Back in the Pool

Well, it's been 19 months, almost to the day, since I was swimming regularly.  And 19 months ago, I don't think you could really call it swimming...more like floating up and down the pool.  I swam right up until April 10th, and Lilly was born on April 11th. So it has definitely been awhile.

The gym that we joined is two minutes away from our house, has all the cardio and weight equipment we could possibly use, and has a pool.  Jim and I spent a couple of weeks scouting out the pool in the mornings; seeing how crowded it was, what days were the most busy, checking out the swimmers.  Then, about 10 days ago, I decided that today (or that Thursday) was the day for my first swim.  I got to the gym as soon as it opened at 5 so I could choose my lane and have some time to swim by myself.  I'm not too fond of sharing lanes with people at public pools since the majority of swimmers aren't really swimming.  Most of them spend their time in the pool with fins and kick boards, doing breaststroke while keeping their head above the water, or floating on their backs doing some rendition of elementary backstroke.  True to the stereotype, three other lanes filled with the aforementioned people.

I felt pretty good for the first half hour.  The swimming felt easy and fluid and it was nice to be back in the rhythm (or as some like to say, the monotony) of swimming laps.  Then, a girl got in the lane next to me and unknowingly ruined my workout. This girl got in the pool at 5:30 and had the nerve to start swimming faster than me. Instantly, my competitive side kicked in (thank you, Dad), and I couldn't enjoy swimming anymore because this girl was lapping me.  I started doing absurd things; I stopped for a drink of water at the wall right before she was about to pass me, hoping that she would think she was only passing me because I was resting.  I pushed off the wall harder from my flip turns.  I told myself that she was faster because I was half way through my swim and she had just started.  I destroyed what should have been an enjoyable first swim back in the pool because I couldn't zone this girl out and swim at my own pace.  I came home from the gym in a filthy mood and I'm sure Jim was thrilled to get out of the house and workout instead of having to listen to me blame an innocent girl for ruining my morning.

The next Tuesday, I decided to go back for round two.  I wasn't sure how often this girl swam but I decided I wasn't going to take any chances.  I got there at five again and picked a lane on the opposite side of the pool.  Swimmers are usually creatures of habit and once they find a lane that they like, they'll stick with it.  When Jim, Jerry and I were training for the Ironman, we had our chosen lanes that we swam in for every workout.  Anyway, I saw the dreaded girl swimmer get in the pool at 5:30 again, in her lane.  I couldn't keep track of her even if I wanted to which meant that I had a wonderful swim.  It is completely and totally irrational, I know, but I just can't help it.  It's that same competitive nature that won't allow me to get in the pool and just swim for an hour.  I have to count my laps or do a certain amount of meters. Being this way is great on Race Day...but why can't I just enjoy working out?  I'm not even training for anything at the moment.  As Joseph has taught me, it's important to never think anything is your own fault, so in this case, I've chosen to blame Dad.  We've all been out for an "easy" ride with Dad, which is easy until someone has the audacity to attempt to pass us.  Those "easy" rides turn into time trials in a matter of minutes.  So I know it's genetic, and there's not much I can do to fight it.  I'll be in the pool on Tuesday and Thursday mornings at 5am, finding ways to make my life difficult and looking for other people to blame, if anyone would like to join me.  

A Morning Like So Many Others

The alarm went off at 5:30. Feet hit the floor. Eyes stiff. My room, like outside, quiet, dark. The question: “back to sleep?” No. The proposed compromise: “Another thirty minutes. You need it. You worked late last night.” Some other time.

Hadn’t ridden outside in a while. Bike check. Flicked lights on downstairs. Wheeled the bike against the counter, where there is space to look, to work. Wiped everything that could be wiped. Tightened screws. Tri-flowed the rest. Brakes weren’t touching the wheel. Pumped up the tires. Bowl of Crispix. Sat wide-eyed, crunching. Another bowl. Half a carton of pineapple-orange juice to wash it down. Two packs of fruit snacks. Mental checklist: do I have everything? Gu’s. Bike top, shorts. Running shoes. Bike shoes. Socks. Helmet. Sunglasses – wait, don’t need sunglasses. Too early. Co2. Inhaler. Tire levers. Phone. Wallet. Ready. No. Water. I forgot water. Filled the camelback with water, the bottle with electrolyte replacer. Ready.

Drove to Walter E. Long Park. The truck’s manners poor this morning – loud as ever as I went through neighborhoods where people were probably sleeping and dreaming about anything but what they would actually be doing in a few hours. I drove without directions because I knew the way from Couples. I smiled for the first time of the day. Couples. Fifteen seconds.

Made good time. Beat the google maps prediction of how long it would take. I am fast even in my car, I tell myself. I am fast.

I parked behind Kevin’s white Integra. Exchanged silent nods. Got ready. I ran off to piss in the bushes, then pissed in the bushes. Kellen arrived after I did, parked. Ten minutes later, cars locked, helmets on, cleats clicked in, we rolled. Wind in the face. Sun still not up, but not dark either.

Mile fifteen into the fifty-six we’re supposed to ride. Gone by quickly. Legs felt like they’d ran eighteen miles forty-eight hours ago – which makes as much sense as saying they were tired but they weren’t tired, which they were. Second in the pace-line. Didn’t need to look at the speedometer to know we were moving. Fast. Past the country Cormac McCarthy wrote about. The old country. Barbed wire fences. Cattle and horses and grass. Dogs with no fences or leashes that bark and chase anything that moves. The cars in the gravel driveways are newer, for sure, and the houses have satellite dishes, but the quiet is still the same. The isolation still palpable, though diminished. And we rode.

We rode and for a brief moment we rode in the morning fog. We rode bravely, trusting the road extended further than we could see. The mist begged us for spiritual reflection, for deep thoughts -- as if by removing all the distractions that trees and houses provide and leaving you nothing but a short strip of road and your thoughts you will find something you didn't even know you were looking for. The fog lifted eventually and there was road ahead, though rough and cracked, there was road. And so we rode. Picking up the pace and slowing it down without a word, as if we had agreed on it all beforehand.

Kevin crashed around mile forty. He was behind me. I was behind Kellen. I turned to hear him scream and see him go over the handle bars and land in a grass ravine. Kellen and I stopped. It could have been worse, we both say at some point. A bruise on the hip, surrounded by scratches. His white jersey covered with a green streak of grass on the back, like he'd had a day behind a porous offensive line. His bike the worse for wear. Possible crack in the carbon frame. We talked about what happened. How he was feeling. No cars stopped. One honked. He said he was ok. And so we rode.

We got back to where we started. The cars still there. “Why did I get up early to ride in a circle?” I thought as I dismounted. Unlocked the cars. Threw the bikes in, the running shoes on. Always a good feeling getting out of bike shoes. Locked the cars. Started running. Kevin ran like a gazelle and I thought bad things about him and how easy he made it look. Kellen ran behind me and to people passing by we must have looked insane. Three shirtless men all chasing one another. The legs weren’t there, but they were, and so I ran and Kevin ran faster and we got back to the cars and slapped fives and said “nice job” or something generic and we talked about his frame and what he was going to do. Kellen arrived a minute later and went on a small loop through the park. Kevin joined him. My shoes were already off. I wasn’t about to put them back on.

They ran and I got my bike out of the car and put it in the bed and changed out of my shorts and top. Not even 10:30 yet. Another early morning ride to take its place among the others.

"Why do I wake up early and ride in a circle?"

