Mythbusters

As we all learned in grade school, the world's greatest thinkers each spent time engaged in pursuits that might seem childish to outsiders. Galileo threw stuff out windows; DaVinci put hidden messages in his paintings (like the "find the fish" games you see in dentist office magazines, and Einstein experimented with hairstyle ideas with one of those "Hairy Harry" iron filings & magnetic pencil novelty games. Weird Al Yankovic read Spiderman comics, and if I'm not mistaken, Sir Isaac Newton spent countless hours playing "Skee-Ball".

Now I'm not trying to imply that I'm of the same calibre as these history-changing intellects -- all I'm saying is that it's not necessarily a bad thing to mix in a little fluff along with your serious educational pursuits. I mean, if you watch serious brainiac shows like Jeopardy, Nova, and those specials where Geraldo digs up buried stuff, well...it's OK to throw in a little Simpsons, Family Guy, or South Park along with it. I don't think that watching SpongeBob necessarily taints my credibility as a deep thinker; that's all I'm saying.

Fortunately, there's one show that combines science and entertainment in a most pleasing fashion -- Mythbusters. They perform serious experiments, examine the evidence of cause and effect, and also blow stuff up and chuck dummies out of airplanes. What more could you want?

The concept appeals to nearly everyone. We've all heard tales that sound outlandish, but may or may not be true, and we'd all like to know which are true and which are sheer baloney. Some of the "truths" I doubted, even as a kid, include "you must wait an hour after eating before you swim" and "you'll get a better tan if you get sunburned first". Another one that my mom firmly believed (but always seems a bit iffy to me) was that hot water freezes faster. I never did understand where that one came from.

[Note to self: send an email to the show asking them to explain the myth that "bologna" is an acceptable spelling for baloney. I'm not sure how they'd attack that theme, but I have a feeling there's an explosion in there somewhere.]

Those myths (and countless others) have been thoroughly busted, but there are still plenty more out there. I saw a particularly satisfying episode the other night -- they took on the conspiracy theory that the moon landings had been faked.

That has special significance for me, because I work in the aerospace industry, and because my son and I have had some very stimulating discussions on that very topic. And of course, because of the movie "Capricorn One", which starred the guy who's married to Barbra Striesand (one of Al Gore's chief science consultants), and O.J. Simpson, who has been proven in court to tell nothing but 100% of the truth. Anyway, it's been a few years now since it happened, but there was a time when Tanner's school buddies stumbled onto the "moon landing conspiracy" idea and were able to quote the arguments about the anomalies in the photos, videos, and news reports.

I tried to explain to the boys that for one thing, there are too darn many people in the aerospace business to keep such a conspiracy quiet, and besides, I have actually worked with the folks who design and build the machines that travel into space. These are really smart guys, and it doesn't take long in the business to become absolutely convinced that they can do what they say they can do. After all, if there wasn't a successful space program, how would your GPS and satellite TV systems work? Huh?

Of course, the kids didn't listen to me, because after all, I'm a part of the "establishment" (ie, I have a job), and am therefore part of the conspiracy. (I've hung out with Buzz Aldrin, after all.) But when Mythbusters takes it on, the kids'll actually pay attention. And thank goodness, the show hit every single one of the points that were part of the conspiracy theory, and debunked them all. It's an excellent episode, and I'd recommend that you watch it if you get the chance.

And watch the other episodes, too. Even if the myths they're exploring aren't very compelling, the chances are pretty good that the Mythbusters crew is going to blow something up in spectacular fashion, and that beats the heck out of watching Desperate Housewives, doesn't it?

And you just know that one of these days they're going to reveal whether you really need to get out of the swimming pool in a lightning storm, and will give us the real scoop on what happened in Roswell in 1947. I can't wait to see that one!

Looking Forward to Some Rest & Relaxation

Thank goodness this proposal is winding down. I've worked well past my normal quitting time for most of the nights this week, and I'm tired.

So what do I have to look forward to for the weekend? Housecleaning! Paying bills! Cooking! All the stuff I've neglected while I've been working extended hours. Of course, I'll also throw in some exercise, some guitar playing, and probably even some vegetative TV watching. Wouldn't it be nice if there was a good ol' Pink Panther movie on or something?

Anyway, I do expect to be blogging with more regularity and hopefully, with more interesting topics. Hey, I might even include some exciting photos of me vacuuming or boiling rice or something. That's something to look forward to, isn't it?

Thanks for sticking with me through the lean writing times. I do see some better blogging upon the horizon. Have a great day!

Convention

Let's see; both parties have already decided who to nominate for President, and at least one of the designated candidates has already selected his running mate. So...uh, WHY do we need entire weeks of speeches, news coverage, protests, and more speeches?

I know -- we're just getting more of it here because the Democratic Convention is in Denver this year. There are about 4 times as many journalists in town as there are delegates, and there are about 80 times more celebrity parties than there are events of any consequence. It reminds me of a line from an old Don McLean song:

There's 8000 Communists here in the States, and that's why Hoover infiltrates. Three thousand belong to the FBI; without their support, the party would die.

I'm sick of it already. At the risk of being labeled as a crusty old coot, I am taking a stand here: I refuse to watch any of the TV coverage, listen to the radio, or go downtown looking for a clandestine glance of Matt Damon or Daryl Hannah. I really just don't care at this point.

Don't get me wrong -- I enjoyed "Splash". Sortof. And I loved Matt Damon's performance in "Team America"...but I'm tired from working all this overtime on our proposal, and I just want to go home and watch the Mythbusters blow up stuff, or perhaps some old Simpsons reruns. I do not have the patience for endless strings of politicians promising stuff they can't deliver, protestors who rant because it's easier than actually learning any facts about an issue, nor news anchors who think that promising and ranting are the most important things going on in our country.

I'm not saying that I don't care about the upcoming election, because I do. I cherish my right to vote, and I intend to seriously study the candidates and the issues before casting my ballot. I also intend to change the channel every single time a campaign ad comes on. If Satan himself were running for office, his ad agency would convince you that he loves puppies and flowers and has always supported renewable energy.

Perhaps I won't be quite so cynical after I get a few good nights' sleep. But I never was much of a party animal, and the convention hoopla strikes me as nothing but a very expensive version of an extended college kegger. And I guess that makes me the studious nerd down the hall who puts the pillow over his head trying to shut out the noise. So be it. I just hope that it also means that I'll get an "A" when all the conventioneers are nursing their hangovers.

OK, maybe that's stretching the metaphor. But I will urge you to do your homework: start with a quick refresher on your basic civics (ie, realize that Congress -- not the President -- makes the laws and is responsible for taxes, budgets, etc). Also, be aware that looking at a candidate's voting record is far more educational than listening to a commercial. And keep in mind that if somebody voted against a particular education bill, it could be because that bill contained a million-dollar earmark for Chairman Mao posters to be installed above Public School drinking fountains...it doesn't necessarily mean that the representative in question hates children. But that's sure the way the ads will make it sound.

Or maybe I really am just a wet blanket. Perhaps I should take the bus downtown and join in the festivities. After all, the biggest celebrity I've ever met so far is Roger Ebert; maybe I could upgrade to something more George Clooney-esque. Maybe I could get close enough to Bruce Springsteen to figure out why the heck people seem to like his music. Maybe the newspeople are so desperate for stories that they'd put me on camera if I told them I was voting for Ross Perot or something.

Nah. I don't think so. I'm just going to go home each night, watch some Discovery/Sci Fi Channel thing about sharks who experience paranormal phenomena while I eat my Manwich, and then go to bed early, before any of the A-list speeches even start.

Wake me when it's all over, will you? Thanks!

Geography

Well, the Olympics are over. Four more years to train for the next Games. I sometimes wish they competed in the Tazmanian Hula, but then I remember that if it were an official event, people would actually train for it and I'd lose my advantage in a hurry. Perhaps I should try out for ping pong. Or maybe one of the "armpit noises" events.

Sigh. Let's face it, even if the category was "Impersonations of Minor Star Trek Characters" (at which I am excellent), there'd still be someone who's better at it than I am. I do a lot of things well, I'll admit, but have never really stumbled upon that one thing that could elevate me to the Olympic podium. I have pretty much just given up on those dreams, and am learning to settle for merely being a middle-of-the-road, normal, boring type of generic macho-stud he-man.

Or at least I was giving up...until I watched the "rhythmic gymnastics" competition. Have you seen this stuff? It's where these pixie-ish girls put on colorful tights and dance around on a gymnastics mat, waving a big streamer of ribbon as if it were a fourth-of-july sparkler, occasionally stopping to bend their legs in directions that human limbs are simply not meant to bend. The event has an eerie sort of beauty to it, I suppose, if you can force yourself not to think about the possibility that these chicks are shape-shifting aliens using the Olympic venue to select the juiciest victims. I don't know exactly why the image is so strong, but when they bring their legs backwards up over the top of their heads, I find myself hoping that Sigourney Weaver will show up with a fork lift and a flame thrower to put an end to it.

