili and hot dogs, and a woefully misspelled T-shirt that reads "Peddle faster - I hear banjo music!"
The turnout was halved from last year, ostensibly owing to another charity ride -- darn those guilty cancer sympathizers! -- which started in Bradley County and overlapped part of our route. So that meant, mediocre cyclist though I may be, that I found myself at the front of the ride. Not riding too hard, but fast enough to overcome the basic forces of friction, gravity and rolling resistance.
Then the Freds swooped in and swept me up, the guys who ride $3,000 bikes at a whopping three-tenths of a mile per hour faster than me. I generally dislike avid-recreational cyclists as they tend to be exclusionary, elitist, and laugh-at-their-own-jokes funny, which is to say not terribly humorous.
They also are apparently colorblind.
This year's route was marked in green (100k) and orange (50k). There were some leftover marks in a pleasant, though visibly aged, bluish-green (that's my best Blogger replica) from past rides which I dutifully ignored until I got called back and told to turn around. Again, I rode off the front, confident in my ability to distinguish neon-green spray paint from turquoise, until I reached a road clearly not on the cue sheet. A "local" rider tried to fix the errs of the group, and while we got back on course, we cut 17 miles off the ride.
That doesn't cut it for me. I went pretty far out of my way to get jerked around by some morons can't differentiate between new and old paint. This spring, I'm 0-for-2 in the "Paid Events In Which I've Been Led Astray" category, and I don't appreciate it. An eagerly anticipated training ride turned into a pedestrian pissing contest because I trusted other people more than myself.
To which I say, No more! Save your pseudo-upper echelon Chattanooga Bike Club / KnoxVelo lack-of-pace-lines for somebody who gives two spokes about being "part of the club." And definitely don't send me off course, then draft off me for 10 miles without taking pulls, then make some snarky comment at lunch while I'm right behind you about how that Tennessee guy was pushing the pace. Go home -- or do you need a cue sheet and GPS system for that, too?
The turnout was halved from last year, ostensibly owing to another charity ride -- darn those guilty cancer sympathizers! -- which started in Bradley County and overlapped part of our route. So that meant, mediocre cyclist though I may be, that I found myself at the front of the ride. Not riding too hard, but fast enough to overcome the basic forces of friction, gravity and rolling resistance.
Then the Freds swooped in and swept me up, the guys who ride $3,000 bikes at a whopping three-tenths of a mile per hour faster than me. I generally dislike avid-recreational cyclists as they tend to be exclusionary, elitist, and laugh-at-their-own-jokes funny, which is to say not terribly humorous.
They also are apparently colorblind.
This year's route was marked in green (100k) and orange (50k). There were some leftover marks in a pleasant, though visibly aged, bluish-green (that's my best Blogger replica) from past rides which I dutifully ignored until I got called back and told to turn around. Again, I rode off the front, confident in my ability to distinguish neon-green spray paint from turquoise, until I reached a road clearly not on the cue sheet. A "local" rider tried to fix the errs of the group, and while we got back on course, we cut 17 miles off the ride.
That doesn't cut it for me. I went pretty far out of my way to get jerked around by some morons can't differentiate between new and old paint. This spring, I'm 0-for-2 in the "Paid Events In Which I've Been Led Astray" category, and I don't appreciate it. An eagerly anticipated training ride turned into a pedestrian pissing contest because I trusted other people more than myself.
To which I say, No more! Save your pseudo-upper echelon Chattanooga Bike Club / KnoxVelo lack-of-pace-lines for somebody who gives two spokes about being "part of the club." And definitely don't send me off course, then draft off me for 10 miles without taking pulls, then make some snarky comment at lunch while I'm right behind you about how that Tennessee guy was pushing the pace. Go home -- or do you need a cue sheet and GPS system for that, too?
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Efficiency or Efficacy: a choice
The first week of "intense" training is done, and I came out of it unscathed. By the numbers:
- Swimming: 2.4 miles
- Biking: 115 miles
- Running: 23 miles
Once upon a time, running 23 miles in one week was bound to lay me up for two more. But now I'm uninjured, training smart, eating plenty, getting sleep and not doing anything stupid. This weekend is my first metric century (pdf) -- 100km or 62 miles of relatively flat terrain. That's about three hours on a bike. If you choose to go out with me in spirit, remember to wear sunscreen and comfortable bike shorts, or you'll be in a world of hurt.
On another note, I found an intriguing blog discussing the merits (or demerits, as the writer points out) of drafting in a triathlon. He argues that falling into the slipstream of other cyclists destroys the integrity of this individual race against the clock. He says there's one solution: a time-trial swim start to separate everybody.
I contend that starting five seconds apart (rather than in waves) won't help. It only serves to draw the race out much longer, and when catching and/or passing somebody on the bike, riders are likely to use the draft as an added burst of passing speed.
