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