Blow the Conch Shell

I don't often review my bank statement so a couple weeks ago I was sort of surprised to find I am suffering from what can be described as a small financial discontinuity.   The pile under the mattress is shrinking like the polar icecap. The nice lady at the bank called, I think she said her name was Druzilla, she called and said something about a possible legal action. Her call was a pretty big surprise since I still have a small box full of blank checks wedged in the big box with mattress money.

Now, you have to understand that I do have a plan to resolve it, but it isn't a great plan.  Druzilla told me I needed to spend less or make more so I thought about it and the only thing I can cut out of my monthly spend is my wine delivery bill or my “ice cream of the month” club fee and that just seems unreasonable, so I am thinking of augmenting my income stream.

I sort of glanced through the help wanteds and have winnowed the search down to a short list. I am thinking professional golfer or maybe I can land a slot at NASA.  I heard you can do OK in rocket surgery.  Basically, I will take anything that pays seven spots to the left of the decimal.  

I told my roommate about the call from Druzilla and my income augmentation plan but she had other ideas. My roommate says I am only good for one thing and if I play my cards right, I can work my debt off if I perform a "personal service".  I didn't understand what she was talking about so I asked her to explain and apparently, I can carry groceries in from the car like no other. I literally can't be replaced when it comes to packing groceries around. I am the franchise player when it comes to toting groceries from the car to the kitchen. As these things go, it isn't a great thing to be great at. The pay isn't union scale and the last time I checked, I was out of sick leave. You can only play that sick leave card so many times before the management gets wise and you end up toting a fifty pound bag of Purina up two flights of stairs to keep the eviction police at arms length.

I just got back from Hawaii, where I was conducting business.  I was wearing my journalist hat, gathering content for my blog, interviewing the Ironman World Championship race winners, posing for photographs, shopping for some Ironman swag and other business tasks. I wasn't there for recreation, I was there for business purposes. I just looked up publication 463-B, the authoritative IRS document on the subject and as long as I was there for business, I can write off the airfare.  So, I repeat, my trip to Hawaii was for business purposes.

Being a fully accredited member of the American Sports Bloggers Association of America(ASBAA), I feel qualified to offer the following race report.

It was a great event. There was some swimming, some bike riding and some running. It was pretty exciting.  I am pretty sure somebody won the race and if you want to know who, ask around.  I didn't stay for the end.  I got tangled up with a small contingent of Bloody Mary racers, drowning themselves in tomato juice and vodka without regard for personal well being. Those people are amazing athletes. I tried to pace them and found my skills to be amateurish at best. The quantity of juice and vodka was daunting, the salty rim of the glass was an unexpected challenge and the two olives? Forget about it.

As for the weather, I can tell you it was hot. Cyclists were melting. It was way hot. Runners were wilting. It was crazy, psycho hot. It was hot enough to absolve me of any responsibility for that small misunderstanding between myself and the authorities in a certain South East Asian country in 1997 that I can't name on pain of extradition.  Those guys have no sense of humor.

Sunrise at Ironman is different, depending on the venue. The landscape defines the moment.  Be it in the mountains, the desert or the islands, sunrise is unique to each.   I have seen all three and they are as different as such things can be.

Sunrise at Ironman must be felt.  You have to stand there and feel it for yourself. You have to let it wash over you.   You have to feel the rising sun brush against your skin, you have to experience the moment in your chest.  Sunrise is cathartic.  In that brief instant of sunrise, the primary colors reflected off of the mountain are different from the pastel hues that bleed together in the desert, the fresh floral smells of the island are different from the astringent scents of desert rock, the air of the snow capped peak tastes different from the air of cactus and sage.

The blade-sharp edge that is the dividing line between night and day in the desert advances at a military slow-march pace, flaring bright across the sanded flats and hills.  Conversely, the line of light that is sunrise in the mountains advances in fits and spurts.  The sun ever-so-slowly exposes a mountain cliff, then as it clears the peaks, the furthest valley is lit in an instant, erasing the night as quickly as a newborn fills it's lungs with first breath. Sunrise fills the valleys of the mountains like an echo quick. One minute, the heather covered meadows are dark, the next they are lit like a Rockwell Christmas tree.

Sunrise in the desert of Phoenix is like an invading army, advancing and unwilling to yield.   Sunrise in the mountains of Whistler is an eager embrace of lovers, joining light and shadow in ecstatic consent.

Island sunrise is a chanted prayer, a war cry uttered by a warrior from legend, a primal definition of the meaning of his life, and yours.  If you are lucky, and you look straight into the first ray of the rising ocean sun, you might see a canoe cutting through wavetops, charging out of centuries past, filled with men powering bladed oar.

If sunrise finds you standing on the sands of Kona, look into the rising furnace on the horizon and see those men coming for you, committing their bodies and their souls to each oar stroke, flying over blue bright wave.  Sunrise in the islands can be that, if you only look for it.

The thing that I realize now is how personal sunrise at an Ironman event can be. My expression of sunrise belongs only to me so it may fall short for you, but it is the world I know.

Sunrise in Kona is an affirmation of truth, it is an echo of the grace and elegance as it must have been on that first day, a promise of future days, of memories not yet born, of experiences I believe wait for those who choose them.

Smoked Meat

In these modern times, the food we put in our bodies is inspected, certified, economized and evaluated, then pre-chewed by experts under the bright spotlight of governmental scrutiny, evaluated for residual levels of pesticides, herbicides, insecticides, fungicides, insides and outsides. It seems odd to me how it doesn't seem to matter if the food is good for you or bad for you. The actual nutritional value is just a side show compared to the predominant societal belief that if the food wasn't grown in a hermetically sealed biosphere, safely isolated from the influence of the Monsanto company, it must be bad and will cause your immediate demise. The literature proves it. Eat more fermented, processed soy and kale. Lots of kale.

We all benefit from the collective knowledge of the vegetarian zealots and the various vegan evangelists of all denominations. In the end, the common message is that we eat too much meat and not enough veg. Got it. I agree, I need to eat more brussel sprouts. Sprouts will save me and my offspring from all manner of sin and debauchery. Google says so. But maybe, if the stars align just right, I will find that there is some some anti-salad food club I can join, maybe there is a non-cabbage-centric path I can follow. A culinary revolution must occur.

I offer for your consideration an alternate theory. I offer gastronomic salvation, via the butcher counter. My theory is thus; What we don't have enough of is smoked meats. I don't discriminate, I like all kinds of smoked meats; smoked pork ribs, smoked beef brisket, smoked rattlesnake, its all good. The benefits of smoked meats are indisputable. Read your history. Humans have been cooking meat on a fire for three million years, give or take, and we are doing pretty well so far.

About two and a half million years ago, and this is a true story, two and a half million years ago, there were two families living on the edge of a vast, sun-beaten prairie. Both families lived off of the land, eating mostly sagebrush and coconuts or whatever grew in the neighborhood. Sometimes they ate grubs and grasshoppers and maybe a rabbit or a squirrel when they could catch one. It was a hard life.

One family lived in a nice snug waterproof cave while the other family lived in a rundown leaky cave with a bad draft and no cable. The nice cave family had Bob for a leader. Bob was tall and good looking with a cleft chin. When Good Looking Bob spoke, everybody listened. Women stared at him and hung on his every word. He was the image of human perfection. Good Looking Bob was a vegetarian and he loved his family very much.