I also argue that starting individually takes away the fun of competition, the thrill of knowing your opponents, of being in the moment with the other competitors -- all trying to reach the finish line first. Anybody can race against the clock, but the psychological component of working with your opponents is a skill that I think enriches all triathletes, regardless of race type.
So I ask: If you had the opportunity to go faster and save energy by working with an opponent, versus forging ahead on your own and earning the glory of being the lone leader for a while, which would you choose? The comment section is open ;-)
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
No-Go for TriVols in Texas
The word is out: the TriVols will not be competing in Texas at Collegiate Nationals.
On one hand, it is bad news for my project because my goal for the spring initially was to top my performance from last year. On the other, bigger, better hand, it gives our team some stress relief and new, easier goals.
In the next two months there will be about six local triathlons, including the TriDeltathon on campus, which always falls during Nationals. These short "sprints" are a great way to jump into the sport, and they offer us the opportunity to volunteer and promote our club.
My personal goal, however, is the Rev3 Half Ironman-distance race. It is the next step up from an Olympic-distance race, the longest I've attempted thus far. It comprises a 1.2-mile swim, 56-mile bike and 13.1-mile run. Taken individually, I know I can do each event. Even together, I know I can finish. But I don't want to just finish; I want to race for speed, time and overall placement.
That means I need to really step up in the next few weeks. So this is an open invitation for training partners outside the normal tri club schedule. I need to do long rides, long runs, and agonizing swims -- all while staying uninjured.
Can I do it? We'll see on May 9th.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
I (didn't) Shave My Legs For This?
The first race of the season has come and gone, but the results sheet doesn't tell the whole story--not even close.
A sunny Saturday gave way to a soggy Sunday as we were greeted at 7:30 a.m. by rain pelting our hotel room window. We were lucky the race started at 10 Central time, which is at least two more hours of sleep and prep time than we're accustomed to. Continental breakfast and two servings of coffee from an undersized Styrofoam cup later, we drove to the race site.
The emcee, standing under an RV's awning, broke the news: there would be no swim. We weren't surprised, considering the water was 51 degrees and the air temperature was about 45. The event would be a duathlon (its technical term, although swimming specialists call it "the shaft").
Wearing just a triathlon suit, arm warmers and rose-lensed glasses, I toed the starting line. The race began uphill for the better part of a mile, followed by a wild dash down the same incline. Every footstrike reverberated through my legs. I was terrified of slipping, but it would have been more dangerous to fight the momentum.
Once on the bike, which was to be 15 miles, I realized I'd forgotten my computer. Aside from not knowing my current speed and distance, though, it was a small loss. I told myself I would just ride as hard as possible while trying not to get passed. And that strategy worked for a while; when six or seven familiar faces crept by, I increased my speed and worked to keep up.
I held on for a long time. A really long time--almost too long. The group ahead of me slowed, and I looked at the Interstate 75 on-ramp with confusion.
"They sent us off course!"
"We're already at 15 miles. What the @#!&?"
It was then that a red hatchback drove up behind us and confirmed that Yes, we had missed a turn, and Yes, we would have to cover the full distance. It was an angry mile or two before we all sped up again, knowing our race was ruined. In T2, after having ridden 23.8 miles, Joe Peeden and I discussed our options: quit, or run?
We ran. Mostly together, mostly with numb feet, through mostly mud puddles and quicksand bogs (OK, not really quicksand--though the mud did eat one of Joe's racing flats). We passed people who thought we were running a second lap, or a cool-down. We still picked off (and maybe pissed off) other runners. We flew down that same hill, though our feet were so numb that we actually ran faster; who cares how much it hurts if you can't feel it? And we crossed the line together, jumping in sarcastic glee as we finished one of the dumbest races ever. Joe and Drew, 38th and 39th out of 46.
Ironically, if you calculate my actual bike speed based on the distance we rode, this might have been my fastest bike race ever at 21.1 mph. It's a shame that our results don't reflect how well we did or could've done. All things equal, we would have gotten 11th and 12th with the correct bike distance; I suspect Joe would have run much faster without nine extra miles on his legs, and I might also have been able to go a little quicker.
But for all the complaining---no swimming, too cold, too wet, poor course management, blisters, sore legs, ruined shoes, skewed results---we always manage to say, "Remember that race? Yeah, that was a good trip."
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Coping Mechanisms: A Checklist
Today, I had the chance to use my time-honored method for dealing with undue stress. My debit cards and $60 in cash were stolen from my locker at the pool yesterday. Besides working on the police report and talking to customer support until midnight, I found out today that more transactions appeared after the banks had credited my accounts. So I had money, then I had no money, then I got my money back . . . then I lost it again. I've been preoccupied all day, even taking UTPD phone calls during class today. So how do I deal with it?
