A Single Question

I spent two hours yesterday not going anywhere. I was downstairs on the windtrainer, watching Lance Armstrong climb Sestriere [or as Paul Sherwin would say, "literally explode up the mountain"]. It was an inspiring ride to watch, and I found myself pedaling harder than normal as he launched his attack, as if I was trying to stay on his wheel. Sestriere [the 9th stage] was his first real signature win in the Tour, an incredible day for anyone, let alone a recent cancer survivor. It was his first day wearing yellow in the mountains, and he rode like a champion, leaving the best climbers in the world sucking wind. The sport of cycling has never been the same since that day, and it never will be again. I watched it in awe, knowing that a star was emerging on this very climb, laughing at Paul Sherwin and Phil Ligget as they kept asking if he had the legs to hold it up to the summit, or if this day was going to take too much out of him for the rest of the tour. I watched, secretly praying that EPO or some other drug cocktail wasn't fueling this man, because it is a beautiful thing to watch a man ride a bike so well, so effortlessly. It would be a shame if it was all a lie. At the very least, it made the two hours of pedaling go by quicker and left me excited for the next windtrainer session, because Alp D'Huez is next.

This time in four months, Ironman Wisconsin will be almost twelve hours underway, the sun will be ready to rest, as will all the triathletes still out on the course. It promises to be a tough day [what Ironman doesn't?], and I'm trying to prepare for it much better than I ever have before, and that's why I'm doing two-hour windtrainer sessions watching the Tour on my computer. I don't want to go in with any questions, with any fear, like I have for the last two. I want to be strong, with legs that have depth [to go along with the horrendous tan-lines they already have now]. I want to go in knowing that the fitness and strength will be there, and that my job is to let the day unfold, to be smart and patient, and when the time comes, tough. The ultimate goal, and I'm throwing this out there, is to finish in 9 hours, 50 minutes, to do the fastest Ironman in the family, and if all goes well, qualify for Hawaii. Why not?

There are plenty of days and weeks between now and Wisconsin, plenty of highs and lows that await me [and a big race does too: a 70.3 in Lubbock, which is funnily enough, on my birthday]. There will be plenty more Tour de France DVDs to watch, lots of long windtrainer sessions ahead. There are hills that I need to ride again and again and again, and then again. Countless loops around Town Lake. There is little mystery to an Ironman training program.

The question isn't what I want, or what I have to do to get what I want. I know the answer to both of those. No. I realized that now the question is simply: "are you going to do what it takes to be a 9 hour Ironman, or are you going to make excuses?" Those really are the only two options. And if you happen to be in Madison, Wisconsin on September 11th, at this exact time, I'll be able to tell you the answer.

And So It Begins... Again...

It's a Friday in April, and I'm enjoying the few hours of peace that a book and warm weather offer before I go to work. I'm reading about Churchill, and even though the second World War hasn't begun yet [though Churchill can see it coming], I'm already blown away by the man himself and the life he lead. Truly remarkable what courage and perseverance can achieve. But we'll leave Churchill, the prospect of work, and even [regrettably] the warm weather for now. There are more pressing issues on the horizon.

The entire Rookie Triathlon, as we often mention, takes less time to complete than the first leg of an Ironman [unless you're Andy Potts]. It is by no means a race of endurance. Not even close. It is not a race that allows you to find your legs, to find a rhythm, to warm up and ease into your pace. In fact, it's the complete opposite. It's incredibly high heart-rate the entire way. If you feel like vomiting, you're pacing yourself correctly, only maybe you're not going quite hard enough because you haven't dry-heaved yet. That kind of race.

Normally this is the first [maybe second] race of the season for both Joe and I. But, true to the cheater he is, Joe's year is already well under way. Even though it's only April, he's already qualified for the Boston Marathon, and since that wasn't enough, he's raced two half-Ironmans, capping his most recent 70.3 with a 1:35 half-marathon. Not too shabby.

