Gearheads

Last weekend I ran seven miles with my trusty running partner Tuggerdog. I felt great, my knee pain was only a three on the ten scale so I was pretty stoked. It had rained before my run, but the sky parted and the sun was shining on the dog and me as we splashed through the puddles and mud. We were running behind the lake on the trails through the woods which are the absolute world-wide best trails to run, honest. It just doesn't get any better than running behind the lake. Tuggerdog and I had a perfect run. It was glorious and for a brief time, I felt I had achieved oneness with the universe.

I was completely in touch with my less logical side at that moment and I thought that since I had become one with the universe, I should offer up an act of personal self-sacrifice. You had to be there, it made sense at the time. So, I decided that just this once, instead of making the dog follow me on the run, I would let my livestock running companion choose the route. He is a partner, not an indentured servant, right? Shouldn't the dog get to choose once in a while? Who am I to deny him his alpha dog status?

I stopped and stared at the dog, waiting for him to choose which direction to go. He stared back for a bit, scratched something, then he took off into the woods, jumping over the logs and weeds and rocks. I followed. From what I could make out, he thought he heard or saw or smelled a squirrel, then he was trying his best to catch it and eat it. I am not so sure there ever was a squirrel, but I wanted to support him in his quest, so I ended up running around and around the base of a tree with the dog chasing a non-existent squirrel. I got dizzy, then the dog lost interest and sat to scratch something. I scratched my personals. No longer one with the universe, I left him to fend for himself and ran home to eat some ice cream. Stupid dog. As far as I know, he's still out there trying snag a couple of squirrels for a snack.

I do the same thing the dog does when I train. I see a squirrel and I chase it. A friend says that if I run one mile repeats, I will get faster. So I do that. Then another friend says I should run long, slow distance, so I do that. Another friend says I need to run at least five days a week, so I do that. It's like the dog and the squirrel. I chase it, even if it's not there. I think the best training advice I ever heard was 'train with a purpose'. It makes sense. Don't just flog away at some B.S. workout regime that you heard about in the locker room. Decide on a plan and stick to it.

I received a Krupps coffee maker twenty nine years ago as a wedding gift. Some cheap relative bought it for me on closeout at the discount store. How do I know they bought it on closeout? Because I tried to take it back for cash to pay my gambling debt and the gal at the store said she couldn't take returns for discontinued items with a “absolutely no returns” sticker on the box I still remember that. Anyway, since I didn't have a re-gift opportunity on the horizon, I kept it.

When it was new I guess it worked OK, except that it has always leaked a bit of coffee on the counter when you poured into the cup, but no big deal, I was willing to put up with that. Then about five or ten years ago, the heating element started running at fifty percent power, so it didn't make hot coffee, it made room temp coffee. I was willing to put up with that. I just put the coffee cup with the tepid coffee, in the microwave and felt good about myself because I was being frugal. Then the lid broke. I don't need a lid. 

But about a month ago the plastic cover next to the on/off switch turned brown, then black, then melted through so you could see the wires inside that were frayed. My coffee smelled like a house fire. When I turned the thing on, 110 volts of pain shot through the switch into my arm. Enough is enough. I bought a new coffee maker last weekend and while I was looking at all the “absolutely no returns” stickers on the boxes at the discount store, it made me think that triathletes prioritize things oddly. Twenty nine years of crappy coffee maker is not a big deal, but if there is a upgrade for my bike, I am all over it. 

I put new matching green water bottle cages on my bike last year. The cages they replaced were gray. The new ones were green. See? I had to get the new cages. Do I care what they cost? No, I do not. It's my bike and I needed the upgrade. Triathletes are all gearheads.

A friend bought a new bike with electro-gizmo shifting. My bike shifts great, but the electro-gizmo thing seems like it should soon find it's way into my stable of tri-bikes. I am one with the universe and I am thinking that anybody who is one with the universe should have an electro-gizmo shifting bike.

Toenails

When my kids were little, they learned a song when they were in the first grade. The song was just a short list of some body parts they were learning about so they would point to the body part as they sang the song out loud. They would sing at the dinner table and point to the part of the body that the song was about, they would sing in the shower and point, they would sing while they played with the dog and point out the dogs parts: They sang it constantly, over and over and pretty soon, I was singing it at the dinner table, in the shower, in the car, on the way to work, pointing at my body parts while I drove.  I guess I am easily influenced by others.