The leaky cave family had Larry for a leader. Larry was short and not good looking and had no chin. Nobody listened to Larry. Women ignored him. Larry was the antithesis of human perfection. Larry ate meat and he loved his family very much.

Both families consisted of about twenty members. Like most families in their time, there was a nucleus of hard working adults in each family who provided the food. These adult folks brought the food home and fought off the wild animals, keeping the rest of the family alive. They spent most of their time hunting and gathering, gathering and hunting. The adults were a hard working group.

Then there were a few folks that were too old to hunt, so they made the clothes, gathered wood for the fire and took the garbage out. These older adults were semi-retired and invented golf.

Last, there was the kids. The kids served no purpose at all and were a drain on society. To make matters worse, these families had lots and lots of kids. Maybe the adults didn't practice good birth control.

Truckloads of food was required to feed the family, but times were really hard. The summer had been too hot and the plants died and the animals abandoned the savanna. The hunter/gatherers were striking out in the food acquisition department lately and everybody was hungry. In fact, both Good Looking Bob's family and Larry's family were on the edge of starvation.  The sagebrush dried up, the squirrels disappeared and the grubs must have migrated north for the summer. This was before food banks were invented I guess.

As a last resort, Good Looking Bob and Larry set out to find food for their families. Nobody actually put into words the impact of this act because they didn't have to. Everybody knew the score.  Good Looking Bob and Larry weren't coming back without food. They would keep hunting until they caught something, or they died trying. Times were desperate.  Good Looking Bob and Larry just wandered into the savanna, sniffing around for something to eat, digging for potatoes or lizards or whatever they could find.

On the first day, these desperate men didn't find anything. On the second day, same result. But on the third day, Good Looking Bob, tall and handsome and well educated, found a handful of dandylions and six brussel sprouts and some kale. He took those home and fed his wife and twelve emaciated children. They ate the entire harvest raw, because that is healthier and that is how you are suppose to eat vegetables. Good Looking Bob knew then, as we know now, that if you let your veg get too close to your camp fire all the health benefits are leached out. The science bears this out. Eat your veg raw if you want to maximize your B complex absorption rates.

Larry scored some food and took it home too. He had a wife and twelve skinny kids to feed, just like Good Looking Bob. Larry found a buffalo with a broken leg and killed it and took that home to his family and threw it on the fire, ignoring the commonly accepted idea that meat is bad for you. To make matters worse, he ignored the literature that clearly stated that smoked meat is especially bad for you.

That's the end of the story, but it begs the question: Which family survived and which died off? My first thought, when I heard that story, was that Larry's family and his smoked meat eating family would die off because we know too much meat in your diet is bad for you. High cholesterol levels and all that, right? Get some nice fresh anise and maybe a small portion of zucchini in your diet and live for an extra twenty years.

But, that isn't what happened. Good Looking Bob and his veg eating pack starved and died while Larry the smoked buffalo eater and his family prospered, going on to accomplish great things. I heard one of the grandkids invented the Webber grill, which sort of makes sense if you think about it.

If that doesn't convince you about the health benefits of smoked meats, I don't know what to say. As far as I know, that proves that we need to eat more smoked meats.

Since Whistler, I have swam three times, been to spin class once, ridden my bike three times and run two to three times a week. Whistler was exactly two months ago and I am working out three hours a week. As our good friend Samuel said, “How the mighty have fallen! The weapons of war have perished!” I don't know what to make of the second sentence, but the first one is spot on. I have fallen pretty far and I don't feel very good about it.

Maybe I will feel better if I eat some smoked buffalo.

Shrinkage - A Race Report

 ---Preamble---

I read part of a text book in college once for an anthropology class, or maybe I just read the Cliffs Notes, I don't remember which. The class was about dead people from other cultures, or at least I think that was what it was about.  I'm not sure what it was about because I hated that class, and if possible, that class hated me in return.  In the end, it was a big waste of my time and since I had to buy the book, it was an even bigger waste of my money.  So anyway, I signed up for the class on a dare and one thing led to another and it turns out that I was too busy to attend the lectures.  Or take the quizzes.  I am like fifty percent sure I took the final, but its been a while and now that I think about it, I might have skipped that too.  

Usually, when a class, or the topic of the class was interesting, I would spend some effort and zero in on some part and I would actually learn something.  For instance, I thought econ was worthwhile.  Lots of interesting stuff there in econ.  But that anthropology class?  No.  That anthro class just blew chunks.  That class was completely useless, except for this one thing: There was this one chapter that just seemed spot on.  I found myself nodding in agreement as I read that chapter because it seemed to be written about me. Basically, it said that humans will or maybe just men will, in times of stress, revert to their inner caveman and show the most uncouth side of themselves to the world, and by extension, when we men do exhibit this self-degradation, we describe and define the human race in its most basic, unattractive terms. According to the book, this behavior manifests itself in three ways; First, we mark our territory like a dog, peeing on grass and bushes and just a wee bit on ourselves. Second, much like a male peacock will fluff up his tail feathers to impress a female peacock, we men strut around and flex our biceps (in my case, I flex my somewhat atrophied and floppy biceps) hoping to attract a female peacock. Last, during these expressions of cavemanism, we cook meat. We stomp around the campfire, or the gas grill, burning sirloin and fingers in the flames, drinking beer and shouting obscenities at the moon and the neighbors. I have been accused of such behavior and while I deny all, I have to admit to being burdened with a semi-functional memory, so who knows for sure? Maybe I did do it.

I have a laundry-list of attributes, some good, some bad, and while I might think most of these traits are nothing more than a footnote in the official 'How to be a Self-Actualized Person' manual, they can be much more than that, more definitive, more foundational to my auto-biographical description of what I am, and thus, what we all are. Humans can be both giving and greedy, insightful and dull, good and bad. These attributes are truly human attributes; We were born this way so maybe we shouldn't judge ourselves too harshly.

All the math majors out there might decide, in their misguided quest for a unified theory of the universe, to allocate an integer to each trait, either positive or negative according to the perceived relative value of each trait, then add up the numbers and decree that the resulting value is the ultimate definition of human worth. Sadly, at least for the math majors, many of these traits can't be quantified, they can't be understood rationally, they can't be listed in a spreadsheet for analysis by you or I. But maybe, just maybe, they can be generalized and it is in that generalization that we find our single, human-defining trait. More to the point, once that single trait is identified, it is in the resulting acceptance of that fact that we finally are able to empirically verbalize our most human attribute, which is that we are 'self-aware.' It is the very fact that we are self-aware that makes us human, and it is the fact that we are human that makes us self-aware. And therein lies the problem.  We humans are the ultimate recursion.

Darwin's 'On the Origin of Species' teaches that mutations are random and those mutations sort themselves out over time. The mutations that lead to more successful hunting, or a better way to run from danger or the ability to procreate faster and more successfully are passed on to the next generation. Those mutations that offer no advantage in the pursuit of these activities will, given enough time, be deleted from the gene pool.

Self-awareness is the only human trait that has been passed on from parent to child but offers little to the continuity of the species. It's an aberration, like T-Rex; Rex was a big deal at one time, walking the earth at the top of the food chain, eating dogs and cats and mastodons and such, but he couldn't adapt: Rex was ultimately doomed, destined for extinction because his hands were too small to hold a semi-automatic weapon. Poor T-Rex, the NRA shunned him and he couldn't live with the shame.