I thought about that for a minute or two as I drove off. Then I plugged my iPod into my stereo and listened to Bruce Springsteen's "Lonely Day." What a great song.

Man Up

It has been too long since I felt the excitement of signing up for a race - any race - let alone an Ironman. Sitting at my computer today, waiting for the clock in the lower left corner of my screen to become 1pm EST, I felt the nervous anticipation of trying to beat hundreds, maybe even thousands of other triathletes in cyberspace to the punch and grab one of the few spots soon to be available in Ironman Wisconsin. I'd texted everyone about 10 times each in the hour leading up to registration opening, a slightly higher texting frequency than only high school girls. I was looking for assurance that others would be in this with me. The Ironman is without doubt an individual race, but there is nothing more strengthening and comforting to me than the feeling of knowing I have family out on the course. I needed that assurance now. The last seconds counted down and the window opened. I hurried to put in relevant information like age and address, some not so relevant information like profession and education, and some really irrelevant information like why I was interested in Wisconsin - is anyone really interested in Wisconsin? Then I waited as eternities passed by while the next page loaded. Part of me was thinking I'm off the hook if it's sold out and I'm too late. The other part was thinking how awful it would be if everyone got in and I did not. After another 10 minutes, the payment screen came up and I quickly entered my credit card information, not dwelling on the fact that the entry fee is the equivalent of a base level Tata motor car sold in India, and pressed 'enter'.

I'm in. And now the nervous anticipation really begins. The planning, the trash talk, the advice, the start of training, and marking off what already feels like too many weeks to even comprehend that race day will actually arrive. I love this feeling. I missed this feeling. I instantly feel attached to the commitment I know this requires. I am looking forward to the struggle to stay motivated and overcome complacency. During the day I will look at my coworkers sitting around me sipping their Diet Cokes and picking at the gross remains of the daily office birthday cake, and I will know that I am distancing myself from them in yet one more way. At night I will complain to my wife about how hard it all is, and she will listen to me, then tell me to man up because she has been through it and still holds the house record, oh, and is pregnant too.

The adrenaline of getting an entry will wear off, and the cache of saying I signed up for the Ironman will give way to the reality of the training, but I'm writing my first blog to remind myself of the excitement of putting a race on the calendar, of having a goal and working toward it. This is feeling I will not let fade.

Hold Your Breath Until You Drown

Hi triathletes, and welcome to your 5am swim practice. Today we’ll start out with a nice 900 yard warm-up: 300 swim, 300 drill and 300 kick. Then we move straight into a set of 3x100, breathing every third stroke, followed by 3x200 breathing every third and fifth stroke (changing each 50 yards). Then we’ll do 2x300, breathing 3,5,3,7,3,9 strokes, again, changing each 50. Then you can do a 400, with a breathing pattern of your choice.

After grinding through this hateful set of headache-inducing splashing, watching my stroke fall apart and my lungs fill with water, I canned the workout, not even bothering with the last 400 and forgetting altogether about anything more than 3 strokes. The coach said “how was that” and I said “probably my least favorite workout”. He said “you looked good at the end” and the elevator doors closed and I went home. Had a really nice run later, which was just as well.

Relationship Advice from Uncle Pete

How easy is it to live with a triathlete or to be a “partner” to a triathlete? I guess that depends on what your requirements are in a relationship. If you want someone who will always be there for you, who thinks Saturdays are for mowing lawns and visiting Ikea and Sundays are for social gatherings and church, you may be out of luck. If you object to grease stains on carpets (and floors and t-shirts); if you dislike having a cupboard shelf devoted to water bottles and another devoted to nutritional supplements, similarly, you might want to look elsewhere for romance. To truly love a triathlete, you have to appreciate pasta and beer as cornerstones of a diet. You must see artistry in lycra, and recognize the wisdom of having three or four pairs or sunglasses for riding and running. You need to regard chlorine as your favorite cologne, and know that today’s sleep-in is tomorrow’s 4am start. You have to regard the term “vacation” slightly differently from your friends, knowing it means going somewhere beautiful and living like a monk for three days and a slob the rest of the time, with one day in the middle devoted to wandering aimlessly around the streets of some town you have never visited saying things like “great job” while you get thirsty, tired and sunburnt. You need to recognize that walls are for race posters, closets are for t-shirts that say “finisher” and wardrobes are for sweatshirts and bike jerseys with m-dots on them. Running shoes and bike shoes take pride of place, usually at the front door or, if they are unbearably fragrant, outside where sunshine may kill bacteria but probably won’t, and anyway, dead bacteria smell pretty awful too, just like live ones. You need to be able to admire race hats, and say things about the various race jerseys that indicate more than benign tolerance. “Whatever” is not an acceptable answer when asked to choose between the Ironman Canada top and the Florida top. You need to enjoy bikes as art, and be able to sustain long conversations about wheels, cassettes, handlebar positions and frame materials. You need to know that Zipp has two p’s and Hed has no a. Watching the Tour de France will constitute a romantic evening. Power Bars become a staple snack. White thighs are a mark of distinction. Shaved legs are normal, as are 8pm bedtimes and piles containing more sweaty clothes than a football locker room.

I offer these handy tips because I understand that not all readers of this blog have been fortunate enough to encounter full tolerance of what may flatteringly be called the “triathlete lifestyle”. I don’t know what to say, really. It all seems fine and normal when you lay it out like this. But relationships are complex and sensitive things, especially relationships with women. All I can advise is that you persist in the knowledge that true love always finds a way. If she really is special, if she really is the right one, she will love you as you are. She won’t mind that you have your own Venus razor, or that you can eat a monster burrito in less than 5 minutes, or that you think a stick of bodyglide is a nice present. She will love you for who you are, and if she has any taste, she will love you for your bike too.

Three Races

It is summer in Austin, which means the sun rarely hides anymore, and when it does it is still eighty degrees and humid and still capable of turning the inside of a car into an oven. The sun never hides and you can tell who hasn’t been hiding from the sun because they have bronze calves [or for the more pale-inclined, a darker shade of white] and if they’ve been out on a bike their back is a mixture of different browns and their arms look like they’ve been dipped up to the bicep in brown paint and their upper-thighs look so white that it almost looks fake. It is a good time to be in Austin because beer tastes better and more deserved when it is hot outside. There is no shortage of places to drink a beer outside in this city. Summer in Austin also means, among other things, that it is triathlon racing season. So at least one weekend a month, hundreds, perhaps a thousand people wake up early and drive to some spot and put on spandex and a swim cap and race while most people are sleeping in. They are local races, done by a local company, with mostly local participants. There is beer at the finish along with soda and fruit and water and music and burgers or tacos and everybody stands around and talks about the race and then they slowly disperse and volunteers start pack everything up so by two o'clock you wouldn't have known that there had been a race at all. In the last month, there have been three such races: Couples Triathlon, Marble Falls Triathlon, Jack's Generic Triathlon - in that order. I competed in all of them. Here is some of what I remember:

Couples Triathlon had been billed by some as “the race of the year.” It was a re-match from the previous year, part two of the epic struggle of Experience versus Youth. Team “White Thighs and Mustaches” and their combined eighteen Ironmans versus Team “Young and Hung” and their combined one Ironman. Last year, experience had claimed the throne by thirteen seconds. Team Young and Hung had been reminded on a regular basis for the following 364 days that the margin had been thirteen seconds. Promises, bets, smack-talk, had all been delivered. Victories were guaranteed. Countdowns were started.