The song goes like this (for some extra fun, point at your own body parts while you read the words)

Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes

Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes

Head, Shoulders. Knees, and Toe o o o o oes.

To sing it right, you need to make each of the 'o's it's own syllable, like Oh Oh Oh Oh and so on. So I was thinking about that while I drove to work today and of course I was singing out loud, touching my head, my shoulders, my knees and my toes like thirty times as fast as I could. On I-90. At seventy five miles an hour. I was just singing and touching and scaring the other drivers.

Then I got to work, got out of the car and limped into the office because my knees were super sore from my run yesterday. It occurred to me that the song is not only good for kids, but it's good for commuters and for triathletes too. Sing the song now and touch your body part while you read along. Try it - its fun. It's superfun.

Head - if you want to be a triathlete, get your head right. Some triathletes don't deal well with pain. It's a head thing. Fix that. Or, some triathletes don't believe in pace. They go out extra strong on the bike, then they wonder what happened when they blow up on the run. Fix that. Or, some triathletes don't like to swim in a crowd. Fix that. Whatever you need to do to get your head right, fix it. It's different for everybody.

Shoulders – Swimming is great, but your shoulders might revolt if you don't take care of them. Build your distance slow and lift some weights. That is what I do anyway. My shoulders ache if I swim more than three times a week. Maybe a little ache is ok, but I think my shoulders are getting old and I need to keep them safe.

Knees - My knees hurt when I run. They hurt more than they did last year, and they hurt twice as bad as they did two years ago. Use the I and A treatment to keep them happy. Ice your knees and down a bunch of Advil until the pain goes away. And don't run on pavement early in your training cycle. In short, do whatever it is that keeps your knees happy. Here's a thought; how many runners or triathletes over the age of forty do you know that don't have knee problems? I don't know any.

Toes - My toes don't hurt but they are mentioned in the song, so I guess I should say something wise about your toes. Hmmm. I got nuthin'. Maybe clip your toenails.

I ran four miles today, it was raining as hard as it can possibly rain in the jungles of Southeast Asia and like an idiot I ran in it.  Swim tomorrow, maybe ride this weekend if the monsoon lets up.

Fun-O-Meter

One of the things I have worked into my workout routine lately is a change of pace. I try to do something different everyday. If you follow the calendar that you get off of the internet, you swim/bike/run, swim/bike/run over and over. Since I live in the greater Seattle Metro area, I am usually working out in the gym because the weather sucks so it gets old pretty quick.  How many times can you run on the 24hour treadmill?  You need to mix up your workouts to save your sanity.

For instance, here is a daily recount of what I did last week and just for giggles, I notated the somewhat unrelated measurement of how that day measured up on the Fun-O-Meter.

 

Monday – Yoga. It's way too hot in there. Half the people in class were laying down for the last twenty minutes of class because they were dizzy or nauseous or whatever. I have to talk to the manager. Fun-O-Meter 3

Tuesday – Bike ride. First ride of the year after a long, wet winter. It was great, we pushed pretty hard and I was gasping for breath. Fun-O-Meter 8

Wednesday – Another bike ride. It wasn't hard, but it was still fun. Fun-O-Meter 7

Thursday - Ran on the trail around Lake Washington with my daughter. It was a Fun-O-Meter 7, but the run was on asphalt and my knees don't do asphalt without taking revenge the day after, so it netted out a Fun-O-Meter 4.

Friday – Swam. Fun-O-Meter  7

Saturday – Indoor tri. I swam for forty minutes, rode a spin bike for an hour, then ran on a treadmill for thirty minutes. It was a funnish 6.

Sunday – Swam. My arms were tired from the past two days swims. Fun-O-Meter  4

My neighbor just sold his Porsche 911. It was a great car, he let me drive it once. I don't know how fast we were going, but it was pretty fast.  I was going too fast to take my eyes off the road. After I drove it I lost all fiscal perspective and started looking for a used one, but my roommate explained how it was way more car than I needed as a daily commuter, then she threw the F word at me. She said “Forbid” That's rude, right? Can she do that? Yes. Yes she can.  She cuts me off of the laundry service when I do stupid shit.