Anyway, I overheard someone asking if this is really a "sport". It certainly requires training, strength, agility, and coordination. It probably takes as much discipline as any other athletic endeavor, and yet...and yet it still looks like kids running around in the yard on a warm summer evening. Is that a sport?

As I've said before, I enjoy sports where there's either a ball or a finish line. I'm not such a fan of events where the winner is picked by subjective judging. Those events, rather than being designated as "sports", should probably be categorized as "reality television" and should end with Ryan Secrest telling the audience to phone in their votes. I suspect that some of the diving and gymnastics events might have ended differently under those conditions.

And come to think of it, maybe we should hire Chuck Barris to organize the next Olympics. Put a big gong beside the balance beam, and let David Hasselhoff smack that puppy whenever a routine goes bad.

[Unrelated topic: What's up with remaking the "Knight Rider" TV series? What's next -- "Gilligan's Island" starring Seth Green and and that guy from "King of Queens"? Lordy.]

Anyway, the subject of this blog is "geography", so I should probably get around to discussing the topic. Here's the deal: I was watching the men's marathon...which has a finish line, and is therefore a positively dandy sport in my opinion...when the announcer mentioned a runner from Eritrea. At first I thought had said that the runner had air-itreeia, which I assumed was some sort of tuburcular infection that would leave him wheezing on the roadside before the next aide station. But then I figured out that he was talking about the dude's home country.

OK, so maybe I don't keep up on current events as well as I should. But I'm pretty sure that there was no country called Eritrea on the globe when I was studying geography back in the one-room schoolhouse. Of course, the world has changed a lot since then, and I have kept up with some of it. I knew that Yugoslavia had gone away, for example (along with the lovely Yugo automobile, drat the luck),and that the Soviet Union now only exists within Dolph Lundgren movies...but some of the African restructuring had escaped my attention. Anyway, I looked up Eritrea on the web, and found that it is one of those little countries over by Djibouti, bordering on the Better Dead Than Red Sea, or some arabian fjords or something. The Capital is Asmara, which I would've thought was either the name of a skinny supermodel, or another type of pulmonary disease.

[Unrelated side note: Didn't K.C. and the Sunshine Band do a song about the turmoil in that area. "Shake Djibouti"? Hmm.]

The Olympics website had a really cool little geography tool that told about each country, when they joined the Games, and what sports they sent athletes too. It was really interesting, but unfortunately, they've removed the page already. But the point is that whether you consider ribbon-swinging a sport or not, there is much education to be gleaned from watching sports on TV. I'm urging you, from my position as a newly-educated north African scholar, to pay attention when you hear an announcer appearing to diagnose an athlete's lung condition -- you might be able to learn something about a new country, and about this world we live in.
That would be cool.

Happy to be of service. Have a great day!

Practice

Remember that old joke about the tourist who asks a native New Yorker how to get to Carnegie Hall? And the native says, "Practice, practice, practice."

Well, that's what I've been thinking about today. No, not how to get to Carnegie Hall -- I could figure that out from Google Maps. No, I've been thinking about the value of practice.

There are a couple of reasons for this. One is that Tanner beat me at tennis again the other day. This is not right. Oh sure, he's younger, quicker, and smarter than I am, but I have the experience, cunning, and strategic mindset that should allow me to overcome his greater talent. Plus, I'm still supporting him financially, and that should count for something, right?

Another motivation to practice is that I'm still feeling somewhat tapered from my preparation for the Horsetooth 10K, and still somewhat psyched from watching the Olympics. I don't know if the general public pays any attention to the overall quality of the competitors -- but there is SO much more to be inspired by than just Phelps and Torres. Just the general energy and enthusiasm the swimmers bring to the pool gets me fired up. So...since I'm already in reasonable shape, why not train even harder and see if maybe I could improve a bit more?

But back to the Carnegie Hall thing: I'm very pleased by the fact that Tanner is practicing so hard to improve his piano playing — and his musical skills in general. His natural talent has always made music easy for him, but he has now decided that he wants to be excellent, as opposed to just really good. I'm hoping that this extra practice results in gainful employment of some sort, but the jury isn't in yet. I'll let you know, though.

In the meantime, I shall continue to practice those skills that are important to me. And I'll ask this question: Is there anything that YOU should be practicing? Maybe we can work together to keep each other inspired and motivated. Give it some thought, OK? Thanks, and have a great day!

8 Gold Medals

It's not anywhere near as impressive as say, the musical output of Led Zeppelin, or like when that Klaatu dude made the whole world stand still...but nevertheless, 8 golds in one Olympics is a stunning accomplishment. I'm glad that I got to watch each of those fabulous swims.

It's too bad that the other relay members will probably fade from memory. Do you remember who swam on the gold medal relays with Mark Spitz? You don't? Uh...well, then, um, I was one of them!

No, I can't show you my medals. I, uh...lost them. In a flood. No, wait, I mean that I had to sell them to pay for the emergency brain surgery I needed when I fell off the dock while escaping with a tricorder full of energy captured from nuclear wessels. Or something like that.

OK. OK, you caught me, I confess. I've never won any Olympic gold. The closest I've come is winning my heat at a "B" meet in the Great Plains League Invitational in Wellington, Kansas. It's not going to get me any six-figure endorsement deals, but I have to say that they had really nice medals for a town that had no indoor plumbing.

But I did actually hang out with Spitz for a while. In fact, he and I got pretty close, for a time.

And by that, I mean that I once stood within a few feet of him for a few seconds. It was at the 1973 National Swimming Championships, which happened to be in Kansas City that year. My roommate and I and a few other Wichita Swim Club buddies went over from Lawrence to watch the meet. It was pretty cool to actually see the best swimmers in the country in person.

Spitz had retired after the '72 Olympics, but he attended the meet, probably to see if any of his records would be broken. At one point, he stood in an accessible area of the pool deck, so we each took turns standing beside him while the others took movies of it. No, he wasn't wearing his gold around his neck, and no, he wasn't aware of us in any way other than perhaps being annoyed by the cloud of hovering teens swarming around him like pesky insects.

I do still have the films of this historic close encounter, but haven't yet transferred it to a digital format. I'll post it one of these days, if I can. But I'll go ahead and share a couple of observations right now.

• Unlike Michael Phelps, Mark Spitz isn't very tall. And because his knees are double-jointed and actually flex backward when he's in a relaxed standing position, he appears even shorter. From the magnitude of his performance, I had expected a bigger guy. If I had put on another 20 pounds of muscle or so, we'd have been about the same size. And I had a mustache, too...we almost could've been twins.
• Spitz was obviously delighted when nobody broke his records. He was high-fiving his minions, and grinning from ear to ear each time the competitors swam one of his events, but failed to equal his times.
• And here's a note to all the teenagers out there: no matter how cool you think you are because you're standing next to a heroic Olympic figure, you might not actually want to film it -- because quite honestly, you're still a dork.
• I don't care if my dorkitude has been captured on film for all of posterity to laugh at...it was still pretty cool to be standing next to Mark Spitz. Maybe I'll have a chance to stand next to Phelps one of these days; and will be able to grab photographic evidence of how much shorter, older, and dorkier I am than he is. Cool.

Will Phelps' achievement ever be equalled or bettered? Yeah, I would say that it's a virtual certainty. It probably won't be for a while, but maybe some kid I see wading around in the activity pool at the Ridge will be the one to do it. And maybe he'll tell a very old Bob Costas that he got his first swimming inspiration from watching my Masters Team.

That would make my day.

The Olympic 100 Butterfly Final

"What in the wide wide world of sports is a-goin' on here?"

Extra credit if you can identify the source of that quote. (Answer at the end of this entry.)

That was one of the most exciting and oddball things I've even seen in any world of sports, wide wide or not. I'm talking, of course, about Michael Phelps' amazing (and sneaky) victory in the 100 butterfly, securing his 7th gold medal of the 2008 Games.

As I watched it, I was certain that Phelps had finished in second place, and was startled when the graphic showed him as the winner. He was clearly beaten, but just as clearly had actually won the race -- thus elevating himself from mere Amazing Phenomenon into Mystical & Legendary Historical Figure, thereby joining the ranks of Bob Beamon, Rosie Ruíz, and that Greek guy who established the marathon distance by dropping dead without any concern at all for what might be a nice round number of miles.

(After further consideration, I realize that Rosie Ruíz probably isn't a good example to use...but seriously, other than Beamon, who else had conjured that sort of magic to elevate their Olympic performance? Phelps has joined a very elite club.)

Anyway, that race does emphasize a couple of my feelings about sporting events.