In the end, self-awareness serves no function, it lends no advantage in the Darwinian model, and therefore will eventually just cease to be. Maybe ten years from now, maybe ten centuries from now, or maybe ten thousand centuries from now, the human species will still walk the earth, perhaps still at the top of the food chain, perhaps at the bottom, but certainly it will be without self-awareness.

The self-awareness thing does help out in one area of Ironman. Ironman is a big day and most people miss the best part, which is of course the sunrise. Maybe the majority of tri-guys and gals aren't self aware, or maybe they are too wrapped up in their own little world to see it but the truth is you need to be self-aware to appreciate sunrise. Sunrise is the beginning of the event, the beginning of the day, the beginning of the rest of your life. It should be a big deal at Ironman but I think most people miss it. I know nobody talks about it. Ask anybody who did an Ironman, they will tell you some super-boring story about a flat tire or a blister the size of of a salad plate or whatever crap they have wandering through their cranium at that instant, but I say this: I saw sunrise in Ironman Phoenix two years ago and it was glorious. Glorious. The rising sun, bright and sharply reflected off of the clear, pristine waters of Tempe Town Lake was the best part of the day.  

Authors note:  I can't say that with a straight face.  "pristine waters of Tempe Town Lake" is a lie.  Tempe Town lake is filthy and should be a superfund site. 

I thought that the Whistler sunrise would sort of be the same as the Phoenix sunrise, but nay. Nay, I say. It rained. In Whistler, it rained during the swim, it poured during the bike and it sprinkled just enough on the run to keep me wet for the entire day. On that one Ironman Sunday, it rained for forty days and forty nights. The seas rose and swallowed entire villages. Humans lost their place at the apex of the food chain, replaced by brook trout.

---The Ghost of Running Christmas---

My dog likes to run.  He runs with joy in his heart, I can tell.  We run together when I train and he has never refused a call to run.  He just goes.  If I am doing a six mile run, he goes with me and does ten.  He goes far to the left of me then far to the right.  He does it because its in his nature.  

Some of  my friends like to run.  Not many, but some.  I just am not one of them and I wish I was.  I wish I enjoyed it but some part of me is repulsed but the act of running.  Part of it is that I don't like to do things that I am bad at.  Another part is that I can feel the damage that running does to me while I run.  When I run it just feels like everything is slightly less flexible that the day before.  

The ghost of Christmas past, present and future visited me one night and showed me that running was the same as not buying presents for others in need and if I didn't stop, I would die unloved and be forever interred in an unmarked grave.  So I now shun running.  Because of the ghost.

---Some Things Don't Follow the Plan---

I stopped my bike to pee on the side of the road at mile 65 or 70 . This usually takes just a minute or two since I long ago mastered the technique on the 'side of the road maneuver.' It goes like this. You hike up one leg of your trousers or spanx or whatever cycling garment you are wearing up as high as you can, face into the wind, lean forward a wee bit and just let loose. Very little gets on your shoe if you do it right and my bike shoes were already soaked with sweat and rain water, plus,I was too tired to care anyway. Then I noticed it stung something awful and I had to hop from one foot to the other while I said “owweeeowweethatstingsthatstingsthatstings”. That's a quote. I said it just like that. I don't know what was going on with my internal plumbing but I thought I could narrow it down to two possibilities; either I was dehydrated or I had a really nasty yeast infection. Not being a licensed gynecologist in the province of British Columbia, I couldn't make an official determination one way or the other on the yeast thing, but I was pretty sure the dehydration thing was spot on so I drank the last bit of whatever sport drink I had rattling around in my bike bottle and started to ride again. That green-yellow sport sauce tasted like old socks and lawn clippings that my dog peed on when he was expressing his inner caveman. I wanted to vomit but it was too cold and as I recently found out, you can't vomit a dry ball of dog pee lawn clippings. It sticks in your trachea and metastasizes there for an hour and hurts like holy hell.

---The Catharsis---

There isn't a rule or a policy published anywhere I can find regarding crying in Ironman. Some arrogant tri-snobs might consider crying in Ironman grossly uncouth, but I don't associate with those people and if given a choice, I wouldn't include them on my Christmas card list. For me, crying is standard issue battle gear in an Ironman event. My list goes like this: Wetsuit? Check. Bike? Check. Fully primed tear ducts and over reactive emotional state? Check. Yup, I got me a good checklist and that's how you knock back a good Ironman. With a good checklist.

This sobbing behavior usually starts at about T minus 30 minutes and runs through T plus 1 minute. Or put another way, I start to get overemotional about thirty minutes before the gun, hugging friends, training partners, volunteers, maybe a stray dog infested with ringworm. I hug 'em all. I cant help it, I was made this way. I hug the medical staff before the event, thanking them for the good work they had yet to perform.

Thankfully, I stop crying when I get fifty yards into the swim. Once you get to doing what you have practiced for a long time, you sort of fall into a pattern. Since I don't often cry during my 5:30AM swim workout, I don't cry in the real deal IM swim after the first fifty yards.  Practice how you race, that's my motto.

I know, I know, the emotional display is a big waste of effort, but like my good friend Ryan says, 'Whatever.'

That is how my morning Ironman ritual goes and I am fine for a while until my schoolgirl emotional outburst kicks in yet again at about hour ten or hour eleven. I get tired, I get depressed, I wonder how many of my toenails are going to pull a Benedict Arnold on the run. Its a low point and we all go through it. Good athletes ignore it, I hyper-focus on it. If it happens to you, try to ignore it, then, when it does go away, celebrate that moment. For me, its like somebody pulled the bag off of my head and all the problems and concerns and issues I carried around for the previous years melt away. Its a good feeling. I have lots of issues that I pack around with me and once I set them down, usually during the run, its a good thing.

---The Healer---

Once again, the bulk of my race report is revealed from the confines of the medical tent. At the end of my race, I was cold and shivering and couldn't say my own name without help, so they sent me to the med tent. I was hoping for an IV bag, but they must have run out because I couldn't get one. They said I didn't need it. They actually said that. I don't need an IV bag. Right. I just did a freakin' Ironman. Who they hell are they to tell me if I need an IV bag? I want at least two IV bags and I want them now. I wasn't speaking coherently at that point, so I pointed at my elbow and then held up two fingers. Thats pretty clear, right? Nurse Cratchet understood me, but she said no. Then I tried to mime that I needed a pizza, but I don't think that short bit of communication was received because I didn't get that either.

If you haven't seen a medical tent from the inside, let me describe it as I am able. The tent material looks to be constructed of well worn plastic sheeting, colored in a faded tan patina. It looks like somebody took some mud and rubbed it all over the plastic.  The tent was probably once a pearly white, but time and the accumulated abuse of many miles had revised that plan irreparably. I think all med tents must be made to keep the mosquitoes in conveniently close proximity to their primary food source. This one did. I fed a dozen mosquito families while I was there. I didn't realize until after my patient status was demoted from 'seriously near dead' to 'well enough to limp home alone', but the Whistler med tent is reminiscent of the surgery tent in the T.V. show M.A.S.H.  I was humming the theme song while I watched the hubbalalou from my army cot.

