Some Pig

A friend of mine sent me a link to a story, it was about this guy who saw a Beaver, walked up to the Beaver and took its picture with his iphone because he thought the beaver was cute, then the beaver bit him on the leg, cut into his artery and he bled to death. Funny, right? How often does that happen? The American beaver was hunted to the brink of extinction 200 years ago by men making hats, so this beaver apparently decided to turn the tables, good for him.

I didn't think about that story for a while because my daughter and I decided to clean the fridge out. We threw out seven or ten tupperware containers full of leftovers that had gone bad. There was some mashed potatoes that nobody ate a month ago when it was fresh.  We had turkey and mashed potatoes. The turkey was gone in a flash because it tasted good. It was meaty and juicy and smokey tasting. I cooked it on the smoker, which explains why it was smokey tasting.  De-Lish!  The mashed potatoes weren't very good because my wife made them. Her mashed potatoes are lumpy. I saw Julia Child make mashed potatoes once on TV and the ones I threw away didn't look anything like Julia's.

We threw out a tupperware full of celery sticks that had turned. How long does it take for celery to go from edible to rotten? The answer is four and a half months. We put that celery in the container the day after Christmas.  

Then we threw out some chip dip. I mean, who eats chip dip the day after? I do, but there was a lot and honestly, it was a little too salty.

There was a link of chicken sausage in a baggy that we threw out. It was still in the shape of a sausage, but when I picked it up, it mooshed flat. What happens to food that makes it lose it's ability to hold it's shape? I am not sure, but you shouldn't eat it, so we threw it out.

So we threw all this stuff into the garbage can, then I walk to another room and I hear this noise behind me. It sounded like “chu chu shumpa shump chu chu shumpa shump”. I turned around to see what the noise was and there is my dog with his big fat thieving snout in the garbage can, eating old salty chip dip and lumpy potatoes and a formless chicken sausage in a baggy. I kicked the dog and threw him out the door, which in retrospect, was the wrong thing to do. I mean, he likes it, so why not feed it to him? Lumps don't bother the dog and really, is it any better or worse than dog food from Costco? Who knows.

Now, it occurs to me that my garbage eating dog and the man killing beaver have something in common. They are just doing what is in their nature to do. Who am I to say it is wrong? The beaver was defending himself from an iphone, the dog was eating something he found delicious that nobody else wanted.

Nobody told Charlotte not to save Wilbur. Who am I to kick my dog? Who am I to condemn a fiesty beaver? It is in their nature to do what they do.

So what does that have to do with Ironman? It's this; it is in my nature to hate running. Running sucks. I wouldn't do it but for the Ironman thing and there's the rub. It's in my nature is to sit on the couch and eat ice cream, but I choose to run, even thought it is against my nature. I choose. If you choose to sit on the couch and eat ice cream, go ahead. I choose to run. Four times a week. Tomorrow is a run day and I have four miles on the calendar.

But I am just telling you right now, if some ass with an iphone crosses my path while I am running, I might lash out and bite him on the leg.

Missed Opportunities

Some years before I was tricked into entering into a marriage contract to my current wife, I was working on a farm with my best friend Dave.  Dave and I worked off and on for different farmers in the area doing odd jobs. Sometimes we bucked hay, sometimes we drove tractor, we didn't care all that much what it was, as long as it paid. It was that or work for Don's dad at the bag factory. Don's dad was a great guy, but I didn't want to work another summer on the bag line. That bag line job was nasty-hot in the summer. Working outside in the summer on an apple farm was not all that bad.

 So one day, Dave and I finished working on a Saturday afternoon, we got paid and were driving home. Another friend of mine was having a party so Dave and I were talking about the remote possibility that one of us might convince some inebriated gal to suspend her puritan view of the human imperative.  The chances were slim, but we were maybe nineteen or twenty years old and didn't bother to calculate the odds.

Anyway, we were driving home in my truck but for some reason Dave was driving. I don't remember why. Anyway, like I said, we were headed home on I-90, listening to a cassette of Lynyrd Skynyrd, we just passed through Vantage when we saw two hitchhikers on the road. The hitchhikers were beautiful girls wearing, and I swear this is true, short shorts and bikini tops. Maybe in California it was common place to see that kind of thing, but in Eastern Washington, you just didn't see it. Girls in bikini tops looking for a ride?  Jackpot. I screamed at Dave to pull over and give them a lift. I was thinking that opportunities for worldly gentlemen such as ourselves didn't often present themselves in such a grand fashion and we needed to get those gals in the truck pronto. Charlie Bucket didn't walk away from the golden ticket, did he? Why should we?