1. I really prefer competitions where there are touchpads. The winner is the person who touches it first. No subjective judging. No "tenth of a point deductions". No inflated scores due to Commie judges trying to cheat like the lousy Commie swine they are.
2. And seriously, you really should finish as hard as you can, no matter what. I hate seeing the track guys running only 80 meters of a 100 meter race and then coasting in. I hate seeing baseball players not run out ground balls. Oh, I'd probably be despised for being such a hardcore and unrelenting coach when it came to such things, but finishing hard is exactly what I would expect, no exceptions. (Wait. I am a coach. And I do expect that. No wonder the swimmers hate me. Geez.) Anyway, the point is that Mr. Cavic should've kicked it in just a hair harder. And I think he'd agree with me.

No matter what feelings you may have about photo finishes or how final placements are determined, though, you have to admit that you'll remember this one. It was a heck of a race, and a fantasic finish -- something to tell your grandkids about.

Oh, and by the way, the quote above was from Slim Pickens, as Mr. Taggert in Blazing Saddles. It has nothing whatsoever to do with sports. I just like Slim Pickens. Deal with it, OK? And have a great day!

Obese America

First, let me establish my credentials to speak about this topic: I earned a B.S. Degree in Journalism from the world-renowned William Allen White School of Journalism at the University of Kansas. (William Allen White was the dude who wrote "Charlotte's Web", I think. Or maybe that was E. Betty White. Or was it Jaleel White? Whatever; William Allen White wrote something, and it made him famous enough to get a school named after him... so the fact that I have a Journalism degree from that particular college means that I am a highly-qualified authority to speak about the subject of Journalism. Right?

OK, now that you have complete confidence in the accuracy and truth of whatever I say, I shall proceed.

Thursday morning, I went over to the Peak Recreation Center for an early-morning workout. There were about a dozen other folks there, including Kim (who does about a million vertical steps each day on the Stairmaster, and also plays racquetball and swims on the Masters team), Katie (who runs at least 4 miles every day, lifts weights, does 200 sit-ups, and swims on the Masters team), Carolanne (who teaches a spinning class, coaches & swims on the Masters team, and does triathlons), and Tim (a dependable regular who puts in miles and miles on the treadmill), as well as all the old guys who hammer on the stationary bikes, shred the ellipticals, and rotate through every single weight machine. While I was doing my leg presses, I happened to catch a reporter on the morning news program making the following peculiar statement:

"A new study shows that based on current trends, 100% of Americans will be obsese by the year 2020."

What? Did I hear that correctly? 100%? Every single American will be wallowing in blimposity in a dozen years? Even the guys who are trying to break Michael Phelps' records? Even supermodels? Even (gasp) Fabio?

Well, OK, Fabio's probably not an American. (I think he's like French or Presbyterian or something.) But it's still pretty disturbing to think of David Hasselhoff and Lindsey Lohan and Keith Richards going all Dom DeLuise on us.

OK, I'm not sure Keith Richards is really American, either...but you know what I mean. According to this trusted television news program, every single man, woman, and child in the USA (including athletes, vegans, talk-show hosts, and anorexics) is going to be unable to fit in an airline seat before we've even forgotten who Ben Affleck is. It's an astounding statement to make.

And it graphically illustrates how inane and pandering our mainstream media journalists are these days. I work with scientists on a daily basis, and I can guarantee that not one single legitimate researcher anywhere would've used those words within a study conclusion. I don't care how drastically Taco Bell lowers the price of its zesty crunchy folded-over tortilla whatzit, there will always be at least a few Americans who will remain fit and fabulous. (Or is it Fabio-ulous?) And I am proud to know and associate with many of them on a daily basis. In fact, just this week, I've gotten about a half-dozen phone calls from people who were inspired by the Olympic swimming events, and are asking about joining our swim team. I wonder what that trend would indicate if you extrapolated it out a dozen years? 100% of Americans join a swim team?

That would be nice, but I doubt it.

I guess the points I'm trying to make are these:

1. Don't believe everything you hear on TV. (Especially political ads, but that's a different topic entirely, which I may tackle on another day.)


2. Eat more fruits and vegetables, and avoid stuff like high-fructose corn syrup and any restaurant item whose name begins with "Death by..."


3. Immediately join your local Masters Swim Team. Studies have shown that 100% of Masters Swimmers are healthier, smarter, and live longer than normal people. Plus, they smell like chlorine, which is such a turn-on...

Oh, and one more thing. I don't have the science to back this up; it's just a gut feeling. But I'd recommend avoiding both Ben Affleck and Lindsey Lohan. Just to be safe.

Have a great day!

It Must Be the Suits

NBC has finally been showing a bit more underwater video of the Olympic swimmers as they continue to smash the World Records in every single event. As a swim coach, I am fascinated by the underwater shots -- that's where you can tell what they're doing that makes these folks so incredibly fast.

The dolphin kick off the wall is probably the most noticable thing the Olympians do that is beyond my capability. My decades-older body simply won't move like that. (Well, to be honest, age probably has little to do with it -- I have never been able to undulate like that.) My feet don't flex the way theirs do, either. Coming off the wall, I'm certain that I'll never achieve such a fishlike body wiggle and such Flipper-esque tail power.

But other than that, my stroke looks exactly like Michael Phelps! Exactly, I tells ya!

So why can't I go faster?

And don't give me any hogwash about "natural talent" or "better training" or "bigger muscles". I'm not buying any of those lame excuses. And don't tell me that I'm just a wimp, either -- while that might indeed be true, it still wouldn't explain the disparity between MY performance and Mr. Phelps's. I can't see anything that he's doing that explains why he'd be finished with the race and have time to do an interview, warm down, and eat a hot dog before I ever made it to the wall.

It must be the expensive swimming suits.

I'm tellin' ya, if I got one of the new Speedos, then I'm sure I'd be setting records left and right, too. But (sigh), since I can't afford one, we'll all just have to operate under the assumption that I'm really fast, since no actual proof will be forthcoming. But it's OK -- you can ask me for autographs if you like, and I'll write down what I eat each day so the network can do an "up close and personal" documentary about how many calories I consume, etc. The lack of a fancy, gut-compressing, slick-as-a-penguin swimsuit is the only thing that is keeping me from the fame and glory that I deserve.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

In the meantime, I'll just keep doing what I'm doing, and will be thankful that I don't have to deal with all the screaming fans, universal adoration, and endorsement revenue that torments Michael on a daily basis. And that's not even taking into account the chiropractor bills he'll eventually have to pay to fix his neck from being weighed down with all that posture-ruining gold. Poor guy.

Oh well. We each have to do the best we can, right? Hold our form, keep the head down & get a good catch, dolphin kick as well as our inflexible tendons will allow, and refuse to let the lack of high-tech swimwear keep us from having a great day.

Sounds good to me.

First Hints of Fall

As I walked out the door on my way to swim practice yesterday, I could actually feel a bit of a chill in the air; Global Warming must be losing its grip on the season. It's funny how you notice the change of seasons in subtle ways like that. At first, there's a slight bite to the morning air, then suddenly you'll notice that leaves are falling and neighbors are lubing up their snow-throwers.

I'm quite happy that our string of 90°+ days ended, but I'm not at all sure that I'm ready for the cruel fangs of winter to defile my nicely-tanned summer flesh. I'm not quite ready to give up swimming at Chatfield, riding my bike, or cruising the grocery store aisles in shorts. I'm definitely not ready to wear a coat.

Yeah, I know -- one slightly crisp morning does not an ice age make. (Though apparently, it does prompt involuntary Yoda-isms...sorry about that.) But it's hard not to notice that the sun rises later and later each day. And if I ever stayed up past 7:30pm, I'm sure that I notice it setting earlier and earlier as well.

But kids are back in school, we're already waist-deep in the Olympics, and Labor Day is just around the corner. (Oh, and by the way, you know that proposal I mentioned that I'd be working on? It's due the day after the holiday. Our beloved government procurement agencies seem to derive unending pleasure out of creating schedules that require contractor employees to work through holidays; probably as payback for the fact that we elected a Congress that hauls them in to testify before a committee every time a toilet seat or a hammer costs a mere few hundred bucks more than what you'd find at Lowe's.) It won't be long until the jack-o-lanterns and scary Al Gore masks are out on display, and it won't be long until the Rockies and Broncos are mathmatically eliminated from the playoffs. Yes, indeed, Fall is approaching.

I'm not trying to be Grumpy McBuzzkill here; I'm really just saying that it's time to take stock of the items on your summer to-do list, and start gettin' em done. Take a hike in the hills, stick your feet in a lake, or toss a frisbee around with the kids. Don't just sit inside and watch TV.

Unless there's swimming on.

But no matter what the temperature is, remember to appreciate every moment of every season, and have a great day, OK?

