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.