I guess she was right. Now that I think about it, not only was it more car than I needed, but it was more car than my neighbor needed. Or could handle.  

It's kind of like the idea of getting a new tri bike. Do I need the ten thousand dollar bike with four thousand dollars in wheels? No. Do I want one? Well...

Can I handle a ten thousand dollar bike with four thousand dollars in wheels? Well...

If I borrow against my pension to buy a new ten thousand dollar bike with four thousand dollar wheels, will my roommate use the F word again? Well....

Smokey The Bear

Do you remember maybe thirty or forty years ago there was a commercial that showed a picture of a bear wearing a hat? The bear was holding a shovel and he said ' Only You can Prevent Forest Fires.' And he pointed right at you with his furry finger.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BIGvdb9J1UU

That bear with the black eyes. That freakin' bear with the coal-black eyes and the lifesucking black heart, he pointed right at me with his furry finger. He accused me of all manner of mis-deeds with his fat furry finger. He said 'Only You'. Only Me. Only Me. Well, I was a very impressionable youth and I took that message to heart so when the news said that there was a forest fire that burned thousands of acres, I felt guilty. I woke up in the middle of the night in a fevered guilt-sweat. I could just see all those little Disney forest animals running for their lives. Flower, Thumper, Bambi, running away from the scathing murderous flame that I failed to prevent. All Dead. Because I couldn't save them. Or I wouldn't save them. My parents had me on suicide watch for a year because of Smokey The Freakin Bear. I hate Smokey the Bear.

Two nights ago I was getting ready for the following day, preparing my little piles of stuff.  It takes a while.
I had my backpack for work, with my laptop in it and all my work stuff.  Check.
I had lunch packed, with a sandwich, greek yogurt, banana, orange, fat-free pudding.  Check.
I had my workout bag, with stuff for yoga, because I was going to stop on the way home from work for yoga.  Check.
And, I had my swim stuff, goggles, swimcap and whatnot, for my 5:30AM swim.  Check.

My alarm goes off at 4;55AM, I get dressed, grab my four separate piles of stuff and get in the truck.  I was going to swim with the local triathlon group that meets twice a week. There are usually about twenty five or thirty swimmers that meet and for the most part, 90% of them are faster than me, which is not a big deal. It is what it is. I show up at the pool at 5:25, get dressed in the locker room, go out to the pool, put my goggles on, put my swim cap on, then I jumped in the pool. Everybody else got out. As soon as I get in, everybody else gets out. That's weird. A couple of them asked what I was doing. Some of them laughed and whispered to each other while they stared at me. Somebody asked if I had heard of daylight savings time. Somebody else asked if I forgot to set my clock ahead. I stare dumbly, trying to figure out how twenty five individuals could all have the wrong time. Group hypnosis?  Are they all on drugs?  I am thinking the newspaper headline would read

                                                   Mass Hysteria Strikes Swimmers.

            25 Swimmers Have The Wrong Time, Only 1 Swimmer Knows The Correct Time.

Somebody pointed at me and laughed. She pointed her furry Smokey The Bear finger at me. Doubt starts to creep in. I got out of the pool and made a hasty retreat to my car.

I ran last night. I was late for that too.

Lambert - St Louis

I am sitting in Lambert - St. Louis International as I compose this post, waiting for my homeward flight to start boarding. I have an hour to burn, so I am watching people going to and from their flights. A lady just walked by with one of those roller suitcases, with the handle and the two wheels on the bottom, but it had a broken wheel that laid out sideways, so it didn’t roll very well. It just drew a scratch in the tile behind her. If she gets lost, she can do the Hansel and Gretel thing by following all the chipped floor tiles back to her car.

When nobody interesting walks by, I am thinking of all the ways I didn’t work out the past few days. I didn’t lift or run or walk or do much of anything during my visit to St. Louis, and, while I feel bad about it, I have my reasons. It was a bad trip. (That sounds like a line off of a cheech and chong record, huh?) It was a really bad trip.