Olympic Gymnastics

I used to watch Olympic gymnastics with keen interest. I have always suspected that I could've easily become a gymnast in high school except that a) I was already a swimmer (and the two sports shared the same high school season), and b) I still had too many scars, bruises, and wake-up-screaming nightmares from the one time I tried to do a back flip off the diving board. (Remind me, and I'll tell you all about that sometime. It's an especially amusing story if you like blood. Lots of blood.) Anyway, there was a time when I enjoyed viewing gymnastics, knew the names of the athletes, and actually would've considered dating one or two of the female competitors. None of the females had Dorothy Hamill desirability, and were nowhere near the Summer Sanders zone, but I still thought they were OK.

And as for the guys, well, I actually started writing a screenplay for Kurt Thomas to play an updated, urban Zorro...but then he went and made Gymkata, which made me want to jam knitting needles into my eyes and chug a bottle of Liquid PlumR.

[Interlude for a Little Perspective: As abysmal as Gymkata was, Kurt Thomas really wasn't the problem with it. I doubt that even a great actor like Stephen Segal or Jean Claude VanDam could've overcome the poor script and incompetent direction. But Gymkata was a hundred thousand times better than Mark Spitz's ill-advised acting debut on "Emergency". Mr. Spitz could certainly swim, but when it came to acting, he was sure as heck no Johnny Weismuller. And for further perspective, check out breaststroke champion Steve Lundquist in "Return of the Killer Tomatos"; and that's probably all I need to say about that.]

Even though I had been a fan in the old days, my appreciation for Olympic gymnastics has faded. Perhaps I began losing it when the commentators described Olga Korbut as "cute". Or perhaps it was when they pronounced the Hamm brothers' surname as "Hahm". Dudes, this is America -- you're just going to have to pronounce your name like a honey-baked pork product (or at least like the beer from the land of sky-blue waters). And don't even get me started on all the reasons that Team USA should never have had a coach with the same first name as Dracula. Sheesh.

[Editor's note: The previous paragraph and its obvious lack of sensitivity to diversity issues does not represent the opinion of anyone associated with this website. We openly embrace all cultures, languages, and political backgrounds. We recognize and affirm that all individuals (even Commies) have the right to represent our country's sports teams, or to find attractiveness even in people whose name contains the word "butt" and/or whose face looks like one. Thank you for your support.]

It's gotten worse--to the point where I can barely watch. Part of it is that the competitors rarely smile, other than the forced and unnatural grins they momentarily slap on for the judges. It doesn't look like anyone is enjoying themselves. And then you add the slicked-back hairdos pinned up so tight that their faces have to hurt, the makeup and glitter on the faces of kids who don't even look 12, and the general appearance that they're all some sort of anorexic and soul-less mutants. And then there's all the weird arm waving and back bending at the end of each routine, and the fact that an amazing performance can be completely wiped out by one step over a line, and the insane brevity of the events. (I mean, a vaulter trains for years to compete for an event of literally two-second duration.)

There's also the concentration-camp atmosphere that seems to accompany the selection and training for the kids, making the whole sport seem like some sort of institutionalized torture. It's just not enjoyable. I feel like someone needs to tell the gymnasts to go hang out with the swimmers for a while; those guys take their sport seriously, but still know how to rock out, eat burgers, and party!

Of course, all the swimmers are over 6 feet tall, so the gymnasts would only come up to their knees. Perhaps Mike Myers could find comedic possibilities in such a meeting, but I suspect it would just be uncomfortable for everyone. So in the absence of a plan to let the swimmers help 'em chill, my advice to the gymnasts would be this: Let your hair down, listen to some Weird Al, and order a dang pizza. When you can smile again, converse intelligently about baseball, and stand up straight without looking like an Egyptian hieroglyph...well, then I might come back to watch and enjoy your sport.

That's my advice to gymnasts. For the rest of the world, my advice is to enjoy the swimming, and hang out with swimmers as much as you can. That way, you'll always have a great day!

Proposal Time

I shall apologize in advance for my upcoming slackerhood. We're going back into Proposal Mode at the office, which means that my ability (and desire) to document and share every one of my boring and meaningless activities with you will be severely curtailed.

Oh, don't worry, I shall still find daily bits of tedium that I feel are worth sharing simply because they happened to ME...but I probably won't have the time and/or energy to type them up. Perhaps I'll save up a few and dogpile a buttload of blogs on you the moment the proposal is finished (just after Labor Day). Or perhaps not. We'll see.

Anyway, please forgive me if I appear to be neglecting these updates for the next two weeks. But please do check in from time to time -- you never know.

Thanks, and have a great day!

Hangin' With College Boy

This is the first time I've ever heard of a beauracracy whose efficiency was the cause of customer annoyance.

Being a slacker teenager and someone who spends more energy questioning the necessity of action than he would in simply doing what needs to be done, my son ignored his parents' oft-repeated pleas to get his college registration done before the deadline. He'd gathered everything he needed at least a week before it had to be done, and it would've taken him less than 10 minutes to complete the entire process. But no, he felt it necessary to wait until the very last second to select his classes and register online. The problem was that the school began purging "nonregistered" students before their own deadline -- so even though Tanner actually met the requirements prior to the cutoff, he had already been flagged as a no-show for this semester. Therefore, when he went to print out his class schedule, he found that it had been deleted from the system. Sigh.

So even though he had paid the fee on time, they sent him a refund check in the mail. Before he could start classes this semester, he needed to go to the registration office, return their refund check, and get them to reinstate his class schedule. I decided to accompany the boy on this adventure, not because I doubted his ability to complete the required transactions, but because I was not confident in his desire to get it done. I could see him saying "They wouldn't let me back in to my classes, so I need to take the semester off and work on my Warcraft skillz." No, I'm afraid that isn't the result his mom and I were looking for when we set aside money for his education. I went down to campus with him to protect my investment.

It was a gorgeous day for wandering around a college campus. As I saw all the fresh faces so ripe with possibility and opportunity, I made the remark that "I love being on college campuses!" He replied "Every adult I've ever come here with has made the exact same comment." I guess it just reminds us of the time in our lives where we hadn't yet found any ruts to get stuck in. Being on campus feels like freedom.

And just as they did when I was in college, the organizations who feast upon pliable minds were lining the walkways with tables, displays, and handouts. Groups like "Marijuana Smokers for Jesus", "Anarchists for Saving the Snail Darters", and the "Democrat Party" were all recruiting the innocent into their movements. Some even had authentic Tibetan refrigerator magnets to hand out, coupons for a free taco if you turn gay today, and invitations to a seminar where you can learn about the comfort and benefits of Universal Life Insurance -- all sorts of stuff like that.

We ignored these fabulous opportunities and proceeded straight to the Registration office. I won't bore you with the details of the runaround we got, but it was merely an amateur effort; they barely wasted our time at all. After talking to only a half dozen different people in only a handful of different locations, we actually found the answers we sought. We got the boy's class schedule reinstated and shuffled him off to meet his new teachers.

Because Tanner didn't have a ride home (and I wasn't in any particular hurry to get to work), I decided to hang out while he absorbed the subtle nuances of College Algebra, and would give him a lift home afterwards. While he was in class, I walked up and down the main pathway, and got a kick out of watching the kids. I'd guess that about 20% of the pedestrians were clueless frosh, heads wobbling in open-mouthed wonder as they searched for their classrooms. Another 20% were not students at all, but were folks like myself, or homeless people, or teachers. (Hard to tell the differences between those three categories, I guess.) I'll comment more regarding fashion trends and the general fitness level of the folks I saw at another time. For now, though, suffice it to say that it was a gorgeous day to be on campus.

Tanner's class ended, and with our chores completed, we headed toward home, intending to stop for lunch on the way. Guess where we decided to eat?

That's right, the world's most fabulous Mexican gun-fightin', cliff-divin', monkey-chasin', arcade-game-filled restaurant -- Casa Bonita! We were driving by the place and started talking about it, and Tanner mentioned that he really didn't remember what it was like. Apparently it had been 7 or 8 years since we'd been there. We made a spontaneous decision to just go for it. Nobody's birthday, no guests from out of town -- we're just too hungry guys having lunch in a mariachi-filled nuthouse! Should be fun.

It was. Unlike most civilized people, I do not detest the food at the Casa. Perhaps my taste buds are not too discriminating, or perhaps the folks who disparage it are being snooty just because the hoi polloi are simply not allowed to enjoy food that's served in the shadow of high-cliff cap-pistol melodrama. Whatever; I dig it, and also get a kick out of the kids who do the diving show...even if the script hasn't changed in 40 years.

This photo shows the dude in the middle of a back flip from the rafters. He didn't land with his toes pointed or his calves flexed, and wouldn't score high points from Olympic diving judges...but you still have to cheer for a high-school kid who can scamper up the rocks to an insane height and fling himself off into a pool that looks about the size of a bathtub. So what if he overacts a bit? It's fun!