On the other hand, the Rookie will be my first race of '11, and though I've been spinning fairly regularly, my running [though my ankle is finally healthy for the first time in six months] and swimming are well behind where I'd like them to be. I've been sick for the past few days [my breathing especially tight], and I've felt the desire to sleep as much as Tess does. But on Sunday, none of that matters. You don't need six months [or even six weeks] to train for this race. You just need to go hard, and then hold on.

This race doesn't have quite the build-up of last year's [where Joe and I were racing in the same wave], but it should still be a good, close and intense contest, with the winner offering the loser a few gratuitous pointers, and the loser talking about how they flatted six times on the bike.

Joe: How'd you feel on the bike?

Ed: Not too bad. It's a shame I flatted six times.

Joe: You flatted six times?

Ed: Yeah. I'd say it probably cost me about a minute and forty seconds.

Joe: Funny. Because my bike split was a minute and thirty-nine seconds faster than yours.

Ed: Tell me about it. Imagine how much closer it would have been if I hadn't flatted that many times.

Joe: You're an idiot.

I'm excited that's it here again.

But it's still only Friday. I'm going to go back to bed, read about Churchill, and then get a nap before work and try and kick this bug I've been carrying. I'm hoping if I yell loud enough at the book, Churchill's colleagues will heed his warnings about the threat Hitler's Germany poses. We'll see how it goes.

30 Weeks

For anyone out there keeping track, today marks 30 weeks until IM Wisconsin. 30 weeks is only significant because it marks the official start of my training program. For IM Florida in 2009, the official start of my training was a bit of a moving target, influenced by factors such as weather, the amount of sleep I got the night before, how comfortable I was in bed when the alarm went off in the morning, or how badly Amelia guilted me into getting up and working out. But this time around I have summoned my pride and decided to make an honest go of getting the best results I can from my training by sticking to the plan. I even went to the gym this morning on what is supposed to be a rest day - because, honestly, I don't think you can really start Ironman training with a rest day. Tomorrow morning is my first swim practice since the week after IM Florida. Yes Uncle Pete, that's almost a year and a half. I'm planning on doing a 2500m pyramid in easy fashion, but realistically I'm just hoping that I still float in water. I am looking forward not to actually getting into the pool and swimming, but to making myself swim. I am especially not looking forward to Wednesday morning and doing my first transition workout since 2009 either since it includes some outdoor running. But I am looking forward to making myself do the transition workout. I'm looking forward to making myself shed the rust over the next few base training weeks because accomplishing these small goals builds momentum and starts permeating the other areas of my life that I have told myself I will be successful in this year. Ironman training is something I know, even if just at a basic level, and it gives me a starting point to change the things that I have wanted to change but didn't know how or where to begin. So here I go, one day at a time, one workout at a time. The next 30 weeks should be pretty amazing.

January Training

Most Januarys (or is it Januaries?) my training is pretty feeble. In Singapore, it was rainy season, and between the huge downpours and the homicidal drivers, I found myself doing much less riding and running than I wanted. I managed to get through it when I was doing Ironman Langkawi at the end of January, of course, but without the incentive of a race, I tended to be erratic in my training, doing what I could, but usually more for personal enjoyment than strategic outcomes. In DC, it is a different story, January is usually a month of snow and ice, which limit riding and running outdoors. Swimming in the dark, cold months is also a chore, so January 2010 and 2009 were low periods for me, with a few windtrainer sessions and the odd run thrown in; no structure, no real sense of gain.