On race day, everyone was cordial, joking, as we usually are before races. No last second tire-slashes, no dropping of laxatives in water bottles. Joe and Dad looked like sex offenders with their dirty moustaches and skimpy speedos, so we kept our distance, as did all the mothers who had made the mistake of bringing their children to the race.

Team Young & Hung went off in the first wave. Team W.T.& M. off in the last one. The course itself was nice, though the bike had enough hills to be unpleasant, and the run was through mud and grass and had a long, steep hill towards the end of the run that got your heart rate high and made your legs burn. But it was a fun race and I stood at the finish line with Brogan, watching the clock, waiting for Joe and Dad. And Joe crossed and I knew it would be close and then a little later I saw Dad with his unmistakable gait, five hundred yards from the finish line and I stared at the clock and tried to figure out if we had lost and then he crossed and I didn’t know if we had lost or won but I knew it would be close. It was close. Fifteen seconds. This time, youth had won. Team W.T. & M. were gracious losers, saying that they had lost because we had cheated and because they had gone off in the last wave so it was hotter on the bike and run and because we had better spots in transition and other reasons that I have forgotten because there were so many of them. They claimed victory because they got first place in their category, and got to stand on a podium while we finished tenth in ours. [Our category had eight of the fastest ten teams in the race]. But despite their excuses and their attempts to snatch a sliver of pride from the humiliation of defeat, it was a good race. Made even better because next weekend was Marble Falls and that afternoon was Uncle Billy’s.

In 2009, Marble Falls had been the race of the year for me [other than Ironman Florida]. Joe and I had gone off in the same wave [which we never get to do because we are in different age groups]. We got out of the water together, I had ridden away from him, and then he had closed the gap on the run. For most of the 4.4 mile run I looked over my shoulder and saw his red visor and I put in surges and would look back and the red visor was still there and I was sure I would blow up and he would catch me because he always had caught me. But he didn’t that day. He finished twenty or thirty seconds behind me and it was a breakthrough race for me.

This year it was just as fun. A simple race, with transition in a parking lot, the run through residential neighborhoods, the bike mostly on the side of a highway. The water is warm and you got out of the swim sweating and the bike is hilly so you got out of breath on the bike and had your heart in your throat for most of the climbs. The highlight is the run, where it is quiet and paved. There are a few gradual climbs, but mostly it is flat, even downhill. It wasn’t as close as last year, because Joe had been studying for the Bar exam and had been avoiding his training as well as spending time with his brother or father, but it was still a damn fun race, and we still collected hardware. I got second in my age-group, as did Dad, and Joe pulled out third. It was also my best overall finish of the year. Ninth. It isn't until now that I realize how not normal that is. Three family members arrive at race. Three family members race. Three family members leave race with age-group prize. The bar is high in this family, I have come to realize.

Jack’s Generic shouldn’t take much more than an hour to finish unless you flat, which after Joe had found out that I had beaten him, told me he had three times on the bike. Last year, I had been hungover going into this race and did well [17^th], but knew I could do better. I registered for the open division instead of the age-group division for the first time. In the open wave, it is more competitive and you aren’t eligible for age-group awards but you get to go off in the first wave. I wanted to go with the big boys, see if I could hang with them. So I did.

I went off three minutes before Joe and Brogan did and I was out of the water in six and a half minutes. It was a short swim and I ran to my bike and started riding as hard as I could because I had fears of Joe or Brogan riding past me. I rode hard and my bike computer told me I was riding hard but my legs felt weightless, hurting for only brief moments on climbs. I knew I felt good when Paul Terranova, a 37 year old badass triathlete who routinely finishes in the top three in all the local races, rode past me and I was able to keep up with him. In fact, I passed him and then he would pass me and we did this for most of the ride – this game of pass, then recover, pass, then recover. I felt good and had a blazing second transition [four seconds faster than Joe] and I started the out-and-back run with Paul Terranova beside me and as we passed a volunteer he yelled “thirty seconds to second place!” and I smiled because I’d never been third in a race before and I don’t think Paul Terranova smiled because he is always that high up. The run went well, I saw Joe and Brogan and they yelled at me and I yelled at them and they said to keep it up and I tried to but I ended up finishing in fifth and cursing people who weigh 160 pounds. And I never thought I would get so excited about finishing fifth. And after locking himself indoor to memorize volumes of statutes and exceptions to rules, Joe finished 14th. I'm going to have a hell of a time holding him off at Longhorn.

So there you have it. Three races. All of them finished. Combined, all three of them shorter time-wise than an Ironman bike ride. But still a hell of a lot of fun. And still plenty of time to hurt.

What you think

In a beautiful post, Joseph looks at what you think in a ride. Read it and enjoy. It is a classic.

What I think is a little different, and is something like this:

You click into your cleats and begin rolling and make sure you are in the right gear and look around and feel the first pressure of a pedal stroke and it feels good and your legs start to respond with the easy fluency of legs that have turned hundreds of thousands if not millions of times over countless miles on roads in different countries and different races and on a windtrainer. You look at your legs like old friends who have come to visit and you wonder how they will be today, because even after all these years and all these miles, you never really know. They might be strong and get stronger, or they might feel strong and fade, or they might start off weak and get strong; you never know. The legs turn, and you wonder. You pass cars and hope they don’t do anything stupid like open a door without looking or turn right without indicating, and you think of all the times you have thought this, and how rarely it has happened that you have had to swerve to avoid an opening door or brake and roll around a corner glued to the side of a car, and maybe it’s a miracle that it hasn’t happened more often or maybe it’s a curse that it’s happened at all. Who knows? Today will bring what it brings, and you will take it as it comes, because there is no other way to take it unless you want to stay home and worry that you might die out there somewhere, hit by a drunk or side-swiped by a truck, and today could be that day, or it might never happen, and the only way you know is by going out and riding. You start to feel the sweat on your face and back, and your whole body now is cycling, the way it should, Five miles, you think, 90 to go. How will I go. We’ll see. It is always different and always the same. You always wonder, and you always get home. It is what it is. Deal with it. The miles go by. Friends. Work. Cars, What would it be like to live out here? Lonely. I’ve been lonely before. Is it a good or bad thing? Are there good or bad things except that I make them so? Blank it out. Just ride. You are here to ride, not philosophize. Let the road unwind in front of you. Feel the wind, feel the sun. Time to drink. Maybe a snack; you never know. Better early than late. Legs still OK. Ten miles. Twenty miles. All in order. Why do I do this? Why the long miles? What am I looking for? What’s out here? Why do I feel good when my legs hurt? What is it about hills and character? Hope my legs feel this strong at Longhorn. God, I will never forget Canada, coming up of that son of a bitch Yellow Lake. Never feel like that again, never. I feel good now. Easy. Strong. The way I should feel. If this were an Ironman, I’d have four hours left. Relax, hotshot. This is nothing. Not even a warm-up. When your ass hurts and your feet hurt and your back hurts, tell me how you feel. Then it’s a real ride. Nancy. Fifty miles. Water, Cool. Is it cheating to stand under the air conditioner in the gas station? How did the woman get that fat? She must eat and do nothing else? Wonder what she looks like naked? That’s beyond horrible. Erase the thought completely. Back on the bike. Legs feel tired but OK. This will end OK. I’m fine. Pacing is key now. Go as hard as you can but check it, check it all the time. You can fade quickly in this heat. Pace it. Measure it out. If this were an ironman, you’d have 26 miles to run after this. How do you feel now? Feel like getting off and running 26 miles? No way. On the day I’ll be fine. You’ll be fine? What is fine? Fine is an excuse, fine is average. Fine is one inch above collapse. Last words. But I don’t have to get off and run, do I? Just as well. A hill. No need to get silly. Nice and aerobic. Nice and aerobic? How bad do you want it? Will nice and aerobic get you to where you want to be? At mile 90 of an ironman, will this nice and aerobic hill be there to help you? Nancy. Ride. Ride like you mean it. Your legs will recover. Your body will recover. Your spirit will never forgive you if you dog it now. Just you and the road. Nearly home. Then it’s done, and you get to put the bike away and eat and drink and relax. And live with yourself and whether you were honest out here, or weak. Who the hell are you? Maybe you should find out.