My new good friends Hansel and his once-lovely sister Grettle were there with me in the med tent, writhing in pain, unable to speak in any language that I recognized. Hansel was so dehydrated that he just made animal noises. Grettle stared at her bloody shoes and kept repeating the same line. She kept saying “Ég féll niður” over and over. I think we could have brought Grettle around with some IV bags and a couple of Oreos, but the local Shaman deemed both Grettle and her brother too far gone and unworthy of saving so he chucked them in a big pot sitting in the corner by the baking supplies. He's the expert, who am I to say he is wrong? It was sad and I was going to say something but I was still pretty pissed about the lack of IV bags for me so I didn't object to the fate of  my new friends.  I got my own problems.

Other than the naturopathic witchdoctor with the feathered headdress, I was attended to by three angels of mercy, each more lovely than the last, and I have to say they spent more time with me than was absolutely necessary. I think they were lonely.  One of them said, and I quote, “we need to get you out of those wet clothes.” She really said that.  I was well enough to look around to see if my roommate was within earshot and once I determined that the coast was clear, I said “OK”, but just about the time I had my wet tri-suit down around my ankles, the roommate showed up and it sort of ruined the moment.

---The Twitchers---

I have done extensive research over the years, analyzing medical journals, traveling the world, interviewing experts and reviewing first hand accounts given by witnesses. I have come to a conclusion that a basic truth in this life is that there are three kinds of people. There are the 'fast twitch' people which work effectively at a high rate of muscular output. Fast twitchers run fast.  People like Usain Bolt are fast twitchers. I don't have any fast twitch muscles and generally you shouldn't trust fast twitchers. They are a shifty group. They tell you things like they just finished their seventh marathon in the last seven months, and then they go on to describe all seven in technicolor detail. Just shoot me.

Then there are the 'slow twitch' muscle people. People like Craig Alexander are slow twitchers. They generally win in Kona. Freaks. All of them, freaks. Trustworthy, but still freaks.

Then there are the 'no twitch' muscle people. Those are pretty rare. In fact, the 'no-twitch' thing is found only in a diminishing corner of the Swedish gene pool and there are only ten or twelve of us left. There used to be more of us, but we don't run well enough to get out of the intersection before the light turns, and as a survival trait, that is pretty low on the scale. It tends to thin the herd. Darwin could explain it better if he was still around.

---People I Met---

I am always surprised by the people I meet in Ironman.  They just aren't what you expect. I met a guy that was doing his first full distance triathlon and the thing that was so surprising was that he was so much better at it than you would expect, given his outward veneer. He looked like a guy you would see sitting in the local Hooters, making out with a thirty two ounce beer and a bucket of chicken wings. At Ironman, he looked out of place. I think he had some mustard on his singlet. We talked and ran for a while, then we talked some more. I liked him a lot, he was really personable and he was one of the few people there that I thought I stood a good chance of beating to the finish line, so I tried to get him to stop going so fast. He was wearing me down. I said “Hey, look at that fish” at the spot where you run by the river. He didn't stop. We ran a bit more, talking about nothing much, then he said I was too slow and he took off. Unless the roving paramedics yanked him off of the run course, he beat me to the finish line. Rude.

Then I met a girl wearing a tri-kit with a big, colorful UCLA on the leg. I asked if she went there, she said ya, she graduated in 2007 and was on the gymnastics team and did some modeling for lulu lemon, whatever that is. She told me her name and the name of all her friends and her parents names and her astrological sign and her favorite pet when she was seven, but I forgot most of it. I think her name was Bambi, or maybe it was Beebe, but honestly I am not sure. I was pretty tired and my feet hurt something awful. BambiBeebe and I talked for a while, running together, then walking together then running some more. I stopped talking but she kept at it. She was sort of overly verbose, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I think it would be rude to write down all the questions she asked me because I don't want to embarrass her and they seemed sort of personal, but I think it would be OK to write down my answers. I mean, they are mine, right? Here are two:

1. Yes, you are pretty. Very pretty.
2. No, your tri-kit doesn't make you look fat.

Enough about BambiBeebe, except for this last thing. Quit driving by my house at 2am, my roommate is going to call the police.

---The Epiphany---

Technically, this didn't happen to me since there was no actual manifestation of a supernatural being, or, if there was, I didn't see it. Others may have had a different experience. Like the fine print says, past experience is no guarantee of future results. But, I did enter a state of euphoria for a while, right after the BambiBeebe debacle, so I think that counts. It was hour eleven and I was elated to not have BambiBeebe clinging to my thigh.  I started to feel like a real athlete at hour eleven, right before I threw up.

There is an undeniable freedom that follows the realization that things wont get any worse. My legs just wont go any faster. My breathing actually slows down a bit because I cant muster enough effort to stress my cardio. At that point, if I could run faster, I would. Its right then, at that moment when I start that long slow climb up the candyland ladder that I know I am having a low blood sugar hallucination. I know, it means I am on the edge of falling into a deep metaphysical pit that will take days to climb out of. I know, I need to see a medic in the next hour to fix my Ironman physical issues and a psychologist in the next week to fix my Ironman mental instability, but really, its a good place to be. How messed up can I be? I don't know the answer to the question either, but on that day, I have two thousand friends with the same issues. Once I accept that, its all good.

---The Race Report---

I swam. It was a good swim. As swims go, it was pretty wet.  I got kicked in the frank and beans once and elbowed in the back of the head once. That's not too bad.

I biked. It was not a good bike. My official Timex timer doesn't reflect the level of effort I put in. I went slower than I expected. Not happy.  Maybe I had a brake dragging or a flat tire.  That must be it.

I ran. It was a good run, given the skill level of the athlete in question. My legs burned, and it wasn't that good leg burn. You know when you are on a bike ride and you are laying down a good 250-300 watts on a long hill like the one on FishHatchery hill and you feel that good quad burn? I think my run should be like that. It wasn't. The harder I try, the more pain I feel. I don't go any faster, but it just burns more. I can walk faster than I run. My 2 year old niece can walk faster than I run. She's an arrogant little rugrat.  And sprinter fast.

---PostScript---

And then it was over. Other than hearing those brief words over the loudspeaker 'You' 'Are' 'An' 'Ironman', the end is inglorious. The race was run, and no prizes were awarded to the majority of us. The race was run, and no plunder was taken. The race was run, and we all suffered in some way. So why? Why do we do it? Everybody asks me that. My friends, my family, they all ask why and as yet, I have no answers. I would like to think there is deeper meaning to this process, to this day, perhaps that we go there to learn things that can't be learned anywhere else, things revealed only in that ultimate testing ground of pain and self abuse.  I would like to think that, but that idea is folly.  There is no reason why that I can glean from my day, there is no universal truth revealed that I can perceive.  I once was wiser and I knew the answers to all questions, but now, not so much. I am wise no more, just older.

Why do people always put the words 'wiser' and 'older' together? I can tell you from personal experience that these two words are completely unrelated. They are like Hatfields and McCoys, enemies of the most deadly kind.

'Wiser' is an elusive bed-mate, calling to me but never, fleeing from me always. Wisdom, she vexes me, just out of reach, just beyond my feeble grasp. Wisdom, she taunts me from across the universe, teasing me with her charms, laughing at my eternal, fruitless pursuit.  She mocks me most cruelly.  Wisdom, she claims me only in farce and still, after I courted her these many years, I know her not.

'Older' is my stable companion, whispering sooth in my ear, seducing me with her ruby lips, singing her sweet song, holding me closer, clutching me ever closer.  Older was once a  distant glamour, but now, she is a temptress I can not refuse.  Older, she loves me ever.