A series of possibilities ran through my head in a millisecond, all of them culminating in some after hours activity involving myself and one or both girls. We need to stop the truck. I yell at Dave. He keeps driving. I scream 'Stop!' Dave keeps driving. I reach across and pull the wheel, Dave fights me off. Dave didn't stop. He just kept going. I started to cry. I will never forgive him.

Roll the clock forward twenty years and I am driving home from work. To get home, I have to drive past 'The Piranha Bar'. I am sure the bar has an official name but nobody knows what it is. It's just called 'The Piranha Bar' by all the locals because they used to have a sign out front that said '17 pound piranha'. I guess they had a big fish in a tank at one time. The sign isn't there anymore, I think the fish died.

Anyway, I am driving by and I see walking in the parking lot towards the front door of the bar three beautiful ladies with big hair and white one piece swimsuits and red high heels. The The swimsuits had red print on the front. The first girl had printed on her suit the word 'Bud', the second girl had 'wei' and the last 'ser'.

Either they were employed by the Budweiser company or they liked to wear swimwear in public and cause riots. In either case, the first thought that occurs to me after I see them is Dave driving past the hitch hikers.   Well, I guess it was the second thought. I had another thought first.

So what did I do? That's right, I drove home as fast as I could to tell my wife.

The lesson to be learned here might not be what you think. The lesson is this: If you get a chance to participate in an Ironman event, do it. It might not come around again. Seize the day.  Put on your big boy pants and run in an Ironman.

The weather is cruddy today so I swam this morning for an hour, then went to spin for an hour, then I came home and fell asleep on the couch.

Carmels

There are few things in life sweeter than a well deserved caramel. I think we can all agree on that, men and women alike. Eating caramels is orgasmic. So, taking the scenic tour to the end of this vignette, last Tuesday, Duane and I went to Pons' Studio to spin class. Francisco Pons is a great spin instructor, and we left after 90 minutes feeling tired, but not satisfied. So, usually after going to spin on Tuesday, we end up at this bar eating bar food and drinking three - 20 ounce glasses of some sport recovery drink that they have on tap there. Its a great place that has six different channels of ESPN. There is ESPN, ESPND, ESPN2, ESPN2D and ESPN8, 'the ocho'.

The problem is that the bar we like is run by a self proclaimed virgin with an under performing thyroid who camps at our table and discusses her personal life ad nauseum. She has no verbal filter; whatever is on her mind is immediately barfed forth by her magnificently efficient vocal cords. Apparently, her boyfriend can't close the deal.  When she told that story, I was interested, but now, after hearing it and a dozen others, I just don't care.  It makes my sports drink taste like old socks as soon as she drops by our table with a new story.  We gotta find a new hangout.

So last Tuesday we wander down the street looking for a new place. We almost went into Ray's BBQ. That could have been good. I mean, who doesn't like BBQ? They had an Olympia beer sign in the window. I am thinking that they stopped making Oly in 1979 and this place either stocked up or the bartender is too lazy to take down the Oly sign and put up the Buckhorn sign. Either way, it was really tempting, but then we saw a mexican place right across the street. We went in there.

The mexican place was redecorated during the Reagan administration. They had shag carpet. The walls were painted a pastel pink that had attracted enough dust to qualify for a farm subsidy.

Then, the topper was there was a plastic donkey pulling a plastic wagon with a plastic Corona bottle in the wagon on the wall next to the 48 inch HD flat screen. You could watch the game on the tv, then you glanced to the left just a bit and there was the donkey, pulling the wagon. The donkey was smiling, I kid you not. Perfect, my kind of place. This is way better than the fat virgin bartender at the other place.

So, we are drinking our sports drinks, eating the triathlon training recovery chips, which are free by the way, and the bartender is switching the tv back and forth between the SEC basketball tourney and a rerun of I Love Lucy where Lucy and Ethel are working in the chocolate factory and the chocolates keep coming faster and faster. That kills me. You need to watch Lucy and Ethel.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8NPzLBSBzPI

So everytime he switches the channel, the tv takes a second to switch and I keep looking at that smiling donkey pulling the wagon. Is this a great place or what? Anyway, we order dinner, the guy suggests the street tacos. For six bucks on the happy hour menu, you get three tacos. We ask how long happy hour runs, because it is getting close to 10pm and he says it runs all night.  Seriously?  I ask if they rent rooms in the back.  I am thinking of moving in. I mean really, happy hour runs all night?