Last week, despite snow and ice and sub-freezing temperatures, I did 17.5 hours' training, broken down roughly into 9 hours on the bike, 3 hours running, 3 hours riding and 2 hours in the gym. This week will be slightly more. I have never had a January like this, and I have to say that it feels terrific. I'd guess that 90-95% of my training is aerobic, usually topping out about 5 beats below my anaerobic threshold. This definitely makes the training easier to absorb. I get tired rather than shattered. A typical two days looks something like this:

Workouts for Thursday, January 20
Workout #1: Endurance Miles with Muscle Tension 3x15min
Type: Bike
Planned duration: 1:30
Planned distance: 0.0 miles
Muscle Tension 3x15min
Notes - How to do it: This workout should be performed on a long, moderate (5-8%) climb or on a trainer with your front wheel set on a slight incline, 4-6 inches above the normal horizontal plane to simulate your climbing position. Pedal cadence must be low, about 50-55 RPMs and the heart rate intensity is not important (because your legs are moving slow your heart rate will be low). Large gears (such as 53x12-15 up hill) are required to produce the low cadence and high muscle tension. Correct form must be strictly maintained during these intervals. Strong concentration is needed to keep your upper body absolutely smooth yet relaxed while concentrating on correct pedaling form (over the top and through the bottom of the pedal stroke).
Set 1 Duration: 15min Cadence: 50 - 55, RPE: 7
Set 2 Duration: 10min RPE: 5
Set 3 Duration: 15min Cadence: 50 - 55, RPE: 7
Set 4 Duration: 10min RPE: 5
Set 5 Duration: 15min Cadence: 50 - 55, RPE: 7
Workout #2: Endurance Run with Running Strides 4x12sec
Type: Run
Planned duration: 0:45
Planned distance: 0.0 miles
Running Strides 4x12sec
Notes - Goal: This workout is used to ease transitions between training cycles by keeping the fast twitch muscle fibers activated and teaching your body to be more dynamic. RunningStrides are done after the EnduranceRun is completed and after a light stretch. RunningStrides are also used after WarmUp to open the lungs and prepare the muscles for difficult efforts. RunningStrides coupled with a good WarmUp are essential for injury prevention. How to do it: On a flat, preferably grassy section (a football field is appropriate), run at 30-60 seconds below 5K race pace for about 100M or the time indicated in your program. Focus on your mechanics including foot strike, knee drive and arm swing. You will have between 3-8 RunningStrides. Recovery between the RunningStrides is an easy jog back to your starting point or 1 min.
Set 1 Duration: 12sec Distance: 50m, RPE: 7
Set 2 Duration: 60sec RPE: 5
Set 3 Duration: 12sec Distance: 50m, RPE: 7
Set 4 Duration: 60sec RPE: 5
Set 5 Duration: 12sec Distance: 50m, RPE: 7
Set 6 Duration: 60sec RPE: 5
Set 7 Duration: 12sec Distance: 50m, RPE: 7

Workouts for Friday, January 21
Workout #1: Endurance Swim
Type: Swim
Planned duration: 1:30
200m Warm Up
200m Kick
200m Pull
2x600m Base Interval Swim 15sec RBI
2x300m Pace Swim Set 10sec RBI
200m Cool Down
 
Oh, and with regard to the previous posting by stubborn Edward (no argument there; he may be the only person I know who makes his mother look reasonable), I was reading an article by Chris McCormack, who just won Hawaii for the second time, and he recommends yoga for others, and includes it 3 times a week in his own training.

Yoga

Believe it or not, I can be quite stubborn. I know, I know. More than a few of you are probably saying, "Ed, it's not being stubborn if you're always right." And I would be hard-pressed to disagree with you. But for the purpose of this blog, let's not argue. Let's just agree with my opening statement, however difficult it is to believe.

My stubbornness revealed itself to me, of all places, through yoga. You see, I was convinced that yoga, while restorative and many other good things, did not have a place in a triathlon training program. Especially mine. It was like cleaning the lint out of the dryer; nice to do if you have time, but not essential. After all, how could yoga make me a faster swimmer, bike-rider or runner when it didn't make me swim, ride or run? (Weight-training also fell by the wayside for similar reasons). And while I knew I was inflexible, embarrassingly so, I was getting great results at my races - beating people who could touch their noses to their knees. This was air-tight logic then.

But, as the saying goes, fortune favors change. (I think Mom told me that one). Or maybe it was that you shouldn't count the burning bridges before they change. Anyway. You get the idea.