Albert

When he was a young man, Einstein spent some time courting a couple theories about math and physics and the nature of the universe and such. He locked himself in his room, chasing a theory around the desk for a couple weeks or a couple months, thrashed out an answer, then he chased another one out and and so on. He was like thirty or thirty five when he thought those big thoughts. Then the world knew his name.

I don't pretend to understand what he was talking about. I read some of it and it seems like a bunch of hoo-haw to me, but what do I know? Now, I am two or three years older than Albert was when he did his best work and I don't have a bunch of math ribbons or physics trophies on my wall. If I had to guess, I bet Albert's floor was littered with ribbons. When I spend too much time thinking about my lack of accomplishment, I get depressed, so I don't do it.  To be fair, I do have a couple of tattered ribbons gathered over the years, safely tucked into a fire-safe box that could potentially survive a non-nuclear missile strike, so that's good, but I can't quite remember where it is currently hiding.  I am pretty sure its around here somewhere.  Anyway, none of my precious ribbons are stamped "First Place" or "Winner" or "Best in Show" or anything good like that.  My best ribbon says "Participant".

If the ebooks and estories are true, in centuries past, Monks and Clerics, Friars and members of all the old fashioned religious clubs lived their lives by a fairly rigorous set of rules. They wore itchy, unattractive smocks, they spoke rarely and had to sing in glee clubs, they ate the same boring food day in and day out made out of tree roots and weeds; Essentially they complied with a set of rules that they didn't have a hand in creating, and in doing so, they gave over control of parts of their lives.

In many ways, I think we triathletes sometimes live a faded echo of those monastic times, even when we don't mean to. We wear unattractive spandex and lycra, we are often too out of breath to speak or sing and we eat nasty tasting gels and bars and we drink sports drinks that taste like old socks.  We cede control of parts of our lives, we give away parts of ourselves, our destiny and our ability to choose for ourselves.

In my time, a young man such as myself, with no talent but possessing a substantial interest in starting a high paying career in the rock star profession had to follow a very restrictive value system. I had to dress a certain way - jeans and a led zeppelin t-shirt. I had to talk a certain way -“That's cool” was an appropriate response to just about any situation. I had to listen to certain music - the commonly acceptable music collection consisted of Boston and Ted Nugent.  Optionally, the extreme version of that chosen life style also held that, if you were a real outlaw, you could throw in some KISS and Alice Cooper but I just couldn't listen to that stuff since the makeup scared me and it gave me nightmares.

Last week, I was on a bike ride with some folks and I wanted to go one way, they wanted to go another. Up a mountain. Of course, I gave in to the group and rode up the friggin mountain.  I lost all control of my destiny.

The past couple weeks have been hard like that.  Today, I hit the wall and I just had to stop.  No swim, no bike, no run.  At some point, your body or your mind or something says you have to take a break.  For me, that was today.

Back Spasm

This is the third in a series of three cat posts in the blog. I don't particularity like or dislike cats, but my roommate/part-time housekeeper always seems to find a non-rent paying cat to move in and freeload and that bothers me. This money-suck feline appendage wasn't in the marriage contract that I remember and honestly, I feel a little bit ripped off. I never agreed to cats. Anyway, this post is sort of related to cats.

I guess I was a little over-excited when I first heard of Schrödinger's cat in my psych 101 class all those years ago. I was eighteen or nineteen years old and for weeks after I heard about it, I couldn't stop thinking about it. If you don' know the what-for of this Schrödinger guy and his cat, it goes like this; Build a box and in the box put a geiger counter. Then hook up to a hammer on a hinge that can swing and will whack a sealed vial of deadly poison if the geiger counter detects the presense of a decaying atom. Then put in just enough radioactive stuff so that there is a 50/50 chance that the geiger counter will see a decaying atom in an hour, which makes it swing the hammer, which breaks open the poison which kills whatever is in there. Get it? Whatever is in the box will stand a 50/50 chance of getting a bad case of dead in an hour. Then grab a cat and chuck it in the box and shut the lid. Don't open the box for an hour.

That's it. That is the famous Schrödinger's cat experiment. Now, you might ask, why you would do that? You wouldn't, it's just a theoretical experiment, but the idea is really just some crazy rainy-day fun for the kids. Is the cat dead or alive? There is no way to know unless you open the box, which you can't do because it ruins the experiment. That's it. That, and the dangling question that calls for an answer; Is cat dead or alive? There is no such thing as an unknown amount of dead. You are either are or you aren't. The fact that you personally don't know the state of the cat has nothing to do with the actual state of the cat. It's the same thing as being a little bit pregnant; There is no such thing.

So why bring up the question in an Ironman blog? It's this question: Is your training plan going to get you there? There is no middle ground. It's a yes or no question. Is it enough, and, is it the right kind of enough? It's one or the other. It's going to get you to the finish line intact, or it's not.

In my past training endeavors, I was riding a hope and a prayer. I did as much as I could and I hoped and prayed that it would be enough. If I was exhausted at the end of the day then my plan must be working. Right? At the end of the day, I would leave my sweaty clothes on the floor in a pile with my fragile emotional state and wait for my housekeeper to clean up the mess.

I have a different plan this year. So far, I am barely hanging on. The training calendar I am on is harder this time. I think the Navy Seal training guys looked at this plan and decided it was too hard. Maybe not, but it feels like it. Here is how my week shakes out.

Work – 40 hours

Commute – 8 hours

Sleep – 50 hours

Houseduty (cooking, eating, taking the garbage out, cleaning something) – 7 hours

Training – 15+ hours

Getting ready to train (packing a bag with shoes and shirts, finding my HR monitor) – 8 hours

Remodel (we are remodeling the house) – 7 hours

Bloggin – 1 hour

Offering unsolicted advice – 7 hours

I am over budget on my schedule.

I ran yesterday, my back sort of seized up, so I limped home. I got up this morning with the intention of running, my back sort of seized up, so I limped back to bed from the bathroom. Maybe I need to do more core work to keep the joints and wires and strings in my back all lined up.  I wonder if Schrödinger ever volunteered his housekeeper's cat to get in the box, and, if he did, did the cat have back spasms?  Did the cat feel like I do?  I think ya.

Inego

Looking up the term Blog on the online version of the Merriam Webster Dictionary, we find the following:

Blog noun \ˈblȯg, ˈbläg\ – That electronic medium that writes itself, as long as the author is in possession of the two basic tenants of writing, inspiration and an idea. If the author possesses only one of those two requirements, his soul is deemed to be lost along with his literary reputation.

For those of you out there claiming to be the owner and agent of the singularly fantastic book idea for the next 'The Grapes of Wrath' or 'A Tale of Two Cities', just sit back down on your Rascal motorized scooter and quite waving your arms around like a willow tree in a windstorm. Ideas are cheap. I have ideas all the time. Some of them might even be good, but it doesn't matter. Claiming to possess an idea is just an excuse to not work hard. You have to get the idea down on paper, or into electronically formatted bits and that takes a little inspiration and a lot of perspiration.

You may be inspired to write prose like Dickinson, or describe the search for our lost humanity like Hemingway, but if you don't have an idea, a theme, a focus for your tomb, you just scatter words devoid of value on the page like a manic Easter Bunny scatters eggs. You may do this for as long as your inspiration holds sway over your soul, adding to the summation of worthless drivel created by man.  Trust me, I know of what I speak.  I do it all the time.  As an interesting side note, well over half of the Oprah booklist books were rendered by misled souls with too much inspiration but devoid of theme. So sad.