We finished eating before the gorilla attack, but that's OK. The gunfight was entertaining enough, and we had some exploring to do. Once we were both stuffed to the gills, we got up and wandered through every section of the restaurant, while I told Tanner tales of his earlier experiences there. Yes, indeed, he was the kid who busted the piñata when he was 5, sparking his father's dreams that he'd be a major league ballplayer since he could swing a stick like that. And yes, he was truly petrified by the noises in Black Bart's cave, and by the giant spider puppet that grazed his head during a Halloween show. And yes, that's the stage where we watched part of a magic show...and then followed it up with your dad doing card tricks for you when we got home.

It's fun to remember when he was small enough to be overwhelmed by this place. But it's just as fun to realize that we'll be able to look back at this day, early in his adult life, and remember that we shared a good time then, as well. He has no idea how precious these moments are for me, and how I'll cherish them forever. But if he just remembers that he once had a good time hanging out with his old man, well, that's good enough for me.

Have a great day!

Recovery and Inspiration

Driving to Denver from Ft. Collins on a Sunday afternoon is never fun. There are just more cars than there are lanes on the road. But seriously, people, you don't have to stop in the middle of the lane to watch the cropdusters over the adjacent fields. If you want to watch...GET OFF THE HIGHWAY! Don't just slam on the brakes for your rubbernecking, ya slack-jawed yokel! Geez.

Whaddaya mean I need some anger management counseling? I'm not a candidate for road rage; perish the thought. But, boy, if I had a tank, or maybe some 007-style headlight rockets...

Uh, never mind. All I'm saying is that after my race, I just wanted to get home. I was tired, stiff, and really not in the mood to sit in a 45-mile-long traffic jam. By the time I got home, all I wanted to do was drink some more Gatorade and show the couch just how potato-like I could be.

Fortunately, the Olympics are made for just such a situation. I can totally shut down my mind during the inane network commentary, waking up only when there's an interesting competition. I used to enjoy the gymnastics competition, but for some reason I'm finding myself somewhat put off by it this year. The beach volleyball is fun, though I'm pretty much over the high-fiving after every single point. It's kinda like all the celebration dances in a pre-season football game -- seriously guys...it's your job. Just do it, and save the celebrations for something that's actually spectacular or noteworthy.

Am I wrong? Should I be slappin' some skin with my fellow editors every time I correct a typo? Should I go over in front of the author's desk and flex my biceps every single time I insert a comma that he missed? Sorry, but I just can't see it.

But did you watch the men's 4 x 100 freestyle relay? Now THAT, my friends, is worthy of celebration. If you can watch the finish of that race without your heart revving up and your chest tightening, then you're from a different planet entirely. Lezak's finish is one of the most spectacular things I've ever seen in sports, and I'm still buzzing from it. Not only is it amazing that the World Records keep being broken by such spectacular amounts, but it's inspiring and astounding to see the effort, the commitment, and the energy that these athletes can tap into. Go ahead guys, scream and yell and jump up and down all you want after that event. I'll stand up and shout with you. Even if it means getting up off the couch.

I would definitely call that having a great day! You have one too, OK?

Whoo hoo!

I had a PR (Personal Record) in the Horsetooth 10K open water swim on Sunday! I'm tired and a little sore, but extremely happy. It was an excellent race, and I swam even better than I had hoped I would.

I arrived in Fort Collins Saturday evening, just as the pre-race activities began. I picked up my t-shirt and latex swim cap, and settled in at the dinner table. For some reason (probably so unintroduced paddlers could find their swimmers), they had assigned each of us to a particular table. I was fortunate once again to have the able guidance of the same experienced kayaker who had led me through the course for the past three races. Jud arrived and we chatted with our designated table-mates as we waited for dinner to be served. He had just returned from a 5-week excursion throughout Alaska, and had plenty of adventures to talk about. While we served ourselves from the cafeteria-style buffet, he kept me entertained with talk of wilderness, grizzly bears, midnight sun, and close encounters with Bigfoot.

OK, I made up the part about Bigfoot, but I was just glad that he was able to get back to Colorado in time to paddle in this event. We ate lasagna, corn, tossed salad, and dinner rolls -- all you can eat. And for that little bit of extra energy, chocolate cake. I was "carbo loading", so I really did eat all I possibly could. It was delicious!

We sat through the standard back-slapping and chest-thumping speeches, and then departed to get some rest. I probably should've gone directly to bed once I reached the hotel, but I wanted to watch the Olympic swimming events, so I didn't get to sleep until well past my normal bedtime. Partly because of pre-race anticipation, and partly because I got some "From the Mouth of Cthulhu" songs stuck in my head, I really didn't sleep very well. It's hard to dream about Michael Phelps swimming butterfly in 7/4 time.

But I woke up feeling fine and excited about getting out to the lake. The weather appeared to be perfect, and the water temperature was predicted to be about 73°. Jud picked me up in the stadium parking lot and we talked about race strategy on the way up to the boat ramp/starting line. I helped him unload his beautiful new kayak -- he explained that with this faster boat accompanying me, I should be able to swim faster than ever. Uh, sure. Why not?

Then begin the rituals: Standing in line to endure the unholy stench of the lone outhouse, assuming the position of humility so that the race officials can write your competitor number in permanent ink on every visible patch of your body, and slapping at mosquitos while you apply sunscreen, armpit vaseline, and BodyGlide lubricant. Fortunately, it was warm enough to stand around in Speedos while the race director went through the safety rules one final time. Stay close to your kayak so the water skiers won't mistake you for a slalom buoy. Be efficient by hugging the shore, but don't turn into any of the coves. Don't pee in the lake, because it attracts pirahnas, etc.

OK, I made up the part about the pirahnas. But I think the competitors and paddlers all understood exactly what to do by the time the 10-minute warning was given, and we started to ease our way into the lake water. It was just the right temperature for racing -- which means that it's just a little bit colder than you really want to put your body into before the sun comes up. But one by one, the swimmers walked down the boat ramp and prepared themselves to race.

The nervous banter would probably be amusing to a spectator. ("Why did we sign up for this?" "I probably won't make the cutoff time." "I'm too old for this crap.", etc.) And then there are the numerous Shemp and Curly impressions that people emit as they pass that critical point of immersing themselves past their belly buttons. Woo woo woo! It's cold! Someone mentioned that one of the young women was getting married in 27 days, and a congratulatory cheer went up for her. Then it was time to go.

The support boats had moved to a position a few hundred yards out from the starting line, and the paddlers were responsible for picking up their swimmer as they passed. (That's why we were covered with numbers -- so the boat people could tell who's who.) The competitors treaded water in a single file line parallel to the dock, and the starter blew his air horn. We were off!

This wasn't like a triathlon start, where there's a frenzied jumble of arms, legs, and gnashing teeth. With over 6 miles to go, nobody was in the mood to fight for a few seconds advantage at this stage of the race. I did end up swimming next to the same guy for almost a mile, and I found myself wishing he'd either pass me or drop back. Since drafting was against the rules, I'd just prefer to have my own space.

For the first two miles, I felt like I was pushing a pretty good pace, but completely within my comfort zone. There were still plenty of boats around, and the guy who'd been beside me had finally taken a slight lead and veered off to the outside. I just tried to hold my form, maintain the turnover rate, and calculate when I should stop for a drink. Jud had two bottles of Gatorade-on-a-rope to toss to me whenever I requested it. It's a delicate calculation; I certainly did not want to bonk from dehydration, but I didn't want to spend a lot of time treading water and chugging juice, either. It's a proven fact that swimmers sweat constantly during a race like this, and do lose a lot of water...but because it's cool, you can go a lot longer between drinks than you could in a comparable running race. I decided to try to keep going for an hour before I drank.

I finally caught the guy who had been so near me in the early going. And at about the same time, I noticed that we were gaining on a red canoe a hundred or so yards ahead. I decided that I would take my drink break once I had passed that particular swimmer.

But it took too long. I had been swimming for an hour and 15 minutes, and was still behind the red boat. I knew I'd pass them eventually, but I began to worry that I needed hydration, so I called to Jud that I was ready to drink. He tossed the bottle directly in front of me, I rolled over on my back and chugged as much as I could, as quickly as I could. Nobody passed me while I was stopped, and I didn't lose much ground on the red boat. It was an excellent pit stop.

It's amazing how tough it is to regain your rhythm after such a short break, but even in that brief amount of time, my arms began to stiffen up. But I forced myself back into my cadence, and soon forgot about everything except keeping my head down and trying to pass the swimmer pacing the red boat.

I also realize how incredibly boring it must be to read about a guy swimming a 10K. Oh sure, I was focused and engaged in each and every stroke of the event, and had myriad interesting experiences...but I'm quite certain that my descriptions of individual strokes, sightings, and deep breaths would not hold your interest. There were motorboat wakes to swim through, adrenaline rushes when I opened my eyes to find that I had veered and was about to smack into Jud's kayak, and all the fascinating mental processes of trying to estimate how much longer I'd be swimming before I finally could see the finish line. My time in the water probably seemed to pass by much more quickly than your time reading this boring account of it. Sorry.