Well, with the weather this week making it too cold and rainy to exercise outside, I trained indoors. Windtrainer. Weights. Spinning Classes. And since they were free, yoga classes.

-The windtrainer was what it always was and will be, though this time more tolerable because of Instant Netflix.
-The weights were nice, mainly because I'm past the stage where each lift is followed by paralytic soreness, and I'm starting to feel strong(er) again.
-The spin classes were fun (especially in the new shoes), though the music choice by the instructors leaves something to be desired, as does their obsession with having you get out of the saddle for five seconds and then sit down for five and then stand up for five... it doesn't exactly lead to a smooth ride.

But all of these were familiar, and I knew why I was doing them and how much progress I could make.

Yoga was a different story.

Going in, I expected to stretch and breathe and listen to quiet music. I did a bit of that, for sure. (I even bowed along with everyone else at the end of class and said "Namaste"). But I didn't realize the strength, the control that yoga demands. My legs burned holding chair pose and a variation of warrior pose and lots of other poses that I can't pronounce the name of. I dripped sweat trying to follow a supposedly "Restorative Yoga" class. Doing basic movements and holding basic positions were not as easy as they should be for someone who considers them-self in good shape.

After each class, I would leave feeling loose, but strong. I had stretched and strengthened - especially the muscles I rarely dedicate any time to intentionally stretch or strengthen.

And so it was born. Yoga is now part of the training routine. Starting off three times a week. Possibly building to four in a few months. There is plenty of room for growth - both in terms of flexibility and strength - but I look forward to it. And having tried it, I know it can only make me a better triathlete. Hell, maybe even a better person. I'm excited about all of it, no matter how slowly I progress.

Like Mom says, "Rome's bridges weren't burned in a day."

Interesting Conversations

I know that the capital of Mexico is Mexico City. I know a good portion of the multiplication table. I also know that my shoulder pops/grinds quite loudly, and if I press it at a certain point and time it correctly, I can get a reaction out of pretty much anybody (I seem to remember Ellie's face especially. She looked as if I had just vomited on myself).

Another piece of knowledge I have acquired over the years is that what interests me does not always interest others. In fact, it rarely does. I have come to know this is their fault, not mine.

For instance, I know that Carinne doesn't really care about the fact that:

-I bought new spin shoes [with spd cleats- which I've never used before], and they feel great, not only in comfort but also because there isn't nearly as much play in my pedals as before, with my shimano/ultegra pedals.

-The Jack and Adams team gear feels great. Especially the bib shorts, which I am looking forward to donning on a some long rides. And if nothing else, when I unzip my J&A top, I feel like a tour de france rider with the mesh-overalls showing.

-At the Pure Austin Quarry Lake location, I am excited about swimming in their lake because I won't have to flip-turn and I hate flip-turns. Also, I'm excited because two laps around the lake is roughly 1,500 meters, and that's convenient to measure a workout against. Plus, it will be good to get a few swim workouts in my wetsuit.

-Driving home from work yesterday, I caught the light right before I get on to I-35. I never get that light. Never. But I did yesterday.


These of course, are life's little victories. We all have them. Most of mine, I've discovered, are some way related to my training. (Running a ten mile Town Lake loop in a minute faster than before... Destroying Joe in T1... Buying a new Gu flavor and loving it). And these things happen and there is a sense of fulfillment. Of triumph. But just as I kind of zone out when Carinne talks about what happened in her dreams, I see that same distant look in her eyes when I talk about my bib shorts and how comfortable they really are, even on a windtrainer.

She is a work in progress, for sure, but with the patience I have inherited from my father, I will keep at it, keep relaying bits of information like: "It was a great run today. I didn't chafe at all," -- I will keep saying these things until she either finds them interesting, or abandons me. Though as she has said repeatedly, I am "the light of her life." Abandoning me, therefore, would leave her wallowing in the shadows. However, women are notoriously irrational. You can't put anything past them.