Chlorine and the Brain

Swim coaches have to be peculiar people, and if they weren’t before they chose a job that requires endless 4am starts and dealing with high-school kids and breathing in chlorine and being indoors all the time, I suspect the environment would make them peculiar after a while anyway. Whatever, as my daughters would say. Swim coaches are peculiar, and a bit vindictive too. I see shadows of this malevolence too often in the training sessions laid out so cheerily by the various coaches I deal with. Take yesterday. After a decent warm-up, we went into 400 yards of kicking. This hurts my legs, which are always tired from riding and running. I hate kicking. That’s one reason I wear a wetsuit, so my legs can trail behind me, floating effortlessly, preserving their energy for the remaining 130+ miles of slog ahead, instead of burning off by making bubbles and froth behind me, with no apparent gain in propulsion. Maybe that’s why I am so lousy at kicking, or maybe I don’t like kicking because I am lousy at it. Again, whatever. I have made my peace with myself. Never will I go one-on-one with Flipper in an aquatic kicking contest and teach him a lesson (Flipper was a boy, right? I never thought of that until now). A new coach once thoughtfully offered a few comments on my stroke, kindly avoiding use of words like “clunky” and “splashing”. He said “you don’t kick much” and I could only agree, and continue not to kick much, seeing the hope and optimism slowly vanish over the coming weeks as he realized he was engaged in a pointless battle of wills with someone on whom he had absolutely no leverage.

After the 400 kick, which I did, saying things to myself about the coach and his parents that were, at best, unkind and at worst actionable, he chimed in with a set of 200s, which were to be done with a variable breathing pattern of 3, 5, 3 and 7 strokes, switching each 50. Now much as I dislike kicking, I have grown quite used to oxygen over the years. I find it improves my athletic performance when I can breathe. I suspect this is why god gave me a mouth and nose and lungs, so I would be able to take in oxygen and function as a human being. The only benefit I have ever seen from these absurd “breath control” exercises in the pool is that I get a nasty headache for several hours afterwards, and I swim like a box jellyfish while my eyes go red and I think unkind things about the coach. So, as with the useful advice on kicking, I adjusted the set to be 3 and 5 strokes, with an occasional 2 strokes tossed in when I felt the blood pressure rising in my ears. “How did it go?” he asked in his bright voice. “Good,” I replied, adding “but I didn’t do it the way you wrote it because I kind of like oxygen.” Shattered, he mumbled something about how we should all do whatever we can, or something of equal emptiness, and walked off to bestow wisdom on some other oxygen-deprived sap.

Then, it was stroke time. I love this part of the workout. Years ago, I actually did all the strokes, bouncing wildly from lane-rope to lane-rope as I backstroked my way up and down the pool to the eternal bemusement of those people who had actually learned this stroke and saw how ugly it could be in the hands of a real amateur. I would breast-stroke like an enthusiastic frog and in my butterfly I always tried to make up with strength what I lacked in fluidity, which is a serious mistake in the water. But those days are passed. Now I just do freestyle, and when the coach writes up complex workouts that involve different strokes, I ignore it completely and just do freestyle. Occasionally, a new coach will suggest that I “try it” and I respond with something like “nah, not any more” and off I go, unbalanced, legs barely kicking, breathing every two strokes. I can almost hear the sobs.

The other day, there were just two of us at a 5am masters workout, and just two lanes (not that we could have used more, obviously; even someone who had just completed Intro to Math could tell you that). The coach, who was preoccupied with six lanes of high school swimmers who kick and breathe every 25 strokes and do IM like it’s nothing, suggested that we do a long warm up, and he’d come back with a workout then. I suggested that if we did a long enough warm-up, we could go straight into a warm-down, and then hit the showers. His face tightened a little into one of those smiles you used to see on the front of a 1950s Buick, and he said yeah and sidled off to be with the kids. Not much point in arguing with someone old enough to be your father who is standing there in speedos and goggles at 5am. He knew he had no chance.

Life Advice From Uncle Pete

Various studies have observed that strange things happen to your brain when you are in a long term relationship. For instance, you actually cease to recall some things, apparently because your brain has ceded this territory to your spouse/other and you have subconsciously decided that your brain space can be better utilized thinking of other things or storing other memories. In passing, have you ever wondered why your subconscious has all the fun and gets to make all these big decisions for you? The same part of your brain that creates dreams about topless dancers being eaten by sharks also determines the focus of your thinking and your underlying values. Peculiar, but maybe explains why people do things that make no rational sense, like swim, ride and run in a huge circle or watch soap operas or have children. Not that I have anything against children, just that they are a profoundly illogical choice to make: expensive, disruptive, attention-demanding... and yet, we all have them and croon over them and think it is a good thing that we have them. Or maybe we just rationalize the decision because there is no legal alternative, except boarding school. At any rate, I mention this about brain focus because today I rode off to work without my sandwiches and without my helmet. There is not a lot to remember when you ride, and yet I always forget something. It is a game I have with myself: what will I forget today. The fact that I have games like this suggest that parts of my life are emptier than they should be, but that's another discussion. The fact is that, helmetless and sandwichless, I rode to work. I suppose I had hoped in my selective memory that my dear wife, who made the sandwiches and who wished me goodbye and watched me ride off without a helmet, would have taken responsibility for that part of my brain and reminded me. I am not sure what conclusion to draw from today except that (a) my wife is to blame and (b) people should warn you of these hazards when you get married. I could have starved or died of a head injury. Fortunately, I didn't, because my bike-handling skills are superior, and I had a debit card with me. But the risk remains real. So, for those of you of marriageable age, especially my sons, I would counsel the following:

1. Ensure that the woman you are dating has at least partial vision and a basic command of English. Otherwise, her fascination with you may be on a sandy foundation;
2. Think first: would I trust this woman with part of my brain;
3. Write a list of things to wear bike riding.

Remember, a lesson learned is a lesson saved.

More Gems From Uncle Pete's Mailbag

"Framed" of Florida writes:

I recently raced at Ironman Florida, and was penalized for “drafting”. I put the word in quotation marks because I wasn’t really drafting at all. Let me relate the facts:

I rode up on some guy’s wheel and a course marshal yelled at me and told me I had been drafting, and that I had to report to the next penalty tent, where I was sentenced to spend three long minutes wallowing in feelings of guilt and personal anguish. Actually, I added the bit about guilt and personal anguish, but he might as well have said it because I could tell he was a hateful person, better suited to extracting fingernails during the Spanish Inquisition than dealing with triathletes, but I digress. My apologies. My emotions are still raw from this run-in with officialdom – if “officialdom” is the right word for such a vindictive, noxious specimen of moral decrepitude and putrefaction. Swine official.