- Avoid people. But if I have to interact with them, acting surly and/or sarcastic is highly encouraged. Skirt obligations by saying I have work to do, or that I don't feel well.
- Do absolutely no work. The "I'm busy" thing is just smoke and mirrors. It's a fact that I will not get anything when I'm under mental duress.
- Go for a run that gets increasingly faster until my stomach hurts and I have to walk. Yes, I skipped the spin class. It helped me avoid people and "do no work." I ran out my door for 26:37 today, eventually peaking at slightly less than 6:00/mile. And I was still a mile from my apartment.
- Obsess over my body hair for at least 15 minutes. Will shaving my legs make this situation go away? No? Well, shit.
- Make (and devour) a BBQ chicken pizza. I have $31 to my name right now. This pizza tastes like it would cost half of that at Mellow Mushroom. Somehow, I've come out ahead.
This weekend is our first triathlon at the Natchez Trace State Park. I predict a cold, cold swim . . . or a mandatory duathlon.
And, Dr. Koella, you can take one thing away from this post. I may completely skip all my real work, but I will not neglect to blog about it.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Review: "Green Zone"
This is probably the first and only time I'll ever see a movie before my good friend and self-made film critic Devon Holbrook of Rushmore Movies fame, so I want to take advantage of it.
Green Zone, a not-so-subtle dig at the policies of the George W. Bush administration, exposes some of the untruths of the early days of the Iraq war -- specifically, the lack of Weapons of Mass Destruction (WMD) operations.
Matt Damon (Dogma, The Bourne _____) stars as Chief Warrant Officer Roy Miller, tasked with locating and securing WMD storage zones. Not surprisingly, he becomes disenchanted when three consecutive sites prove to be duds and his unit suffers unnecessary casualties.
But in the military, there is such a thing as a stupid question. So Clark Poundstone, a Washington spin doctor played by Greg Kinnear (Stuck on You, Little Miss Sunshine), forces Miller to take the investigation into his own hands. With the help of CIA provocateur Martin Brown, Miller learns the source of the faulty intelligence. And in a fairytale ending, he briefs the top international news outlets on what really happened. Miller's report suddenly and dramatically changed public opinion on the war and caused Bush to admit his lies, and the public ousted Bush from office in the 2004 election.
Except it didn't, and he didn't, and we didn't. It's still a movie, after all. Green Zone is a provocative look at the state of our military and the internal power struggles between front-line soldiers, Washington bureaucrats and less-than-intrepid journalists. (Please, don't assume that all journalists are as stupid as Lawrie Dayne, the reporter in the movie who broke the WMD story without verifying her sources.)
Rating: 4/5
Description: Part war movie, part who-dunnit, part expose` on Washington, Green Zone questions whether our government wants us to know, or simply to believe.
*Note: I know a journalist who worked in the Green Zone at the palace who avoided being blown up by a matter of seconds. His friend, whom he'd stopped to talk with while she was sunning herself by the pool, wasn't so lucky. There's no safe place in a time of war.
Green Zone, a not-so-subtle dig at the policies of the George W. Bush administration, exposes some of the untruths of the early days of the Iraq war -- specifically, the lack of Weapons of Mass Destruction (WMD) operations.
Matt Damon (Dogma, The Bourne _____) stars as Chief Warrant Officer Roy Miller, tasked with locating and securing WMD storage zones. Not surprisingly, he becomes disenchanted when three consecutive sites prove to be duds and his unit suffers unnecessary casualties.
But in the military, there is such a thing as a stupid question. So Clark Poundstone, a Washington spin doctor played by Greg Kinnear (Stuck on You, Little Miss Sunshine), forces Miller to take the investigation into his own hands. With the help of CIA provocateur Martin Brown, Miller learns the source of the faulty intelligence. And in a fairytale ending, he briefs the top international news outlets on what really happened. Miller's report suddenly and dramatically changed public opinion on the war and caused Bush to admit his lies, and the public ousted Bush from office in the 2004 election.
Except it didn't, and he didn't, and we didn't. It's still a movie, after all. Green Zone is a provocative look at the state of our military and the internal power struggles between front-line soldiers, Washington bureaucrats and less-than-intrepid journalists. (Please, don't assume that all journalists are as stupid as Lawrie Dayne, the reporter in the movie who broke the WMD story without verifying her sources.)
Rating: 4/5
Description: Part war movie, part who-dunnit, part expose` on Washington, Green Zone questions whether our government wants us to know, or simply to believe.
*Note: I know a journalist who worked in the Green Zone at the palace who avoided being blown up by a matter of seconds. His friend, whom he'd stopped to talk with while she was sunning herself by the pool, wasn't so lucky. There's no safe place in a time of war.
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