Things started off bad when I arrived three days ago. It was a bumpy flight because the pilots had to dodge thunderstorms on the way in. I assume they were pilots anyway. Nobody knows for sure. They might have been thrill seekers or maybe they were the guys on that TV show where they intentionally fly through thunderstorms to gather weather data. Anyway, it was bumpy.

I am thinking now that the third diet coke before takeoff was a mistake. I sat in the window seat and I didn’t think I needed to disturb the guy next to me in 27E during the flight so I could get to the lavatory. He was a bigger guy and seemed to have trouble getting his seatbelt on. He needed a couple seatbelt extensions to get it to snap shut. His right hip, thigh and generously proportioned waist were in my lap for the duration of the flight. I guess he thought that since I wasn’t using my lap for anything productive, it was available as a parking garage for use at his discretion.  That was my fault, I should have explained the whole personal space thing upfront when they forklifted him in.

After we landed, three things made me forget to stop off in the mens room at the airport;

  First, I was dizzy from the flight. Like I said it was bumpy.

  Second, I was carrying my two, non-wheeled bags and they were getting a little heavy which made me forget the pain in my bladder. I was going to bring a wheeled bag, but before I left home, I noticed one of the wheels on my bag was broken so I left it there. Maybe that was a mistake.  I guess its common practice to use your broken wheeler bag as a plow at Lambert - St Louis International.

  And last, as I walked to the car rental shuttle, I was trying to air-dry all the man-sweat on my shirt deposited by my 27E buddy and I just forgot to stop because I was busy tugging at the collar of my shirt and waving it around like a madman.

Anyway, I get to the car rental place, get in my rental car, which, apropos of nothing, smelled like bananas. Ripe bananas.  So then I take off in fruity smelling car and I get lost trying to get to my hotel. I always get lost driving. A three minute trip turned into thirty minutes of bladder pain. I get to the hotel, check in with the Mensa member masquerading as a hotel desk clerk, she gives me my room key and I sprint across the lobby to the ultra-slow elevator, ride up one flight, and walk down the mile long corridor to my room. Ms. Mensa wrote room 220 on the folded key holder paper. I checked. 220. I compared the number on the door, 220, with the number on the folded piece of paper, 220, and I try the key. It doesn’t work. I am doing the two-step dance while I try the key ten different ways in the lock, it doesn’t work. So I run back down the hall, get in the elevator, because this hotel doesn’t own stairs between the lobby and the second floor, run back to the desk, and ask for a new key. Ms. Mensa looks at my folded key holder paper and types it into the machine, then she frowns. That’s never good. My bladder asks politely if she can speed it up. So Ms. Mensa shrugs, types some stuff into the machine and a new key card pops out. I grab and run across the lobby, ride back up one flight, hop on one leg down the hall and try the key in room 220. It works. I go in, throw my stuff down, and look for the bathroom.

At that point, the guy on the bed wearing the Hawaii shirt jumps up while the lady not wearing the Hawaii shirt scrambles to hide her exposed self behind the curtain.  I don't remember what Mr. Hawaii shirt looked like, but his bed mate was quite fetching.  Quite fetching.  I said “what are you doing in my room” at the same time Mr. Hawaii shirt said "what are you doing in my room?".  We stare at each other, then doubt starts to creep into my rather slow cerebellum. He explains to me why I need to leave, while I try to explain about the three diet cokes and the bumpy flight with the guy in my lap and the lady with the suitcase plow and the smelly car and the Mensa lady, but somehow, it just doesn't seem to register with Mr. Hawaii.  He was nice enough about it when he asked me to leave for a second time.  I made a weak attempt to again assert my claim on the room, but I couldn't find fault with his logic and I sort of lost my will to fight it out, so I gave up the room.  I shook Mr. Hawaii's hand and waved at Mrs. Hawaii's seriously enraged purple face peering out from behind the curtain.  She didn't wave back.

That was three days ago.  Ms. Mensa assigned me another room, but this time without roommates.  I never saw Mr Hawaii or Mrs. Hawaii again.  The furrows at Lambert - St Louis International have been repaired and the banana smell faded away in my rented car. I only hope Mr. Hawaii was able to coax Mrs. Hawaii out from behind the curtain before he went home.