Anyway, as I was standing at the side of the road while the official (let’s just call him Adolph) put a slash through my number and wrote down my details, I explained how he was making a mistake. My defense rested on three crucial points:

First, the rules specify that you must retain not less than seven bike lengths from the bike in front. I told him I was at one bike length, which is actually less than two, not seven. He seemed not to understand the significance of this point, so I moved on.

Second, it was a windy day, and the field normally bunches up, and I wasn’t doing anything that lots of other people weren’t also doing, and anyway the rider in front slowed down. I told him I have lots of experience with headwinds. I experience headwinds wherever I go. It doesn’t matter if I ride on the indoor trainer, somehow I’ll find myself plowing into the teeth of a gale. I have ridden out and back courses, and had headwinds both ways. On a circular course, the same thing. I explained that he thought he was dealing with a simple “drafting” call; in fact, he was dealing with a human being in need of exorcism, so cursed was I when it came to headwinds. This point also failed to register with Adolph, so I moved quickly to what I thought would be the knockout blow.

I explained that since I had just entered the so-called “drafting zone”, I was technically in a pre-drafting phase, which cannot be treated the same as drafting. Pre-drafting is what you do before drafting can be said to have taken place. Drafting is different. Adolph got back on his loud motor bike and left, my penetrating legal arguments having been wasted on his cretinous intellect.

So, my question is: how can I have this verdict overturned? Is there some court of appeal to which I can present these arguments, somewhere where they understand the difference between drafting and pre-drafting, between a simple triathlon misdemeanor and the tribulations of a spirit stalked by headwinds? I have another race in a few weeks and would appreciate your guidance.

Uncle Pete replies:

Dear “Framed”,

In dealing with a situation such as this, I always recommend the three-step process for handling difficulty:
1. Deny all personal responsibility
2. Find someone to blame.
3. Seek sympathy.
You seem to have all the bases covered, so there’s not much I can add. As a wise friend of mine puts it, the challenge in life is learning to make lemonade from a silk purse. I’d suggest you just get back on to your bike and feel victimized.

Handy conversation hints from Uncle Pete

I know that many triathletes -- perhaps because of long hours spent alone on bikes, maybe the hours spent face down in a pool -- have trouble with conversation, at least with normal people. With other triathletes, it can be easier, and the conversation can touch the lofty heights of comparing gels and discussing cassettes and chainrings, perhaps even drifting to the esoteric realms of "what I think about when I am tired" or "how my wife/spouse/other thinks I am weird because I fall asleep at 8". It is really pretty barren territory, even with other triathletes. These are mostly people who think Byron is a place in Australia where there's good surf and regard painting as an optional extra when designing your own carbon frame. I have never gone on a long ride for the conversation, and post-race and post-ride discussions with triathletes and triathlete friends are definitely improved by beer, lots of it.

So, I was thinking, is there a universal conversation-starter I can safely recommend to my challenged tri-friends, those for whom an evening out with a favorite male/female/other friend is an experience in terror as time passes with excruciating tediousness, conversations flourish briefly only to die in dismal silence, perhaps enlivened momentarily by a witticism or the sight of a colorful bird, but most likely not, most likely just a sad parade of tired ideas, stunted, inelegant, doomed. How, I wondered, can people with even minimal social skills, start a conversation so lively that it brings everyone into it, evokes shared memories, laughter, maybe even important life-lessons?

It was then that I realized that there was such a subject, one whose mention remains a great standby even for me: chafing. Try it the next time your dinner companion looks wistfully at the world out the window and the silence threatens to engulf the pitiful remains of what once was a relationship. Just toss in a jovial comment such as "hey, I was out for a little 90-minute run today and you'll never guess what! I chafed so badly I nearly cried when I got into the shower..". It helps if, at this point, you gesture boldly in the direction where the chafing has occurred, as you continue to explain when you first felt the pain, how you plan to treat it, and what course of preventive action you recommend for others. Your companion will be impressed at your humanity and will use the opportunity of this conversation to share deeply personal memories, dreams and hopes. Try it. You will be amazed.

There are occasions when not even a brisk discussion of chafing can resurrect the evening. At such times, I doubt that things are worth saving. You are obviously in the presence of a drone. Admit it, draw the line and move on. Get the dessert menu and see if there's anything interesting on your iphone.

Answers to Life's Questions: Wisdom from Uncle Pete

Dear “Confused and Experimenting”,

Thanks for this letter, and for being so open. First, I want to say that this is the 21st century, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with having a fixation about your training partner and his hair. I think you should express this. It could be received as flattering, even thoughtful. At worst, “Shmeeter” will impose a restraining order on you and you’ll have to find another wheel to follow (we will touch on that in response to another letter in Uncle Pete’s Mailbag, from “Framed” of Florida).

But on the real issue you raise, you will be pleased to know that “Shmeeter” is in no danger at all. In fact, the hair pattern you observed was first documented among gladiators more than 2000 years ago. It was named foliculus gladiatus maximus, which roughly translates to “hair of the ultimate gladiator”. It is linked to extreme masculinity, which is perhaps a reason to be careful revealing your obsession to Mr. Shmeeter.

I checked with the Yale Center for Hair Research, and found that the attractive pattern can also be a product of wearing a bike helmet while riding at high speed over many years. The hair at the front weakens under the relentless blast of air through the vents (not the same thing as a headwind; we will discuss that in response to a letter from “Breezy" of Busselton). So, Shmeeter’s “problem” is that he is both extremely masculine and a fast rider.

I suppose you could propose that he wear a hat while running. Some triathletes – even those with loads of hair everywhere – do that. I pulled up an example from a recent race in Austin, Texas, of the triathlete who finished third in the 20-24 age group at a race called CapTex.




Note that the triathlete (his name is Chip) is wearing a hat.

Bye for now tri-friends! Keep those letters coming! It's a long season, and a little wisdom now might stop you from looking stupid when you race.

Uncle Pete

Uncle Pete's Mailbag

Hey there Uncle Pete,

Thanks so much for your last helpful tidbit about timing chips, and how to fasten them on to your ankle. I'm sure we are all now better triathletes for having read that.

However, after going out for a nice long run in the Texas sun today, I thought of another question. I hope you can answer it.

You see, my friend, let's call him, Schmeeter, loves to run during the middle of the day as well. Not only is it beneficial to his training, it just makes him feel good to work up a sweat during one of his 20 minute runs. Running in such extreme temperatures, as I'm sure you know Uncle Pete, can be pretty demanding, and you try and remain as cool [literally!] as possible. One such way that Schmeeter [and myself as well] try to do this is by wearing a visor. It not only shields your eyes and face from the relentless sun, but the open top of the visor is extremely conducive for heat-exercise because it doesn't cover the top of your head, allowing the heat to escape instead of trapping it.

Sounds normal, right? Wrong! You see, Schmeeter has, shall we say, thinning hair. So, when he wears a visor, parts of his head are left completely uncovered - by hair and visor both. Needless to say, this has been a recipe for sunburn in the past.

I've attached a diagram of what I'm talking about:

So I guess here's what I'm getting at: What can Schmeeter do to avoid this in the future? Will a simple dallop of well-placed sunscreen do the trick? Rogaine?

I'm sure your advice will not only improve his health, race performance, but general self-esteem as well.

Thanks so much Uncle Pete!