So we get our tacos. They are good. They taste like caramels. Caramel tacos.

Yesterday I ran 4 miles.  That was good.  Today I swam.  I cramped.  Everywhere.  I had cramps in new places.

Does anybody else think Gillette razors are overpriced? Do I need a seven blade razor with a vibrating head?   

The Reaper

Everybody thinks they will live forever, or at least it seems that way. We ignore the fact that God didn't issue a warranty when we left the factory. We are all going to die. It's the one truth in this life and we all try to ignore it, just like we try to ignore the hillybilly neighbor who's kid attends the same school as our kids because, unlike his unwed parents, that lucky kid hit the genetic lottery by having an IQ high enough to be the first in his family to finish grammar school.

I went to a wake recently. There were maybe sixty or seventy people in attendance and even though 50% of the attendees were statistically unlikely to see more that three or four more good years, the one valuable lesson we could have learned was missed.  I know death is painful for the survivors. The family of the decedent was upset and needed to share something profound. I understand. Just by being together at the wake we shared something valuable, but we missed the hard lesson.  We were looking in the wrong direction. It's like the guy with the coin that disappears from his left hand and shows up in his right. We were looking at the wrong thing at the wrong time.

The wake was in a nice room with a good view of some grass and and some trees, the carpet didn't have any gum in it and that is about the best you can expect at a wake. There was a microphone passed around and people talked about the guy who died. They talked about his life, or more accurately they talked about some of the highlights of his life. I listened.  Nobody mentioned the bad stuff, then we had some hors d'oeuvres. That just seems to be what you do at these things. I don't know why.

Here is my idea; Keep the microphone thing, but change the topic. We could have spent the time talking about those who are still standing and what we can do with the rest of the day.  I am not being disrespectful, or at least I am not trying to be. I know it sounds unconventional or wrong or somehow seems to be not a very Christian thing to do, but before you dismiss it, just consider it. The guy who passed is gone. It's over for him. At this point, he doesn't care one way or the other.  It matters for the rest of us who are still here.  We are are all going to get on the same bus someday, with the prepaid fare and no refunds. So why not improve things before we are done? Why not do it better? Or try to? Why not take the chance and start our lives now, right from this point in time?   Live like there is no tomorrow? Save a kitten if that is what you want to do. Save a soul. Do whatever it is that makes you live a better life, given what time you have left.  The opportunity is now.  Choose to live with purpose.

I want to do this because it makes sense to me. I wasn't close with the guy who passed, so I don't know if he would have liked my idea or not, but I don't care. I like it. I am going to do it. I am going to try to live as Thoreau suggested.  Its a bold step for me.

And if I can quote that great philosopher/poet/author

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

Your chance of dying is the same no matter what you do. There are no death alternatives. The undeniable scythe of the Reaper gleans a daily harvest of human wheat with quarter given to none. Go forth deliberately.  

The Kindness of Strangers

I swam this morning in the pool with Duane at the 24 hour pool.  We did a warm up, followed by five 200's with negative splits, followed by five 150's with negative splits, followed by five 50's with negative splits, but that isn't what I am writing about.  I am writing about the lady in lane one that was seemingly overcome with rage when we entered her space and moved her cheese.  See, here's the deal; we all pay the same 25 bucks a month or whatever it is to the 24 hour adult day care corporate money laundering scheme.  For that overpriced purchase, I get the privilege of using the facilities, just like everybody else.  Some of the machines at 24 hour are single use machines, like the stairmaster.  If the psycho neurotic pussycat in lane one was on the stairmaster, I wouldn't have asked to share it.  Or, if there were already six people swimming in lane one, I wouldn't have asked to share it.  But since she was alone and the other lanes were busy too, we jumped in with her and politely asked her if we could share the lane.  She snarled like a panther about to garrote an antelope on the African Savanna.  I think she said something like "I do NOT want to share this lane" or whatever it was, I wasn't listening closely since I was staring at the fire coming out her left nostril.  Honestly, she sort of scared me so I said "Thank You" and followed Duane, who had already grabbed a chunk of the pool in her majesty's lane.  She moved to another lane as we weren't 'her kind of people'.

When I was growing up, I had a dog that bit my cousin. That dog was a great dog, and I loved her dearly.   She was a protector, a companion, a best friend.  One day, the dog bit my cousin.  Five stitches later, my cousin was fine. So my Mom had my Dad shoot the dog in the head with a 7mm semi-automatic Browning.  My Mom told me when I came home from school that the dog had to go live on a farm.  I was ten.  I didn't figure it out for like six or eight years that the dog may have gone on to live on a farm, but the farm was only a farm in the spiritual sense.  Anyway, that dog was a great dog and I loved her, but she had that one small bad habit.  The lady in the pool this morning had no redeeming value.  It begs the question:  What would my Mom have told my Dad to do?