Bug Eyes

I was watching TV a couple nights ago and I switched from the news to catch the final Jeopardy question, which I failed to answer correctly, then I clicked over to NBC because they have the Olympics. The Olympics isn't as good as Jeopardy, but I thought maybe they will have something good like ski-jumping or maybe bobsledding. Nope, NBC screwed the pooch and had ice-dancing on. I cant watch that. Ice-dancing makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a Number Two pencil, so I switched over to the Canadian channel. The Canadian channel always has decent Olympic coverage and I thought I might get lucky and see some curling.  If I hit the jackpot, they might show the women's Slovenia-Yugoslav hockey match. Nope. More ice-dancing. The space between my eyes and my brain caught fire, so I just mashed my thumb into the remote, looking to grab a random channel. Anything to make the pain go away. Anything but ice dancing. 

I ended up on a rerun of an old Anita Bryant movie on channel 660. As soon as I started watching the Anita movie, the programming genius that runs channel 660 switched it to an ASPCA commercial that had these dogs in cages with big eyes staring at me. Those bulimic dogs were staring right at me, cutting deep into my soul with their big, sad bug eyes. It was pitiful. The dogs were actually crying. I think some of the dogs were forced to pull little wagons in coal mines. According to the announcer, they need me to send sixty dollars to shut down that coal mine. I hit the 'back' button on the remote control and I see more ice dancing. I looked around for my Number Two eye-gouger but I couldn't find it so I sent in the sixty bucks to shut down the coal mine. It was the best I could do, given the options available.

Last Friday was Valentines Day. Instead of taking my wife out to dinner, or to a movie, I took her to spin class. I think it was a good choice. We went to the wine ride at Lifestyle Indoor Cycle. Try it. Spin for an hour, from 5:45 to 6:45, then they put out some great wine and cheese. I know, it sounds kinda different, but its a fun time.

I was suppose to run today, but I got busy with work. Tomorrow maybe.

Defcon

Everybody thinks about something when they work out. I know I do, and I am just guessing here, but I bet somebody like Usain Bolt would have a whole different mindset than I do during a workout. For instance, Usain might think to himself something like “Faster, Stronger, Better” over and over while he works out, while I might be thinking “How much further do I need to run before I can go snag a Red Robin burger and shake?” Usain and I just have different approaches to training, there is no right answer.

Actually, when I swim, I spend the first ten minutes of my workout thinking about my stroke mechanics. I try to really concentrate on improving just one thing. To that end, I keep a fairly extensive mental database of my swim flaws. Its a pretty big list. After that first ten minutes, I downshift into some simple math, calculating how many minutes until I am done. So I guess my typical swim workout is ten productive minutes of swimming followed by counting backwards from three thousand.

When I bike, I spend the entire time thinking about not falling. That might sound like its not a very productive use of my time, but I would suggest that just the opposite is true. I am all about safety and it doesn't take a lot of mental energy to concentrate on not hurting yourself. Self preservation is number two in Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs.  I am a big Maslowian supporter.

When I run, two things happen. The first ten minutes is pain. Lots of pain. My mind goes blank except for the singular vision of a flashing billboard shouting the pain thing in big red letters. It's almost blinding. Then it gets weird. I start to think about people I am mad at and what I would say if I saw them at that moment. I don't remember when I started these one sided conversations, but I it happens almost every time I run. My discussion with these people, who are with me only with me in a metaphysical sense, follows the five levels of war readiness used by the U.S. Military. It goes like this:

Defcon5: Usually I play it pretty cool. I try to take the high road and I don't say anything that I might later regret. I just think how much they have irritated me and try not to fixate on it.

Defconf4: I will just be running along and I quietly blurt out “sure, whatever you say” or “ya, right, you are always right”. I feel pretty smug at that point. I usually win the argument and it ends right there.

Defconf3: I start to lose my mental filter and I tell whoever it is what I really think about them. I explain in great detail how they let me down and what they did to irritate me. I sometimes yell for as long as I don't run out of breath.  One time, I think I told someone that they would "Rue the day when they...".  I meant it too.

Defcon2: I use my right index finger and poke my victim in the chest.

Defcon1: I don't know what happens at this point. I haven't let it escalate that far. I am afraid I might punch another runner if one passed me.