Uncle Pete's Handy Tri-hints

Hey there triathletes! It's never to early in the season to reach in to the old mailbag and get out questions from some of my tri-fans around the country.

"Invisible" of Austin writes:

"Dear Pete,

I have been racing and racing, but I never show up in the results. I know I finish the races, because I am sweaty and tired, but the race directors claim I didn't. I am wondering, is this some sort of conspiracy to make me think I am the gunman on the grassy knoll? Or have I entered the fourth dimension, and am sort of racing in a twilight zone, which is technically not in my normal age group and I should probably get a prize?"

Dear Invisible of Austin,

Triathlons are a complicated sport. You have to swim, ride and run. You have to remember to enter the race, get out of bed, and get to the race site. You have to put air in your tires (actually, the bike's tires), and water in your (the bike's) bottles. There's a lot to think about, and it can become confusing, especially if you are not very bright to begin with. I suspect you have not entered the fourth dimension, and it may be a conspiracy, but they are by definition hard to prove. It's more likely that you have forgotten to put on your chip strap. This can happen to anyone, though it has never happened to me. In fact, you are the first person I have heard it happen to. Anyway, here is a quick tutorial.

Fasten chip strap around ankle, as shown in this photo:














If, after putting the chip around your ankle, it looks like the second picture, you need to start again:














I told you it was complicated! Practice, practice, and you'll get it right. Remember, what you don't do in training, you won't do on race day, unless you don't have a chip, in which case you didn't race at all anyway, so what's the problem?

Bye for now!

Uncle Pete

CapTexTri

Yesterday morning marked the 20th running of the CapTexTri (Capitol of Texas Triathlon, to those non-Austinites), a Memorial Day tradition which gives thousands of athletes the chance to race in downtown Austin, thousands of drivers a chance to gripe about road closures, and thousands of spectators a chance to watch these two worlds come together. Edward, Brogan, our new friend Meredith, and myself all toed the line yesterday morning, and as Edward's earlier post indicates, that line was quite a fungible one, varying quite dramatically in time.

A few things by way of introduction. For Edward, this was a race (I believe his second on this course) that he came to with great promise. Edward had come off a race a few weeks ago that was pieced together with masterful skill, and the chance to redo that was one he had been relishing for a while. Brogan was coming to the start line this year with heightened expectations as well. Now in his second year of racing, races begin to repeat, endurance and skill begins to build, and so do expectations. Our new friend Meredith is the newest to the starting line, having never raced here before and competing in only her fifth triathlon (I believe). She brings to each race a level of ability and skill which needs to be a source of pride (however quiet that pride is), a level of humility which should be admired and imitated, and a potential which is yet to be tapped. I lined up yesterday for the fourth time since I began racing in April of 2005, and as has been the trend recently, I brought a level of personal calmness and anticipation for myself as well as a weird fatherly instinct of great concern for the other three out there that day.

(Sorry, no Riggs in this photo)

This is us pre-race. You'll notice a few things here. First the two of them are wearing their wetsuit entirely. No sense in me putting on a wetsuit when I have a fortnight to wait before I swim, so I didn't. Second, the making of a fine mustache is becoming more and more easily detected by camera. Can't wait for "Team White Thighs and Mustaches" next month at the Couple's Triathlon.

Back to the race. The swim is in Town Lake, taking a fairly simple ovular course with the buoys on the right side all the way, the current usually running east to west. The men 20-24 began fairly soon after the professionals did, and I saw Edward and Brogan take the plunge into the water and positioned myself right before the first transition to see them out of the water. Our new friend Meredith was contributing nicely at this point, disappearing for a while, returning to pour ice-cold water down the back of my shorts, and then disappearing again. Every pre-race ritual is different, I guess. On this point, I have to say that one of the many things I delight in before a race is the lightheartedness that goes along with it. Regardless of who is there--whether it is Edward, Brogan, our new friend Meredith, Dad, Amelia, Jim, Mom, Ellie, Lilly--there is always a beautiful combination of focus, competitiveness, and playfulness that exists in few other circles. Looking at Edward is a great example of this. He knows (so do many others who have come to know him atop the podium) that if he has the race he is capable of, he will perform at the top 1% of the entire field, not merely his age group. This makes conversations such as the ones we had before the race this Monday quite enjoyable. Here is a sampling:

"Does it bother anyone else that the guy starting the race has a gun? Pretty sure that's not legal."
"Hey man, I think I tore my ACL. May have to pull the plug on this one."
"What would you do if I..."
"How would you react if I..."

You get the point.

With this digression, athletes have now begun to trickle out of the water. Edward runs by, and as he has shown a knack to do at races recently, yelled something at me as if nobody else were around to hear it. As if no mother was standing next to me with her child saying things like, "Daddy should be out soon, get ready to cheer." No, I saw him and yelled something supportive like, "solid swim!" and he yelled back, "Long [expletive] swim, man. Long [expletive] swim." He was right, in fact, and hammered home his point nicely to all around (in between snot-rockets)--the swim indeed turned out to be about 300-400 meters long. Inexcusable from a race-director's point of view, if you ask me. Brogan followed him out shortly thereafter and looked strong, positioned well, and rolled through the first transition with great ease. By this time, our new friend Meredith had entered the water and started her race. Still harboring a lessening anger from the water-pouring incident, I cheered softly, and visited the port-a-potty as I waited for the entire female-triathlete population of Texas to enter the water and clutter up the swim.

Then, 20 minutes after Riggs, 55 minutes after Edward and Brogan, and 75 minutes after the race actually began, it was my turn. Positioned right on the buoys, I got clear water immediately and at the first turn, it was clear to me that there was a group of about five up ahead, the remainder behind me, and one other guy in my age-group who I was working with in the middle. The rhythm was good for a while, and then I found myself swimming over and around and through groups I really feel should have started later. (A request: each person is paying $150 to race, close the streets a little longer and allow the faster groups to go first.) I got kicked a baker's dozen of times by people on their backs doing some sort of inverse-frog kick, and the last 500 meters was like swimming from a boat to the beach-head on D-Day. I got out and rolled through T1 to begin the four-lap ride. We had calculated ahead of time that by the time I was starting the ride, Edward and Brogan would be finishing their last lap, and our new friend Meredith would be somewhere in between. I used the first lap to loosen up, hammered the second and third lap, and slowed a little on the fourth, good enough for a 23.5 mph average (definitely going to get a new saddle, by the way). It's hard to ride fast on a course with so many hairpin turns and so many people, but I did what I could and was passed once, by someone not in my age-group. I passed a couple of guys in my age-group and felt good as I pulled into the second transition. I saw Riggs out on the bike, and her slightly tweaked position looked good and she was smiling, and we exchanged yells and some aggressive waves.

Then the run. It was starting to get hot and I got going pretty quickly and was holding a good clip. I hit the first 5K in 20 minutes and slowed down on the second lap, but I was able to run down about three or four guys in my age-group who I'd been hunting on the bike. Had one guy not run me down, I would have grabbed third in my age-group, but as it was, I got fourth (of about 100), Riggs placed the same (of about the same number), and Edward's T1 mis-hap (I'll let him recount the story) cost him a similar placing that he surely would have had otherwise. I'm not sure about Brogan's placing, but that hardly needs to be the focus now--anything other than a complete obsession with the start and finish lines in Louisville would be a mistake in my eyes. I started the run when Edward had finished, Brogan was finishing, and Riggs was somewhere in front of me so I was able to hear the slew of ridiculous cheering that I often provide when the situations are reversed. For example, as I came past Edward, I also caught up to our new friend Meredith, and yelled something about "running her down" as Edward inquired as to whether I wanted to "drop anchor" about one mile into the 10K. Not the most focused 100 yards of running, but enough to get everyone smiling for a while.