I did see the dude from the beginning of the race trying to creep up on me at one point, at about the same time I noticed that I was beside a blue boat with a bunch of balloons on it. I'm not sure where either of them came from; I had thought I was alone at that point in the race (about 1 mile to go). I decided that I'd go ahead and put the hammer down and try to drop them. And if I ran out of gas and they re-passed me later, well, I'd tip my hat to 'em and pat 'em on the back at the finish line. But to my surprise, I didn't run out of gas -- I was able to hammer pretty hard all the way in the the finish.

It hurt, though. And the worst part of it is the deceptive way the distances seem to mutate as you swim. When I finally came into the last cove, I could see the twin buoys that marked the finish line. They appeared to be inflated balloons about 2 feet in diameter, flanking the actual finish line, about 500 yards away. But as I continued to crank, wondering if I was going to make it before my energy was gone, I suddenly realized that those buoys weren't at the finish line at all, but were quite a ways out. And much, MUCH bigger than I had thought. (Hey, let's see you try to estimate distance from 2 inches above the surface when you left you trifocals in the car and have bobbing in the waves for over two hours. Yeah, that's right...it's not easy.)

That final "500" was probably more like 1000 yards -- it's no fun at all to think "I'm almost done!", and then to realize that there's a LONG way to go yet. And at least a couple of other swimmers on your tail.

I was looking to both sides, to make sure no one had snuck up on me, and it was during one of those sightings where I swam too close to the kayak and smacked my hand on Jud's paddle. I was briefly upset with myself for losing focus, but despite the fact that it was a pretty good whack, I barely felt it. Too much adrenaline, and too many other pains to worry about mere rapped knuckles.

With about 15 yards to go, I ran into water that was too shallow to swim in (6 inches, maybe) but with too many pointed rocks to walk. I just stopped and looked up stupidly, puzzled about what to do next. One of the folks on shore yelled "Keep going, dude!!", so I turned to look around for a better path. When I turned, I saw someone about 5 yards behind me, swimming hard. With one final burst of energy, I shoved myself back into deeper water and sprinted to the finish line, just barely staying ahead of the woman who had challenged me at the end.

As I staggered up the boat ramp, I looked at my watch. I was hoping that I might hit a time of 2:40, which would be two minutes better than my previous record. But I had finished in 2:36, a full 4 minutes faster than my goal! I was delighted, and grinned from ear to ear as I walked up the ramp to greet the supportive swimmers cheering for us as we finished.

I was tired and sore, but ecstatic. After greeting some friends at the finish line, I went back in the water to cool down a bit, and then found Jud to tell him how pleased I was with the race, and how thankful I was for his guidance and support. But after that, I just wanted to go home and get some rest. I probably didn't cool down enough. But I just didn't care.

I'll probably think of other things to say about this race over the next few days, but for now I just want to bask in the glow of an excellent event and a performance I'm proud of. To all of you who have supported and encouraged me, I offer a heartfelt thank you, and eternal gratitude for your friendship and patience.

I'm already starting to wonder, though, about next year. Perhaps if I trained just a bit harder...

Naw. I'm not going to think about that for right now. I'm just gonna enjoy the feeling of accomplishment and relax for a day or two. I'm feeling fine. If you see me on the streets, please say "hi", and maybe some of my good mood will rub off and help you to have a great day, too!

Smokey and the Bandit

The last two nights, I have slept until my alarm clock went off. This is unusual; I usually wake up without prompting, mostly alert and ready to start the day. But when the alarm wakes me, it takes a few seconds to get my bearings. Especially if I'm having a weird dream.

This morning I was dreaming about driving my Subaru like Burt Reynolds drives a Trans Am. Going full speed in reverse and then spinning a half donut while jamming the gearshift into Drive, now pointing forward and zipping away without losing any speed at all. It's a nifty move, but somehow I think if I tried it for real, I'd end up talking to my insurance agent instead of racing down the highway.

What was I escaping from, or racing toward? I have no idea. All I know is that my college roommate, Mickey, was in the car with me. (Sally Field was not.) And for some reason, we were on a huge overpass trying to leave Omaha and get into St. Louis, which, as every racecar dreamer knows, are right across the river from each other.

Anyway, it's pretty cool how your sleeping mind can defy the laws of physics every bit as well as the Roadrunner can. My station wagon peformed smokin-tire donuts with ease, remaining completely stable through all sorts of Starsky and Hutch manuevers. Mickey was singing "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes" for no apparent reason, and we were in a dreadful hurry. But somehow, we managed to drive into a car elevator that took us to the top of a very tall parking garage, from which we could see the various tall buildings of Chicago, Minneapolis, and Oklahoma City. Even in my dream, I recall that it seemed odd to be in such an urban environment of in the midst of a southern-fried cross-country moonshine run.

Oh well, I woke up refreshed, and relieved to find the Subaru resting comfortably in its accustomed carport spot. I'm tapering (resting up) for my race on Sunday, so the day presents no challenges any larger than a bit of shopping and a few household chores. I think I'll tackle my pre-race to-do list, and see how much I can get done. I'll throw in a little bit of TV watching and some reading along with it. I am in an excellent mood, and feeling strong and fit. Tanner has gone on a camping trip to the Great Sand Dunes, so I'm hoping that he remembers the skills he learned in the Boy Scouts, and I look forward to hearing about that trip. Otherwise, it's all about mentally preparing for my trip to Fort Collins. I should have some photos to post from my lake swim adventure over the next few days, so please stay tuned. And have a great day!

To Do List

I need to figure out how to drink more Gatorade.

Well, no, that's not exactly right -- I need to figure out how to drink Gatorade faster. My 10K lake swim race is Sunday, and I want to equal or better my PR in the event. And in the past, I've spent too much time fiddling around during my hydration breaks.

A lake swim isn't exactly like a footrace, where they can set up a big folding table beside the road and cover it with paper cups full of liquid. When I need a drink, well...I'm out in the middle of a lake, with only my faithful kayaker there to keep me from succumbing to thirst. We have to have a system for getting the Gatorade out of the boat and into my stomach as quickly as possible.

We've done OK in past races. My paddler, Jud, has tied a rope to a gallon milk jug full of the energy drink, and when I call for a hydration stop, he heaves the jug overboard. There's a slight delay between when I call for a drink and when I actually start chugging from the jug because a) he has to retrieve it from its secured position between his feet (there's only so much room in a kayak, you know), b) it's an imprecise exercise at best when you're throwing a gallon of fluid on a rope to a moving swimmer, and sometimes I have to swim a bit to get to the bobbing buoy of thirst-quenching goodness, and c) I have to screw the top off the jug, and then use both hands to lift it into drinking position. And with this system, we've done OK. But I'd like to do better.

I'm going to go shopping for something that's easier to open, perhaps easier to throw, and still has a good rate of flow. So that's on my to-do list: Get a better bottle.

But that's just one of the items I need to do before the race. There's also the following:

• Get a haircut


• Decide whether I'm going to shave my legs, and if so, then do it


• Buy Gatorade


• Print out directions to the pre-race dinner


• Gather up swimsuit, goggles, towel, sunscreen, BodyGlide/Vaseline (and paper towels), razor, vitamins/drugs, disposable warm-up clothing, breakfast items, COMSA card, and whatever I'm going to wear before and after the race


• Pack all that stuff


• Gas up the car, and make sure I have some rockin' tunes to listen to during the drive


• Do some sort of stretching and warmup swimming/exercise the day before the race

You may be asking why I don't just shave my head, as opposed to getting a normal haircut. Well, that's a pretty good question. But this race requires us to wear a swim cap (for enhanced visibility, and therefore, enhanced safety). And if you've ever tried to put a swim cap on a freshly shaven head, you know that it can be a bit of a challenge. There's more friction involved than you might think. As for shaving the legs, well, it does reduce water resistance, and therefore should provide a noticable time advantage over such a long distance. If the water is cold, however, then not having that thin layer of hair will make it easier for the body to lose heat. To be honest, I'm not too concerned about that; I'm guessing that the water will be plenty warm. But shaving the legs also takes a long time to do and comes with the associated discomfort of having all that hair grow back over the next several weeks, not to mention the impact it has on the way you have to dress, etc. And as you know, fashion is so very, very important to a guy like me (cough, cough).

The truth is, if I decide not to shave my legs, it's just because I didn't feel like going to that much trouble. That's all.

As for Body Glide and Vaseline, well, I tend to have some serious chafing from distance swimming if I don't take precautions. The friction between triceps and latissimus dorsi muscles creates some skin abrasion after several thousand strokes, but what's even worse is the spot on my chest where my chin rubs during breathing. I have to make sure to shave my face exceedingly well before the race, and put plenty of lubricant on those tender spots. One time, though, I made the mistake of applying the vaseline with my fingers instead of a paper towel -- and then I got vaseline on my goggles when I put them on and ending up being Mr. Magoo the entire race. I won't let lubes or lotions touch my hands before the swim.