The worst possible case for a writer is when you posses neither idea or inspiration. Inspiration has been know to abandon me like a sorority girl leaves her lover for a bigger trust-fund. When my idea-garden becomes a rocky place, where no seed can find purchase, I blog no more. Ideas and Inspiration: They gravitate away from me with interstellar speed, leaving me to languish in perdition for eternity, subject to ridicule and toxic self-contempt. Until today. Today I got somthin'.

The traditional model of a story is generally told from the beginning, progressing chronologically through to the end. Remember Huck and Jim, setting off down the river on a raft, searching for nothing but their individual version of freedom? It started upriver and then they drifted downriver, time counted by the passing days and the passing miles. That's how you do it. Time goes forward, never back. It's the same when you write a blog. You start at the start, stick a middle in the middle, then push on to the end. Done and done. That is, if you proscribe to the Marquis of Queensberry rules, you do it that way. Except. Except not today, not here and definitely not now. Today's installment of the Unironman is reversing things. I am going to tell the end thing, then circle back and discuss how I got here.

Follow me here. This part is the end part.  You need to trust me.

3:37 PM – I can't type well. Usually, I type pretty fast, if overly enthusiastically, wearing out keyboards with some frequency. Not today. Today I am using about 75% of my fingers. The right and left pointer fingers are apparently on strike and slowing the production rate down considerably. I am injured. I fell on concrete from pretty high up, breaking my fall with my hands and everything hurts. 

My injuries are listed below, sorted geographically East to West

Item	Symptom	Pain Level
Left Elbow	Won't Bend	Medium
Left Wrist	Won't Bend	Minor
Left Fingers – Ring/Middle/Index	Won't Type	Minor
Head	Numb	None
Right Pectoral	Strained	Medium
Right Fingers – Ring/Middle/Index	Won't Type	Minor
Right Thumb Tendon	Won't Move	High
Right Elbow	Won't Bend	Medium
Right and Left Thighs	Cramping	Owweeee

How did I come to that low place?  How were the mighty felled so far, so unfairly?  Read on, only now we circle back to the beginning.

1:00 AM I roll the clock forward, or to put it another way, I lose an hour of sleep. Usually that lost hour is no big deal, I can lose an hour and it doesn't bother me one way or another. I can get by on six hours sleep a night, but when I am training a lot, I need eight hours of sleep. Nine is better. If I don't get my beauty rest, I get grumpy and I lose focus. And everything hurts.  And that is my out.  That is what I blame the rest of the day on.  That lost hour cost me dearly.

8:05 AM I am five minutes late to meet my ride group. Crud. We roll out and I can't get comfortable. I think I have a boil someplace close to where my bike seat rubs my bike seat, but it's cold enough that it goes numb.

8:15 AM My bike group decides to go all PED on me and push the pace up about three gears more than I have with me.  I feel the pain. My legs feel like jelly ten minutes into the ride. This bodes not well.

9:05 AM I get dropped. Why? Because, that's why. Don't ask. It's rude.

10:05 AM Since my riding companions were going faster than I deemed prudent, I am riding by myself, wandering the roads of Enumclaw, trying to stay on the narrow shoulder, causing harm to no man and hoping to not get pancaked by a Chevy. An old man, maybe seventy five or eighty years old is walking towards me on the same narrow shoulder that I claim as my birthright. He is obviously wrong, wrong, wrong in all things; walking where I will soon be riding, leaning the heel of his right hand into his cane, hobbling and bobbling down the shoulder of the road and generally being a menace. I thought he looked harmless, but that opinion turned out to be in error. I veer out of the shoulder into the car lane, giving my pedestrian friend the entirety of the shoulder. It's not my fault that he didn't think I gave him enough room. He should have jumped into the ditch if he wanted more room. Right? Well, maybe I could have allowed a bit more room but I don't like riding in the car lane. It makes me uneasy. Then, without warning or provocation, and even though it was his fault for being where I wanted to be, he starts to swing his cane at me like a rapier, shouting and growling and jousting his weapon at my person. I am not sure, but I think he said “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” Maybe not. I wanted to loop back and express my displeasure at his lack of manners, but I don't need to get yelled by the octogenarian Political Action Committee any more than necessary. And besides, I was afraid he would bean me with the cane, so I continue on.

11:00 AM I face a choice. The hill I am on is inducing a pain response beyond my ability to cope. My choice is 'Do I keep riding'? Or 'Do I walk'? I kept riding, but it was a close call. My legs betrayed me. I feed them, I care for them and I buy them pants and all I ask is that they push my bike. It seems like a fair-square deal to me and I held up my end.  

11:30 AM I get home, there is no food. Why isn't the maid standing there with a freshly made smoothie and a roast beast sandwich? I had a rough day and nobody cares.

12:30 PM Since my ride sucked, due to the cane wielding swordsman and my leg betrayal, I thought I might as well be a little bit productive and do some work on the remodel. If you didn't know, about six months ago, I convinced a loan shark to help with the remodel and loan me more money than I have made or will ever make. All I had to do was sign a 'multi-generational mortgage' thing and hand over a kidney.  

So I am perched on a five foot high platform, holding a cordless drill in one hand and an electric cable spitting sparks in the other hand. My plan was to...I was trying to..., honestly I don't know what the hell I was thinking, but I tripped and fell off of the table, my foot stayed stuck on the table wrapped in the pile of rope that I left there weeks ago, and I dropped head first onto the concrete. I caught myself with both hands down so that was good, then my wrists and elbows both screamed out loud. I hit my head and sort of half way passed out. Its hard to describe it better than that. I didn't pass out, but time sort of got tangled up.

Epilogue – That's it, that's my story. I had a bad day. Tomorrow will be a better day.

Movies That Matter

One day, when I was just a young sprout, this kid in my class that nobody liked convinced his Mom to shuttle his old, raggy looking cat and her bastard kittens to school a few weeks after the kittens were hatched for show and tell. Apparently, this kid thought if he brought something spectacular to school to share, like a batch of kittens, it would help augment his lowly social standing. He was wrong. He just didn't understand the whole show and tell forth grade social ladder climbing thing. It's pretty complex, but it goes something like this:

Bring in a pet snake – plus 3

Bring in your german shepherd or rottweiler that does tricks – plus 2

Bring in your pekingese that does tricks – minus 1

Have your Mom attend class and acknowledge your presence – minus 5

There is a more comprehensive list published somewhere, but you get the idea.

So this kid's mom showed up just before recess, and we all got to hold a kitten as long as we promised not to drop them.  We all agreed to not drop them.  The kittens made noises and wiggled and chased bits of ribbon around the floor, and all the girls wanted to hold one of those cute little wigglers and then they held them up to their faces and remarked how soft they were and how “just so adorable” they were. How weird is that? Forth graders using the word “adorable?” Puke.

A couple of the girls squealed at how cute the kittens were and another girl cried. She actually teared up because the kittens were so cute. Her social status went up a plus 2 for that little tear-fest but I hated her anyway because she made fun of me for getting C's and D's on my spelling tests all year long and she always got A's and B's. I hated her so much. We all hated her and her stupid spelling A's and B's. I don't know what happened to her but I hope she lives in a mobile home in Florida. They have hurricanes in Florida.