So an hour and a half later, we go to Starbucks for some overpriced hot water in a cup and who should be there?  The Wicked Witch of the West.  Go figure.  She was ahead of us in line.  I wanted to ask if it was ok if I went in front of her in line, just to see if the right nostril could spew fire like the left one, but I was afraid she had a gun.  Some days are like that.

I just got back from a week in Phoenix.  I was working so its not a big deal, since I was inside all day, every day but it snowed while I was there.  In Phoenix.  Snow.

A big "congrats" to Nurse Joanie.

Venture Capital

I met a guy who has something to do with venture capital. When I met him, we were in a loud room full of overdressed loud talkers, so I couldn't really understand everything he said, but it doesn't matter much for this story. As far as I know, he is a scam artist or steals little kids milk money, but it really doesn't matter. It is just that I thought of a business idea about 20 minutes ago and I was wondering where I was going to get the 500 grand to get my business off the ground. He is the only venture capitalist I know. Well, I only know his first name so the chances of getting a quick half mil out of him are not great. I can't get fifty cents out of my best friends. Tightwads.

Anyway, I was at the gym working out on the stair climber. I suffered there for twenty minutes, spraying sweat over the girl who was looking in her makeup mirror two rows in front of me on the treadmill, then I went home, then I thought of an idea. Its this; go around the country to every health club in America, hook up a generator to every spin bike, tread mill and stair climber, then wire them all into a big battery in my garage. I can then sell the energy to the power company. So the math is pretty good, if I can get the scam artist guy to front the cost of the generators and the wire.

Anyway, that stair climber is a monster. I do not like it, Sam I Am. I am working out about six hours a week right now. Maybe seven. I need to push that up to nine or ten pretty soon. If I add the stair climber to my routine, I will maybe cut back to three hours.

How much chocolate should I incorporate into my diet?

Join the Training Revolution

I am drinking coffee out of an Ironman branded coffee mug while I type this. I should get up and go run, but the coffee is pretty good and 'Law and Order' is on, so maybe I will just wait a bit and see what happens. Every time I drink out of my Ironman cup, I feel just a little closer to being ready for IM AZ. I am doing a lot of research on this topic, drinking coffee out of the cup, putting my feet up, storing gylocogen for future Ironman event use. I have read all the Ironman training books and I swear, the coffee cup training tip isn't in any of them. I share this with all my readers in the hope that someday, sanity and scientific methods are used in training, instead of fairy tales.  Running sucks and I think it does more damage than good.  The right coffee cup, used judiciously, can get you to Kona.

I look at it like Copernicus looked at the solar system. Every training expert claims that you need to run or swim or whatever to get ready for Ironman. I say no.  The earth is not the center of the solar system!  Running makes your knees hurt!  Am I the only one who sees the truth?  Get yourself a proper Ironman cup and drink your way to fitness. You don't need to run yourself to death to train for Ironman, you just need an Ironman coffee cup. Join the revolution!

I ran thursday morning. I was going to run four miles, but due to events beyond my control, I ended up running about five. I was running and as usual I got hot, so I took my sweatshirt off and left it on a rock by the side of the trail, planning on picking it up on the way back. My four mile training route isn't a loop, it's an out and back thing, so on the way back, I was hurting and I forgot to pick up my sweatshirt.  I ran past it. I was half way home before I remembered my sweatshirt.  I had to go back.  See!  It just proves my point.  If I had gone the coffee cup route, I wouldn't have forgotten the sweatshirt.  It all fits.  Copernicus and I see further, where others are blind.

So later that afternoon, my training buddies decide they want to swim. I didn't want to go because I know what happens when I run before I swim. I cramp. Everybody cramps when they swim after they run. It just happens. But I want to support my training buddies so I go swim. Big mistake. I am 15 minutes into an hour workout and my cramps start. My second toe on my right foot is the canary in the crampy coal mine. When it fires, I know the rest of my leg muscles are going to run straight to cramptown any minute. Sure enough, I lock up like a bank vault below the waist. I can barely get to the end of the 25 yard pool without crying like a school girl. I tried to elicit some sympathy from my training partners, explaining how bad my cramps are, they tell me to suck it up. My hands are under water so I flip them off. My middle finger isn't cramped yet so that is really the only thing I can do. It's a defense mechanism.