They do not test for drugs in this race, so I may take some ibuprofen before the start. Maybe some decongestant, too, depending on how I'm breathing when I wake up in the morning. And then there's the whole blood-doping thing, where I go in to the clinic on Saturday and have all of my plasma replaced with oxygen-enriched and hormone-fortified superblood, just like the Tour de France cyclists all do. It's expensive and painful, but well worth it.

Naah, I'm just kidding about the blood doping. The spaghetti dinner and a few Clif bars ought to be enough to give me the fuel I need.

Well, that and the quickly-delivered Gatorade. I think I'll be ready.

It's going to be a great day!

Ice, Ice, Baby

Last night while I was eating my bean sandwich for dinner, I caught part of an episode of Family Guy, where Peter was doing a parody of "Can't Touch This", by MC Hammer. I've never actually heard the original Hammer tune, but am familiar with the song thanks to Weird Al's version, which (like everything Weird Al does) is brilliant.

[Side note: Why isn't Weird Al the Poet Laureate of the United States? The dude knows how to craft beautiful images from words, and writes about subjects that affect us all...unlike some of the second-rate poets who have actually gotten the gig. I defy you to name a single one of them who has written songs about Spam, cable television, or the benefits of gun ownership. Can't do it, can you?]

Going to bed with a catchy rap tune on one's mind is NOT conducive to getting a good night's sleep. I woke up a couple of times, feeling like I had LL Cool J a-dancin' in my skull.

Now I'm the first to admit that I don't follow the world of Rap very closely. I do understand that artists in the genre often get shot in drug deals gone bad, end up in prison (or its sister organization, the NBA), or suffer seizures from stimulus overload upon seeing so many tattoos when they look in a mirror. And if that doesn't happen, they may be forced to live under the shame of being saddled with effeminate and emasculating nicknames like Snoop, Diddy, or "Lil" something. I can only imagine the disgrace they must feel -- I bet even the male figure skaters make fun of their lack of manliness.

Now, "Hammer", though is a good name. I've never seen the guy perform, but I'll bet with a name like that, he probably wears manly attire like tight leather pants and a motorcycle jacket with studs on it. I'm thinking the kind that George Michael used to wear in his videos...with the Don Johnson stubble on his face, etc. Now, there's a manly man, with a manly name. George. Like George Washington; you can't get any more manly than that. Right?

I'm just guessing here, but I'm thinking that rappers with a cold hard edge to their names are the ones who would make a lasting impression. Something like "Vanilla Ice" -- I bet that dude now owns corporations and gives motivational seminars and writes books that appear on Oprah. Everybody listens to the Iceman, I'm sure.

But I'm curious as to what ever happened to some of the one-hit wonders, like Marky Mark and the Fresh Prince? You don't hear anything about those guys anymore. They're probably working in gas stations in Missouri or something. Poor saps.

Anyway, the point is that even for someone like myself who is not particularly a Rap enthusiast, it is possible to get a catchy song stuck in your head. I'm still sorta twitching to the internal beat it set up within my body. With my race coming up this weekend, I've got to get better sleep over the next few days, so I'm going to have to come up with a plan to purge this rhythm from my head.

You can join with me. All together now: "It's a small world after all. It's a small world..."

Now, that should banish any Rap from your brain. You can thank me later. Have a great day!

Proofreading

As a professional editor, I get paid to find typos. I hate it when I look at something a million times, bless it as perfect and then send it to the presses, only to have a blatant misspelling jump off the page at me when I happen to casually glance at the final printed product. That happened to me on Monday.

We were trying to finish the job before the end of the first shift, so that the customer could pick it up on his way out the door in the afternoon. The Repro crew printed it off quickly and cranked out the accompanying CDs with admirable speed. But when they handed me the final printed copy -- there it was: a glaring error that I should've caught several days before. Ugh.

There are errors that might slightly diminish the appearance of the page, or might make the reader wonder about your particular punctuation choices -- but don't really damage the final product. And then there are the typos that make the company look like a bunch of slack-jawed drooling morons -- and this was one of those. It had to be fixed.

Unfortunately, I discovered my error during shift change...so we had to bring a new group of Repro operators on board, and introduce them to the job. That's not a big deal...it just takes a little time. But the larger problem was that we had used up all the business-card CDs, and had no media to burn the corrected versions onto. That sort of thing could be a show stopper.

Well, OK, not really...we could always run down to Office Depot and pick up some other disks, but that would be entirely inconvenient. The other option: get on the phone and beg. That's what I did.

Fortunately, I scored pay dirt on my first call. There were extra CDs in one of the local supply rooms, and I promptly ran over to retrieve them. The favor will be called in at some point down the road, but that's only fair. The main thing is that we got the new disks. New labels were printed, and the job could continue. After a few extra hours in a general "running around in circles" panic, our group effort would finally erase my proofreading mistake.

What's the point of this story? Well, there isn't one, really. I suppose it was just a chance to show you that the life of a corporate editor isn't all lying around eating cheese and having enormous eunuchs fan us with palm fronds. You may think that we spend our days in plush comfort, entertaining visits from adoring rock stars and toadying politicians, using our editorial influence to create fluctuations in the stock market and influence international policy -- but sometimes it really is just about finding the right kind of paper, making sure there are enough labels for the CDs, and trying to keep the moronic typos from ever hitting the streets in 14-point Arial.

And the other point of the story is that I spend my entire workday reading and re-reading stuff to ensure typographical perfection...so I'm hoping you'll cut me some slack when I mess up within this blog. A person can only proofread so much material before some sort of error is going to sneak through. I'm asking your ongoing forgiveness for the various mistakes I've made (and will continue to make) within this column. (I don't expect forgiveness for the lame content, though. That's intentional...It's my "style".)

As for stories about the cushy side of editing life (eg, the parties on celebrity yachts, the private screenings of blockbuster movies, the hordes of groupies who follow us around with shoe-shine cloths and caviar trays, etc.), they'll have to wait. In the meantime, you're welcome to try to visualize just how sweet and rewarding it is to be an editor, and to know that you hold such a position of high envy among the business world. Use your imagination, and have a great day!

No Haircut...Yet

In Junior High School, I had two distinct groups of friends. One group was the counterculture hippie group, who I enjoyed for their ability to think creatively and question established modes of thought. The other was the swim team, who I enjoyed for their ability to kick butt and attract girls.

(OK, to be honest, the hippies also attracted a few girls, but the females who hung out with that group tended to be hairier and/or smellier than the ones who hung out with the jocks. I realize that I'm merely a product of my cultural upbringing, and that my lack of openmindedness and unwillingness to embrace all hygiene cultures is a harsh indictment of my shallowness and smallness...but nevertheless, I prefer girls who don't stink. Send me to all the Diversity Training you want, but I rather believe that my prejudice in this area is likely to remain. Sorry.)

Over time, many additional factors probably contributed to my ultimate decision to divest myself from the hippie movement. Drugs, certainly -- I saw no reason to risk my brain by filling it with pollutants. And while Socialism and anarchy (in the "live and let live" sense) sounded so very, very appealing to the youth of my generation, I think I suspected even then that they simply wouldn't work. The kind of system that the hippies (and their "can't we all just get along" counterparts of today) envisioned requires the complete cooperation of everyone...and I just think that you have to somehow account for the ones who just won't cooperate. But really, the main factor that kept me from running off with the Flower Children was the fact that I just can't stand having my hair long!

That's right -- it's another example of my shallowness; I chose my entire life's direction based on the fact that I wasn't comfortable with the fashions preferred by proponents of Free Love, Feelin' Groovy, and the Grateful Dead. (Side note: I saw one of my hippie friends at a high school reunion, and I asked him how the whole hippie thing had worked out for him. His reply: "I pretty much wasted 10 years of my life.") I tried to grow my hair long a couple of times, but it drove me crazy. Of course, the 1980s was the hair decade, so I had to do something with some puffiness to it (see photo of me with my non-hippie friend Ron, circa 1983). I kept that style until about the time Tanner was born.

At that point in my life, I realized that with a face like mine, it really didn't matter what sort of hairdo I had. No matter how many hundreds of dollars I'd pay to some French-sounding hair salon, no matter how many layers of feathering they'd sculpt into my head, and no matter how much Grecian formula you dumped on my noggin, I was never going to be Bon Jovi. Nor Fabio. Nor Farrah Fawcett. I decided I'd go with a cheap and convenient hairstyle, so I got out the clippers and chopped it all off.

Since then, I've enjoyed the convenience of cutting my own hair whenever I want to. I don't have to make any appointments, read 6-month-old People magazines in a bacteria-filled waiting room, nor force myself to sit stoically while a scissor-wielding goth chick snips at me between bouts of gum-chewing and cell phone calls. And other than buying a new $9 set of clippers every 10 years or so, it doesn't cost me a dime. I may not be stylish, but at least I'm not a slave to the Hair Establishment.