And the finish. Edward's race photos show him engaged in a deviant display of nipple rubbing down the finish-chute, and as I was coming down, he was asking how my hamstrings felt (wondering, clearly, if they would tear as they so commonly do with 20 yards to go and cameras all around). I was a little too gassed to drag my leg as I usually do (I also passed someone in my age-group 50 yards from the line and wanted to hold him off), so I finished quietly, not drawing attention to myself and tracked down some gatorade before I met up with the three others.

Some more race-gripes for a second. They ran out of water at a key section of the run on my second lap, and like the swim, the run was long. Not ten feet long, but substantially long. To me, such oversights are absolutely inexcusable, dangerous (especially the water on such a hot day), and easily avoided. Regardless, it was not the focus of the day for any of us, and those things aside (things everyone had to deal with), it was a wonderful Memorial Day event.

(A good shot of Edward about 50 yards from the finish)

Then it was on to Uncle Billy's for barbecue and beer and post-race discussion. Next up for me, Couple's Triathlon. For others, there appears to be a half-Ironman on the horizon.

Before The Race

It's almost 11:30 and I'm in no danger of falling asleep. The CapTex triathlon starts in around eight hours for me, nine hours for Joe, and eight and a half hours for every 200+ pound woman who can squeeze into a wetsuit and pair of spandex. I say this because my wave [20-24 year olds] goes off at 7:20. Joe's goes off at 8:15. Women 50-54 goes off at 8:00. This of course means that when he starts his race, a large number of older women [and men also] will be in the water, out on the road. He will have the pleasure of having to swim over and around them, ride past them and avoid them and their shaky bike-handling skills. At least Joe will get a nice draft behind them and their wide hips.

It's not nerves that are keeping me awake, or fear. I'm not intimidated by the distances, or the course. I'm awake for no real reason that I can pinpoint. Perhaps a combination of excitement and wondering. How will I feel in the water, especially since I haven't been consistent with my swim training? Will I be able to run a 40 minute 10k, especially if I ride at a steady clip? I want to do the bike section in an hour, but how much will it take out of my legs to hold 24.6 mph for 60 minutes? How many team-in-training people is Joe going to have swim/ride around? In the end, they are just questions, and they will be answered tomorrow regardless of whether I worry about them tonight or not. If I do a 2:10 or a 2:20 or 2:30, Uncle Billy's will still taste damn good, and I'll still have a nice nap. But I'm still up at night, asking myself questions, wondering what I'll have in my legs tomorrow

...

The day and night before is an exercise in energy conservation and good eating. Lots of water, lots of carbs. Pasta. Gatorade. Fruit. Cereal. All of this carries over into the morning of the race itself, where you walk a little slower, drink a little more water than normal. You also worry about little things, like your place in transition, or your socks, or something that isn't going to make any real difference in your race. You worry about your position in the swim start and where to park your car. You scope out and size up other people in your age. A guy with a disc wheel is competition. A guy with a mountain bike is forgotten. All these little things to think about. But once the gun goes off and people start swimming and splashing around you, it's like you've put on bose headphones. All you hear is water splashing, your heart beating, your breathing -- and of course, the voice in your head. Your world shrinks from an orchestra of little thoughts to a few bigger ones. Your stroke, your muscles, your breathing. On the bike, it's the course, the other riders, your legs, the gears, the wind in your face, your hydration. The run it's all the legs, your breathing, the pounding, your heartrate. Dad describes it like a dashboard with a few gages that you're constantly monitoring, and it's true. Trying to not hit empty -- but fighting like hell if you do.

...

Last year I did a 2:16 at this race, and I want to go 2:10 this year. It's one of those staples in the sport, and has been a goal of mine since I've started that I've wanted to check off the list. A sub-10 hour Ironman. A 4:30 half. A 2:10 Olympic. [And another one, also hopefully achieved in this race, a 40 minute 10k]. This race could be the first. But don't worry, my race isn't going to be defined by a watch. My real goal is still be able to smile at mile 5 on the run, to pretend to pull a hamstring down the finishing line, and have an Organic Amber afterwards. After all, you pay to do these things because they're fun. That's what I'm thinking about as I lie here in bed.

It's 11:55. Eight hours until women 50-54 go off. Enjoy the swim and ride Joe. I'll enjoy hearing about it.

The Road to Recovery

Training has been a bit random lately. Work and travel and a foot injury forced me to do the things they always recommend in sports books when life gets in the way of training:

1. Sulk and be unpleasant to be around. I always find this helps enormously. It attracts sympathy and allows me to vent my frustration on the people I love. They understand, or pretend to.
2. Eat too much and drink lots of beer. Hell, if you can’t run, you might as well throw in the towel completely and get fat and intoxicated. Besides, enough beer makes you witty and handsome, so people don’t notice that you are stacking on weight, and they overlook your sulking and unpleasantness because your jokes are so clever.
3. Feel sorry for yourself. Whine. These are critical components of the recovery process. A good wallow can be all it takes for even your most loving friends and/or relatives to want to have nothing to do with you ever again. This rejection will fuel your self-pity, allowing you to sink even further into misery. Of course your foot is never going to get better! Of course work will always be disruptive! Time to grab a beer and a burger.
4. Lose fitness. Instead of hitting the gym or riding a lot, much wiser to sit down and watch television. What would happen if you got another injury? Besides, if you can’t run, there’s no point training.
5. Do some occasional stretching and icing, but not enough to make a real difference. Stretching and icing should be done just enough to remind yourself that you are injured and losing condition, but not to the extent necessary to promote healing.

Another way of looking at it is to identify the five stages of grief as they apply to running and training.

1. Find someone to blame. Work for not allowing time to train, the shoe company for making the shoes with which you trusted the care of your feet, the people who paved your trail, your parents for giving you bad biomechanics, God, the person who introduced you to running in the first place, Wall Street… You get the picture.
2. Do nothing constructive. Become a victim.
3. Wallow and complain. Why keep your problem to yourself? A problem shared is now also someone else’s problem.
4. Attempt a comeback. If it hurts, start at #1 again.
5. Take tablets and engage medical support quickly, before the body can heal itself.

If any of you are injured, I strongly suggest this time-proven path to healing. See you at the starting line in Austin.

Born To Run

If there was a soundtrack to my childhood, Bruce Springsteen would have a spot or two on there. Whether it was hearing "DOWN - IN - JUNGLE - LAND!" from the basement in Esworthy when Dad and Joe were lifting, or "Glory Days" blaring from some radio when Dad was cleaning his bike outside in the summer, the Boss was in the background of some of the simplest, some of the best times I can recall. And now, no matter where I am, I hear the old Springsteen, the young one with a voice as hard to ignore as Clarence Clemons' saxophone, and I think of Dad. It's not one image or moment in particular, but just a feeling, a slideshow of sorts. Barbecues, acres of fresh-cut grass, driving with the windows down, afternoon...

On Saturday, he rang through my headphones as I was running around a 400-meter rubber circle, trying to complete sixteen laps in under twenty-four minutes. A rather pointless thing when you think about it. But, I was doing it nonetheless, and about seven or eight minutes into it, "Born to Run" started -- the drums first, then the simple guitar, his raspy voice, his plea to Wendy: "will you walk with me out on the wire?" -- it was one of those countless moments that happen during months of training -- where you crack a smile when you should be grimacing, and you keep going until the grimace eventually returns to your face, and you could never really explain to anyone why you were smiling in the first place, because it doesn't make sense.