The boys wanted to hold the kittens too but we were too boyish to admit we liked furry faced kittens, so we just sort of stumbled around and punched each other on the shoulder and waited until the girl kitten-rush was over, then we just randomly grabbed at an available cat. I finally got one but the kitten I got to hold didn't seem to behave like the other kittens. My kitten didn't seem like the others at all. My kitten was like Gumby. My kitten just sat there in the my arms, barely moving,  just staring cross-eyed at the crying girl.  Maybe she was holding him earlier and dropped him.  I didn't want to get in trouble for breaking a kitten so I did the rational thing and walked him over to the traveling kitten box with the worn out mom cat and chucked him back in.  Maybe he just had a kitten sinus condition and got better later that day.  I wish I knew, but I don't.  

I have nightmares now about lots of things: Monsters. Sharks. Under-cooked poultry. Cross-eyed kittens.  I have a long list of fears that wake me up at night.  The burdens that we bear are ours for as long as we choose. We elect to carry those things too valuable to cast away: past failures and faults, disappointments and inadequacies, regrets of things done or left undone. We carry these treasures for as long as we are able, until the burden becomes too great to carry, until we set it aside and just let it go. Such is life.

You can't train for Ironman if you pack a lot of baggage around.  It's too hard.  There are too many hills to climb and pains to soothe.  You have to do it for reasons you can live with and those reasons will be your own.  You have to put in the effort without regretting the time lost.  A couple years ago, I was bemoaning my aches and pains to a co-worker while training for IM CDA.  He listened for a bit and then he said that I didn't sound like I was enjoying it.  He was right.  You have to get your mind right if you are going to do this.  Wrapping your head around the aches is part of it.

I swam today with my swim group and I got tired and wanted to quit before the set was over but peer pressure kept me going.   I wish I could say I kept going because I knew working hard when I am tired would make me a better swimmer, but that wasn't it.  Fear kept me going.  Some social compliance thing.  I didn't want to be the only kid in the class holding a cross-eyed cat.

I admit that rationalization is inadequate.  It was fine today but wait until the dog days, when I have no time to spare, when all I can do is sleep, go to work, train, sleep.  What then?  

I have 23 weeks and some odd number of days left until Whistler and I can't honestly say why I am doing it. I like the idea of Ironman. I like training for Ironman. I like the t-shirts. I like the workouts and I like putting my fat pants in the closet. But so what? Who cares? There has to be more.

Movie: Bite the Bullet.  It is one of the best westerns ever made without John Wayne.

My favorite scene is when the character 'Mister', played by Ben Johnson, is telling 'Sam', played by Gene Hackman, the reason why he wants to win the horse race. Mister is dying, just minutes away from death, sitting by a camp fire, when he explains that he has held every job possible, from cowboy to miner to barman, but he never made a decent living and, because of it, he wasn't important enough for anybody to know his name. He feared that he would die unmourned and unremarked. Then he died and his fear was realized, so Sam said “I didn't even know your name, Mister.” Maybe you had to see it, but it was a great movie moment. Mister wanted to make the world stand up and take note of his life, and his death. Through victory, Mister thought some unrelated, unattainable goal could be realized. He was wrong.  I don't know that it is my top movie choice of all time, but it is definitely top five.  Definitely. 

I used to have similar dreams and visions, thinking that, through competition, I could repair my past failures, resolve those things unresolved, maybe even validate my life. I think Ironman means something different for all of us. What thing do any of us hope to gain? A three cent ribbon? A t-shirt? Winning. Victory. Do I hope to see my name in a newspaper or on the Ironman website? Will some stranger stop me on the street and ask for my autograph? Will Cannondale offer me a sponsorship? Do they give out sponsorships in the seniors division? They give out senior division sponsorship for golfers, so maybe, maybe they have me spotted as the next spoksemodel, ala Arnold Palmer.  Now that I think of it, I gotta brush up on my interview technique.

As odd as it sounds, unless you are a pro or trying to be a pro, you aren't competing against anybody else. Your only competition is yourself. There isn't really a 'win' in the age groups. If you come in first in your group, that's great and good for you, but I think your complementary t-shirt looks a lot like my complementary t-shirt. Definitely.  Of course, I won't be going to Kona.  Definitely.

  

The Brown Thing

One of my all-time fav movies is Christmas Vacation with Chevy Chase. Everybody has seen it so I won't post a recap of the thing, but just know it was a good movie. The scene with the squirrel and the dog running through the house, knocking stuff over and scaring the bejeebers out of the Christmas dinner guests was a crazy-funny thing to watch.

Everybody thinks that particular scene couldn't happen in real life, but it happened to me. It really did.

It was about ten years ago and I sort of stumbled into it. My marriage bed co-habitant owned two cats at the time that I hated, and somewhat coincidentally, they hated me back. We never got along, but we made a silent pact of mutually assured destruction, sort of like the US and the Russians did in the cold war. I didn't drown them and they treated me like an old, uncomfortable chair that nobody sits in. They ignored me.

Preamble -Night One

So one night, I went to go get into bed at maybe ten or whatever time it was. I pulled the covers back, slid into my spot, reached back and adjusted my two pillows a little better to fit my sensitive melon, then I noticed the cats. They were watching me. They didn't move a muscle, they just sat by the bed and stared. They didn't blink, they just looked at me with their evil cat-eyes, not flinching, just waiting for something to happen. I thought they were waiting for me to die. I grabbed one of the little pillows that has no purpose but lives on my bed and I threw it at the cats. I missed. Stupid cats, I promised myself that tomorrow, as soon as I woke up, they would die in pain and agony, but for next eight hours I would ignore their cat-shenanigans. 

I tried to go to sleep. I was tired. I wanted to go to sleep, but those cats were merciless. The cat-loving spouse said she thought the cats were smarter than I was and maybe they brought a bird in, so we looked under the bed. We looked behind the bed. We looked in the closet. We looked everywhere. For two hours we looked. Sometimes the cats followed us, sometimes they left the room, but they were always back in a few seconds. Waiting. Watching. Judging. Something was wrong, but I couldn't figure out what, so I get into bed, pick up the top pillow and try to adjust it when something brown and fast explodes from between my top pillow and my bottom pillow, bounces once off my shoulder and launched into the closet, one claw width in front of the murderous, vile cats. My wife screams for help. The cats scream for blood. The dog tucks tail and runs into the kitchen, whining like the chicken-dog he is. The only thing that calms that dog down is when he digs through the garbage can for scraps, so he does that. It's 1.00AM and with all the noise and swearing, it woke my son so he shows up sporting his tidy-whities and a baseball bat, ready to defend the family.

We spend the next hour in the closet, digging through shoes and shirts and clothes, looking for the brown-thing. Nothing. It was too late and I was too tired to find the brown-thing, so we sent the boy back to bed with his bat and the wife and I slept in the spare bedroom while the cats sat in my closet, staring at my shirts on hangers.

The next day, we went our separate ways. The boy went to school, the wife and I went to work, the cats took up guard duty and watched my shirts in the closet. The dog was made of sterner stuff, so he kept up his garbage can patrol against the brown-thing, comforted with the knowledge that dinner scraps were only twelve hours away.

The War- Night Two

The next night, after the family was home from work and school, we approached the closet much like Wyatt Earp and his family must have approached the OK corral. The winner and the loser were as yet undecided, but one way or another, the battle would come to a close. No quarter was given, nor was it requested. The smell of death was in the air.