Well, I've got a phone call to make. I think Carinne needs to know that the new protein Gu powder I bought tastes milky and sticks to my throat, and will therefore be excluded from my diet. I will explain to her some other products I am considering, perhaps tossing in a few reservations about each one. I won't ask her opinion of course, but will toss her an easy question like "can you guess what I'm wearing right now?" just to keep her interested and distract her from talking about her dreams.

The Side of the Road

It is where they found the body of Jim Fixx, the author of "The Complete Book of Running" when he collapsed and died of a heart attack. It is where I have changed countless flats, including one in the dark, in the rain, on a hill, in winter on the way home from work. It is where aid stations and mile markers are located, and where you high-five family and friends during a race. The side of the road. It is the twilight zone of running and riding, a place you never think of, somewhere between the world of people who use the sidewalk and those who use the road. It is where, if you had been driving or riding along Beach Drive yesterday in the brisk 35 degrees of late morning, you would have passed me, running as fast as my battle-scarred legs would carry me for 8 minutes, so I have some numbers about heart rate and distance to share with my coach.

Based on these numbers, we will plan running workouts that will make me faster and stronger which, based on yesterday's effort, should not be hard. I suspect my feeling of sluggishness had something to do with the sub-freezing temperatures (there was a nice little breeze). I don't seem to operate as well when the temperature is below about 45. That is some sort of threshold for me. It always takes me about 15 minutes to feel like I am running, and 45-50 minutes to actually feel fluent. In the real cold of winter, I never really hit that second point, and I make the first by the slimmest of margins. My heart rate was higher in Panama City last Monday in a steady run than it was yesterday in a full-on effort. Go figure.

The real significance of all this is that, in the dark days of winter, I am laying the ground work for an exceptional year. I am training with a focus and a purpose, and I am in regular touch with a coach who sets workouts and helps me track progress and analyze results. My Garmin is going to be my new best friend, and I will be doing field tests every 8-12 weeks to see how I am improving. It's exciting, and I look forward to a year of great achievement, including perhaps a July visit to Lake Placid, to see what I can do on that course when I am in the sort of condition I should be after 6 solid months of work.

It has been a few years since I have raced as well as I can. I think I have become comfortable training in ways that I like, and neglecting the things that are really difficult. I have allowed speed to slip, and I have tended to run as I feel, rather than for a purpose. My nutrition has been hit-and-miss. This is all fine, unless you are 54 and wanting to excel, in which case you need to stop making excuses and start making smart decisions that will maximize the impact of your training. One thing that keeps me focused is another memory from the side of a road. On Alii Drive, near the beach where the Ironman starts, is a little marker. It is where the race finishes. I want to cross that line again. It is one of the greatest moments in life.

It begins

It has been 2011 for three days now, and I've been training for two of them. Nothing major; two windtrainer sessions where I turned up some good music and rolled the legs over, pushing the pace towards the end just to see what was remained in the legs and not finding much. This comes as no surprise, as I haven't been on my bike since October, or done anything since October. I took a much needed break: drank beer, read books, watched movies, and drank more beer. But it is no longer October. It is January, and has been for three days. And I am back on the bike, appreciating songs with steady drums.

Today was a fifty-minute windtrainer session, no heart-rate zones or intervals, just turning the pedals and sweating. I thought about lots of things, as you do when you aren't going anywhere. I missed my family, who are still by the beach and laughing at the little one who tells everyone to sit. I envisioned Wisconsin, what my legs would look like after nine months of good riding. I thought about my purpose, because I had read Jack Canfield in the morning. I thought how nice the bike sounded after our hibernation. I laughed at the end, when I gritted my teeth and had nothing. And the ride was over.

There is a long road between here and Ironman Wisconsin. A very long one. I know it. And if I train the way I want, it won't always be a pleasant route. It will push me to places I would rather not go, force me to ask questions and then live with the answers. It will take me up hills that destroy my legs and beneath water at 5 am when I'd rather be sleeping. I know it won't always be this much fun. But today, as I listened to a phenomenal song with a glorious drumbeat and powerful guitars and felt my legs scream like the lead singer's voice, it was.

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