But to me, it does make sense. Especially that song. Especially with Dad.

Do I have to say it?

He was born to run.

The Rookie

This past Sunday, Edward, Brogan, our new friend Meredith, and I all participated in our first triathlon of the year. A super-sprint--300 meter swim, 11 mile bike ride, 2 mile run--it is a race that starts and finishes quickly. It is the first race of five in the Texas Tri Series, which conclude with the Longhorn 70.3, a personal favorite of mine. It was rainy and somewhat chilly that morning, not the most ideal race conditions.

I first did the Rookie in 2005, about one month after my first race at Ironman Arizona. Doing them in that order seemed a little backwards, but it took longer to swim in Tempe than it did to cross the finish line in New Braunfels. Every year, it seems, Edward and I do this race and swear to never do so again. Too intense, too short, too little time to get into a rhythm. Every year, though, we return to the Texas Ski Ranch to hurt for about 50 minutes.

There had been a great deal of build-up to this race. Edward and I always talk about last year's race at Marble Falls. We swam together, Edward rode ahead of me, and I gave my best effort on the run to try and grab him. He held me off, and we had a blast. Starting in the same wave this year at the Rookie had us reflecting on that race and wondering if we could replicate it.

It started that way. Edward and I positioned ourselves at the front of the pack in the water. We were in the "29 and under" division, so there were a handful of pre-pubescent children in there as well. Usually, such a thing does not bother me, but it irked me somewhat when a young boy--all of 12 years old, perhaps--scooted up to the front and stood right in front of me as the 10-second countdown began. With Edward to my right, the 12-year old in front, and the gun going off to start us, I remember doing two things simultaneously. First, I thought, "it's on." Second, I took a big dolphin dive, submerging this youthful triathlete in front of me in the process, and found some open water. Edward breathes to his left, I breathe to my right, so with every stroke we could see each other. We hit the turn-around leading our swim wave and holding quite a steady clip. On the home-stretch, we were caught by a couple of people, but all came out roughly together. Edward had a few seconds on me, screamed a few things at me (and made some unsportsmanlike gestures) as we rolled into the first transition, and we geared up for the bike right next to each other. I beat him out of T1, got on my bike, and that was really where our races went in different directions.

You can see in this photo exactly where we were and how spread out things were over 300 meters. Edward and I are sitting at the front of the pack (this photo is courtesy of Carinne Deeds, a master with the still camera, not the video camera. Either way, a trooper to be down there on such a dreary morning).

Edward and I played cat-and-mouse for a short while, then he pulled away and rode solidly in front, keeping a low cadence in a tough gear across some rolling hills and chased down some of Austin's finer triathletes as he did it. I'll digress here to make a point. I have never been a short-distance athlete. I don't have the sprint. Dad and I would often remark after an Olympic distance race how it felt as though we'd be getting off the bike right when we felt warmed up and ready to ride. That's 40 kilometers. This was 11 miles.

Back to the race. Edward rode so solidly and really put a fantastic bike split together. Last year, I edged him by about 40 seconds and we both finished in roughly 52 minutes. Going into this year, I had thought that we would both be right around 50 minutes, which called for a 30 minute bike time. Edward did exactly that--faster, in fact--and I rode a full mile per hour slower. Let me put that in perspective. In Ironman Florida, I rode faster (on average) than I did at the Rookie and that bike is over 100 miles longer (for those of you who are thinking it, yes, it does include my drafting penalty). At Longhorn last year, I rode a full two miles per hour faster. Both hillier, both windier. I simply need time to loosen up, I think. Either way, had I ridden my best, I was not going to catch Edward last Sunday. He continued this on the run (a 6:15 per mile pace), and finished under 50 minutes, 12th overall, and decimated his age-group. I trundled in somewhere in the 51 minute range, good enough for 32nd overall and third in my age-group. Brogan raced well, taking a full seven minutes off his time last year (fourth in his age-group), and our new friend Meredith, in her fourth triathlon, won her age-group (nothing new for her) and realized that she (like myself) is not a fan of the super-sprint either.


Now there are four races left in the series. The Couples Triathlon is in July, and it will be as intense as the Rookie. I have abut two-minutes to make-up on Edward and a fair amount on the rest of those who beat me last Sunday, but my goal is to keep it close, picking some people off, but dropping the hammer in October at the half-Ironman.

After the race, we all went to Uncle Billy's where we ate barbecue and drank some beer and talked about that morning. I talked with Brogan about how far he'd come and about how these signs were so positive on the road to completing his first Ironman this August. About how he was feeling, what else is to be done, and how he was planning to use these next months to get to Louisville in peak condition. I spoke with Meredith about her short evolution as a racer and how every race feels so different and so wonderful to her. We talked about how different distances bring different mindsets, and how she's looking forward to attacking the races she has planned. I spoke with Edward about arguably his best race to date. How he knows he can do this, how he can compete with anyone, and how this is hopefully a harbinger of how strong he can be this year. The gauntlet was thrown, and there are no excuses now.

Speaking of excuses, I attempted to lob some pathetic ones in Edward's direction to justify my performance. Here is a sample:

"It's tough to race in the middle of finals."
"What a lucky race."
"I'm glad you didn't have the bike issues I had."
"My saddle fell off for a large portion of the ride."
"That early morning rain really threw me off."

Edward responded, as he does, with a shrug of the shoulders and a, "Well if that's how you want to think about it, then fine."

After all of this--the race, some beer, and barbecue--we settled our differences as men. On the street. Engaging in that age-old game of Mashoonga--basically foam-covered swords. This took a great deal of energy, we enjoyed a few more beers, and we played until they broke. The Mashoonga swords lasted all of three or four hours and they were the envy of many passing children.


Up next: The Capital of Texas Triathlon, an Olympic distance race on Memorial Day.

The Starting Gun

This blog was Joseph’s idea but I will write the first entry. The opening lines of a blog, or of almost any piece of writing, have a special quality to them. As with the opening lengths of a swim or the first pedal strokes of a 100-miler, you take them in and process them as a guide to what may lie ahead. The words entice, or lull, or excite, or bore, and by the time you are three or four sentences deep, you have either settled back to enjoy what is to come or you find yourself peering to the end of the article to assess whether the effort is likely to be worth the gain.

Writing and training have gone together for me all my life; so much so that I am never sure which is a product of the other. I often compose while I am riding, and equally often find that writing helps paint the backdrop on which early swims or evening runs become something more than physical exertion, something closer to art.

My task in writing this, though, is simple. Joseph suggested the blog as a place where those who race could post their thoughts, about training, life, races – anything, I would suggest, except Washington politics and anything to do with “celebrities”; not because either of these subjects will cause affront (though that can’t be ruled out) but because they are pointless and unchanging, and they occupy a lower rung on the ladder of human achievement than is commonly found at the starting line of a race.

So with that uncharacteristically brief and humble bit of throat clearing, consider the white space all yours. Do not be shy. You are in good company. Those who have ever stood at the water’s edge, dressed in black neoprene and lycra, waiting for the sun to come up and the 140.6 mile journey to begin, have a unique bond. They are Ironmen, and always will be. Unless of course they decide to be rookies for a day.