Hmm, maybe I've hung onto more of my hippie roots than I thought -- that last sentence sounded mighty like something I'd have said in the 60s. Hmm.

Anyway, the reason I'm telling you all of this is so you'll understand why I didn't cut my hair over the weekend. I wanted to -- with a 34-mile bike ride and 3-mile swim on Sunday morning, I could've used the relief of a lighter, more breathable head. But if I had cut it on Sunday, it would have an entire week to grow before the Horsetooth Lake Swim race next weekend. And I'd either have to cut it again, or swim the race with that extra week's hair growth.

Does it make a difference, you ask? Well, if you know anything about lake swimming at all, you probably realize that it really doesn't matter how long your hair is in terms of water resistance -- you're covering it all with a latex cap, anyway. But it's the psychological advantage of knowing that you've shaved off those few extra ounces underneath the bonnet...that's what makes you swim faster. Therefore, I'm not going to cut my hair until this Saturday, the day before the race.

That makes sense, doesn't it? Of course it does. And now you understand why my normally tight haircut may currently be a bit more, uh, random than it normally is. If you happen to see me, please try to remember that it's all about the race, and try not to laugh. Thank you, and have a great day!

Doldrums

So what's a good strategy for exercising when the forecast says it's going to be over 100°? That's right, go for your run before the sun comes up. My plan was to do my Saturday morning canyon jog before the biting bugs got out of bed, and before a dude out on the road would feel like an ant under a magnifying glass.

I got to the canyon at 5:30am and did a bit of stretching. Thanks to the miracle of modern photography, it appears to be daylight, but though there was enough light to see (sorta), the sun had not yet made its appearance at the horizon. It was already warm, but tolerable. And so far, anyway, there was no evidence of carniverous insects.

I felt pretty good, and was able to accomplish most of the trip up the first 6 miles without sending my hamstring into banjo-string mode. I drank lots of water and left a trail of perspiration staining the dirt, but became more and more optimistic that I might be having my best run in weeks.

I reached the foot of the dam, and performed the local tradition of touching the sign prior to turning around to head back down.
The first 200 yards after the turn-around are always the most dangerous part for me; it's rather steep, and my knees tend to protest the angle of descent. I tried to resume my jogging pace, but the time I took to snap a photo for you, my loyal readers, was enough to disrupt my rhythm. I limped and hobbled for the next mile or so, until I was finally able to loosen back up. Once I did, though, the run was rather routine.

I got tired, but I kept going. As the sun rose higher, I saw more and more people out for bike rides or hikes up the trail. At one point, a group passing in the opposite direction warned me of a rattlesnake catching some rays in the middle of the road, but by the time I reached the spot they'd indicated, he was gone. I was actually a bit disappointed. After all, compared to the man-eating tse-tse flies I had experienced on Thursday, a venomous viper barely rated as noteworthy. But it would merit a photo for this blog page, so I was bummed when all I saw was empty road.

It was indeed my best run for the last couple of months. I felt pretty good as I hopped in the car to drive over to the lake. Once I got there, I found my buddy Keith, who had recruited another fellow to swim with us as well. His name was Mike, and he was a pretty fast swimmer; he took off and I just tried to keep up by staying in his draft. The dude could navigate, too -- we completely avoided the sandbar, in both directions. Sweet!

Thanks to the draft, I was feeling pretty good as we passed the sandbar on the way back. I decided to try to push the pace a bit. It's a little tough to go into full hammer mode in that part of the pond, because there are so many other swimmers. Most of them are good lake citizens -- they wear brightly-colored caps and look up occasionally to see where they're going. But there are always a few folks in dark wetsuits and dark caps (nearly invisible along the surface of the water) who seem to be oblivious to traffic, just plugging along without the slightest clue what a hazard they present to the decent people in the water. Those, you have to watch out for. So...I had to lift my head frequently to take a sighting, while at the same time trying hard to accelerate the hands and keep the body position streamlined. It was tiring, but rewarding -- I had my best crossing time of the summer.

I felt so good that I did a couple more loops out to the sandbar and back. At that point, I felt like I'd had an excellent day of exercise, and should reward myself with a treat. So I went home and made a pizza.

As regular readers probably know by now, I hold the opinion that my own homemade pizza is the closest thing to Nirvana that can be achieved without having a female involved. As usual, it was delicious, satisfying, and nutritious. In fact, I'm pretty sure that my brief but tasty lunch replaced every single calorie that I had burned during several hours of morning exercise. And after all, isn't that the entire point of exercise? To be able to eat what you want?

Well, OK -- there's also the appeal of constantly being mistaken for Rambo or one of the American Gladiators (I sometimes give autographs just for fun)...but the real reason to pound the pavement and fight the waves is for the caloric benefit. Exercise, eat, sleep a bit, and then repeat. 'Tis a good life.

Of course, most people spend their Saturday afternoons out at the mall, socializing with friends, shopping for a new dustmop or crescent wrench or whatever. But considering the heat, the soporific effect of the industrial-strength pizza, and the fact that I hadn't spent much time with my guitar lately, I decided to devote the remainder of the day to hanging out at home. I did a little accounting, read a bit of a novel about a haunted laundromat, strummed the aforementioned guitar, and wasted more than a few minutes surfing through cable channels and wondering how the programming executives at these stations could be SO completely incompetent. (When "Facts of Life" reruns are the best thing on, you know you're in a serious TV drought. Just put down the remote and walk away, my friends. Just walk away.)

Sunday, though -- well, Sunday could prove to be a LOT more exciting. Stay tuned for that report, and have a great day!

100°

Once in a while, I'll call an 800 number to talk with tech support, get banking information, or order the latest miracle from Ron Popeil...and the "friendly" support person always wants to make small talk while they're waiting for their supervisor to come up with the answer to my "unusual" question. (Personally, I think the customer service agent should be able to come up with a list containing my latest transactions without having to huddle with coworkers...but that's just me.) The funniest one was a guy in India who asked who my favorite actor was -- and then told me that his favorite star was John Wayne.

Seriously, this dude from halfway around the world wanted to talk about John Wayne; an example of international customer service bonding at its finest. Anyway, no matter who I call, they inevitably ask where I'm phoning from, and when I tell them Denver, they ask how the weather is.

Well, to be quite honest, it's nasty freakin' hot. But people outside of Colorado have trouble believing that. They associate Denver with skiing and snow and wagon trains where people freeze solid and then get eaten by their cannibal cousins. The rest of the world has no idea that during the summer, we're pretty much like Phoenix -- only with fewer backyard pools and smelly old people.

OK, that's not really true; we're really not as ugly-hot as that. Phoenix is hot enough to melt you like you opened up the Lost Ark...but Denver is plenty toasty right now, let me tell you. In fact, this week we have broken the record for consecutive days above 90°, and tied a single day temperature record with the heat at 104°. (The previous record was in 1905 -- they have proven conclusively that the heatwave back then was totally due to the 12 automobiles that existed in the country and their blatant and irresponsible disregard for their carbon footprint. The dirtbags!)

Anyway, the heat this week has made exercising outdoors a tad more challenging. Swimming in the lake is pleasant enough, but the mosquitos seem to have thrived in the heat and have set up ambush points all around the pond. As long as you're actually in the water, you're OK, but as soon as you get out, it's malaria time! I hate mosquitos.

But the biting flies in Waterton canyon are just about as bad. I went for a short run on Thursday night, and felt like I had a big "USDA Choice" stamp across my forehead; the bugs were feasting on me. They don't leave an itchy bump like the skeeters do, but the bites themselves are much more annoying.

My theory is that Nature loves me -- I am just such a sweet person that I am irresistably tasty. Of course, others have theorized that I wouldn't be as attractive to the flying vermin if my personal hygiene was of higher quality. Whichever is the case, I was swatting and yelping and cursing as I jogged, making mental notes to vote for whichever politicians promise to slather the Colorado wilderness with saturation bombing of insecticides.

Or maybe I'll just get one of those sexy beekeeper suits and learn how to run in it. Hats with mesh on them are pretty fashionable right now, aren't they?

Somehow, though, I survived. Not only did I live through the attacks by the vicious airborne pirahna, but I also managed to maintain verticality through the stifling evening heat. I thought I was king stud of the world for being such a macho athlete and hardcore combatant for humanity, going mano a mano vs. Nature at her worst! I ran three miles under these conditions, sloshing through shoe-soaking puddles of my own manly sweat! That's an accomplishment worth bragging about.

Or at least that's what I thought -- until I heard one of the swimmers casually talking about running 12 miles in that same heat. And she didn't mention the bugs at all.

Sigh.

Oh well, I guess I can always try again later, right? In the meantime, don't forget the insect repellant, and have a great day!