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.)

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.

"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.

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.