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.

Dogoppotamus and Pistachio

Some triathletes are seriously attached to their running shoes and I guess that makes sense. The run is where you suffer the most and the last thing you want is another excuse to cry. You need to be happy with your footwear. If five hundred dollar gold embossed running pumps turn your crank, then knock yourself out. Throw those bad boys into your T2 bag and feel good about the choices you make.

Some other tri guys are really hooked into their bike gear.  For instance, I really like my bike seat.  It cost about forty dollars on the close-out  rack and it fits my sensitive posterior.  They quit making that model during prohibition, so if somebody stole it, I would be in a tough spot.  

I know a guy that if his tri bike ever gets a scratch, he is going to buy a special bullet and write his own name on it. Another guy I know will only wear these crazy big mittens when he rides on cold weather rides. They look like boxing gloves. I think he had those mittens custom made out of live beavers. I used to make fun of him and his rodent hand protectors until we rode on a subzero day and he was the only guy who could hold his water bottle.

I am not that tightly wound about my gear. For me, my gear is just a bunch of tools. Mostly it's just a bunch of tools. Sort of. OK, I do admit to having a sock thing. My two hundred dollar amazon bill over the last three months reflects my recent sock problem. I don't know why, but I can't buy socks that fit. My feet are oddly shaped maybe. Or perhaps my running gait isn't properly tuned to my choice of hosiery. I don't need the high-tech super-speed socks. I just want to run and not get blisters and not have my socks slide down into my shoe and wad up in the toe. That seems like a small thing to ask, I think. Why don't they make socks that fit my extra sweaty 13EE hooves?

I had a tough day today. I went to spin instead of riding outside. I should have ridden but the weather sucked, which I guess is just another excuse to not train. No matter what, spin isn't the same as riding your bike. It just isn't.

I ran after spin and I felt like a sack of rocks. I ran with my dogoppotamus and John and his dogoppotamus. That's fun, but my run sucked. The good news is I tried out a new pair of socks, which worked pretty well. I don't usually do product placement ads for sock companies, but my contract with the beer company and the soda company didn't pan out, so I am hoping this unsanctioned sock thing will net me a healthy endorsement contract. 

Oh, I almost forgot, my new socks are available in 'Pistachio' color. I like how that sounds when I say it and I like how it looks when I type it.  Pistachio.

I Am Not Chuck

Over Christmas break, I had a conversation with some family members about New Years resolutions. One person said they were going to go to the gym more, one person said they were going to be a better housekeeper or a better cook or something sort of like that: I should know that one, but I wasn't really listening. Instead, I was frantically searching for a decent answer to contribute to the conversation. What the hell am I going to do for a New Years resolution? Diet? Already on it.  Rescue lost golden retriever puppies? I do that now.  Crud.  I got nothin'.

Anyway, the conversation now moved away from the housekeeping answer on to the third person who said they a were going on an adventure. That answer was pretty good, but a little too non-specific for me. I need an achievable goal or I wont do it. I can't just say I am going to work out more. How much more? Lift or run more? I need specifics.

Earlier today, while I was at the shoe store, I figured out what my resolution is. I am going to take all the shoelaces out of my tennis shoes and go with those elastic quick laces. They work in my race shoes, so why not all my tennis shoes?  That way I don't have to bend over to put my shoes on.  It just feels right.

Here is the definition of a generational gap. Kwai Chang Caine. If you don't know who Kwai Chang Caine is, you are from a less worthy generation.  Sorry, that's just how it is.

I used to watch a TV show called “Chuck”. Chuck seemed like he was just a run of the mill geek that worked at a discount store and fixed people's computers, but he had a secret identity.  His secret identity was that he worked for the CIA and had a superhot girlfriend and had been infected with a computer virus sort of thing that allowed him to instantly learn anything he needed to learn. Whatever he needed to know, or whatever he needed to do, he just waited for three shakes of a lamb's tail and boom, he knew how to do it. For instance, when the bad guys were going to cause all kinds of mayhem and beat him up, Chuck would learn Kung Fu in about three seconds and then kick the bad guys to the curb. The thing was, he could do anything he wanted to do and didn't have to try hard. He didn't pay the ticket price. It didn't cost him money or pain or anything.  That is the opposite of how triathletes do things.  We never get a free lunch.

I would take the Chuck route if I could. If I could take a pill that made me a better triathlete, I would do it. I would pay maybe a thousand dollars to just be a good triathlete. But I can't. There isn't a magic pill, there is no shortcut, there is no skill or talent you can be born with that gets you there. See, the triathlon deal is harder than that. It takes a lot of time, a lot of pain, a lot of swimming and running and riding with people who are way better than you are.  If you want to be a better triathlete you better accept the idea that a beatdown is in your future.

Yesterday morning, I swam with three swimmers that just left me in the weeds. I was trying pretty hard but I could tell that they were swimming at a pace I couldn't hold.  At the 1000 yard mark I had to take a breath.  At the 1500 yard mark I think my uterus prolapsed.  It hurt my ego, and I wanted to cry, but I was breathing too hard and I couldn't lift my arm to wipe the tears away so I went to Starbucks for a 500 calorie cup of sugarwater with coffee flavoring.

I guess I shouldn't feel bad that I was unable to hang with the good swimmers, since I know it's a process and every time I get dropped, it's really a good thing. I get better every time I receive a beatdown.  You gotta pay to get better.  Unless you are Chuck.