The cats took up sentry duty, ready to slash any combatant trying to flee the battleground. The dog stayed in the kitchen with the garbage can, protecting it from the brown-thing. I settled on a seven iron after the driver proved too long to swing. My son brought his baseball bat and a lid to the new frypan. My wife was unarmed.

We slid one shirt at a time on the clothes hanger-pole, looking between the shirts for the intruder. We found it in seconds. It sat there, unmoving. It had disproportionately large eyeballs and flaps of skin between the front and back legs. It stared at me, bravely waiting for my coup-de-grace, my killing stroke. I couldn't do it. The mess would be catastrophic, besides, it was afraid. It might have been shivering.  It just stared at me with those bug-eyes.  I couldn't kill it.  My son proved his worth by slapping the frypan lid down over the brown-thing that looked vaguely like Rocky, the Flying Squirrel. The cats started to jump up and claw my shirts. I sent the wife for a cookie sheet, which we slid under the fry-pan lid, thereby imprisoning the dangerous, toothy beast. We walked out onto the deck, me holding the cookie sheet, the boy holding firm the fry-pan lid. On the count of three, the boy unlidded the brown-thing and I flicked the cookie sheet up, dislodging the prisoner. It spread it's legs like a working girl and gracefully glided down to the lawn, then ran behind the bush.

Prologue

I don't know what became of the brown-thing, I never saw it again. I hope it ran home safely and lived a full life, with a family of his own, in a safe place, with plenty of nuts to eat and without evil cats chasing it. I hope.

I rode fifty four miles today. I got dropped twice in the first thirty minutes, and once in the last thirty. That is a thing I live with these days. Tomorrow I run.

Bag Balm Isn't Just For Cows

I don't mean to offend. I am not trying to splatter some questionable text onto the page and derail anybody's puritan sensibilities, nor am I looking for literary shock, ala Howard Stern. I just think this topic we are discussing here isn't covered in Lava online and it should be. There is zero data available in any triathlon literature and it's high time somebody covered it with some real life, scientific data. Somebody needs to throw down some raw data (pun intended) and let the reader decide. The following lines are the real McCoy, the Good Housekeeping seal of approval, lab tested facts documented by double blind testing, whatever that is. What I am going to talk about here, in this private setting, this inner sanctum of truth, this completely secure forum is the uncomfortable topic; 'Bike Seat Rash'. You know what I am talking about. Don't be shy. We all suffer, we just don't throw it out as a conversation starter at the church social. Well, I do, but you probably don't.

Now, don't run to to the freezer for a double scoop of fudgeyvanillacaramel ice-cream emotional salve just yet. I am not going to drop an auto-biographical Full Monte video on you, but I am going to start the ball rolling and tell you what I think. If you don't want to read it, don't read it. Don't get your panties in a wad. If your grade-school sensibilities prevent further investigation into this important topic, go watch Bambi on your VHS. Again. For the thirty-seventh time. But if you are a real man, or a real woman, read on. If you dare. Only if you dare.

A little history to set the stage - A couple million years ago, about a week after the whole apple and the snake and the garden debacle, the man and women were given a second choice. They got to pick internal or external. Do you want your private parts inside or outside? Do you want to get a rash on a bike seat or not? That really happened.

The guy was without reason and completely extemporaneous so he said “I want to hang loose and feel the breeze and what the hell is a bike seat anyway?” Idiot. Moron.

The girl, being thoughtful and having already gone zero for one on the scorecard said “I don't want a rash from a bike seat. And I am NOT with him.  He is an idiot.”

So that is how we got here.  If you posses excess nose hair and external organs, you suffer on a bike seat.  It isn't your fault.  You didn't design it, you just happened to come up tails in the great gender coin toss when you were born.  Too bad, it sucks to be you.

Fish got it right. The boy fish and the girl fish look fairly similar, they swish their fishy tails the same way on the same river, but the boy fish isn't getting blisters and a really painful rash when his boy parts rub up against his bike seat. The boy fish isn't dropping ten bucks on a pint of Bag Balm every month during bike season.  To reflect a bit, the question occurred to me; "How does it feel knowing a salmon is more evolved than you are?

So now, I bought stock in the bag balm company. Bag balm is the only thing keeping me on my bike.  You girls go ahead and laugh but you guys are all nodding your heads and thinking “Ya. This dude knows. He's an idiot, but he has this bike seat thing wired.”

Sharks and Charts

I have been randomly scribbling in my blog for a couple years now, sweeping everyday nouns up against reluctant verbs and giving birth to new, indecipherable adjectives as the need presents itself. Sadly, the King's English has been butchered at my careless hand and will never be the same. If you are familiar with the biblical story of the Tower of Babel, then know that history does in fact repeat itself in this blog. There is some chance that you may lose your hard-won ability to speak English if you read this blog, due to poor authorship and the subliminal commercial message that flash on your screen. I know this is true because half the readership doesn't know what the hell I am yammering about. I have heard with regularity from readers some variation of the following theme; “I really like reading your blog, but what the hell are you talking about? It makes no sense.”

I have a pretty good idea of the potential financial implication of my blog. This knowledge isn't based on research. It isn't based on actual experience. It came to me in a dream. I was noodling the numbers around and I made a chart.

Reads per Month	Cash Money I Make Every Month
10000	$100.00
40000	$300.00
100000000	1 zillion dollars

To put some perspective in there, I have been bloggin' for three years and eleven days and my net payout is three dollars sixty five cents. Since my advertising contract with the company that hosts my blog specifies that they wont pay me until I make at least ten dollars, I have a ways to go. I haven't quit my day job just yet, but I do have some extensive plans in that area.

Some years ago, I started riding with a motley group of social deviants and we started doing a coffee ride every weekend. If you don't know what a coffee ride is, I made another chart.

8:00AM-9:00AM	Ride hard
9:00AM-10:00AM	Order up a tray of grande mocha's with extra whip, extra choco-drizzle and a six pack of cookies. Sit outside in the comfy chair and relax. Observe everybody walking into Starbucks, make snide comments about each and every one as soon as they are out of listening distance.
10:00AM-11:30AM	Get back on our bikes for an hour long ride home.
11:30:00 AM	Get back home and wonder how an hour long ride home put me home ninety minutes later.

I was disappointed to learn that the coffee ride is a thing of the past. I thought everybody rode bikes that way. I thought that coffee and sitting and making snarky comments was part of Ironman training. I miss it. I was good at it. It was fun. Isn't this suppose to be fun?

Today I rode with a group of sharks. I think one of them slipped some cat wormer in my water bottle when I wasn't looking because I wanted to throw up.  These guys and girls made me look like a poser. I thought I could ride, but I found out today that I can't. I called the Ironman people and asked if I could get my money back, but it's too late and besides, they don't give rebates just because your riding group doesn't stop at Starbucks.

I am trying a new nutrition plan on my bike. It's pretty simple. I made another chart.

Hour	Calories Consumed
1	300
2	300
3-forever	300 – You get the idea

I guess I didn't need a chart for that one, but I am a creature of habit.

I am going to run tomorrow morning.  I usually run with the dog, but he just found the porkchops that were in the bottom of the fridge and had rotted and started to stink.  I didn't weigh them when I threw them out, but I am guessing about two pounds worth of soupy porkchops.  So the dog stays home on the run.