Distraction

I'm sure you all think of me as a highly-disciplined, laser-focused über-athlete who lives by a rigorous code of self-control and structured training; someone whose intensity and commitment to excellence reminds you of this guy:



But the truth is that despite the hours I spend chewing broken glass and thrusting my hands into hot coals in my relentless pursuit of mastery and dominance, I do have my weaknesses. There are chocolate and pizza, of course -- but who doesn't occasionally succumb to their delicious temptation? No, I'm talking about serious wastes of time and energy...like watching baseball.

Up until recently, this wasn't a real problem. I had the most basic of basic cable packages, and the only channels I ever watched were SyFy and Discovery. (OK, and maybe some Fox and TBS every now and then.) But the siren song of the boob tube fell mostly on deaf ears, due to the general crumminess of network offerings and the grating obnoxiousness of the so-called "news" channels. But then a strange thing happened: I suddenly began receiving more channels!

I discovered this by accident. As most discriminating viewers do, I had set up my remote to page through the few channels that restrict themselves to science, comedy, or cartoons...and was very much in the habit of strolling through those "favorites" until I landed on an episode of Ghosthunters I hadn't seen before, or a Family Guy where Cleveland's bath was interrupted. But one night, instead of pressing the "Up Channel" button, I accidentally hit one of the number keys. And surprise! There was programming where there used to be nothing but snow!

Hmmm. I spent the next several minutes flipping channels, investigating all the new content that suddenly had become visible within my el-cheapo cable package. It was marvelous! For some reason, Comcast had suddenly seen fit to bless me with previously-forbidden programming like USA, Spike, and TCM! But I knew I was in real trouble when I found that I also now had Rocky Mountain Fox Sports, Comedy Central, and the Cartoon Network. I feared that my days of unwavering personal schedule discipline and monk-like ascetic lifestyle were at an end.

Alas, this has turned out to be true. I have watched Rockies baseball for each of the last few evenings. Oh sure, it's enjoyable, and I can do some yoga stretching and wash the dishes and throw socks in the wash while it's on without missing any action. But it doesn't provide the same opportunity for getting stuff done that I'd have if I simply turned off the TV. Curse you, Comcast! You've ruined my life!

Now I fear I'm doomed to stay up late every night, feeling my blood pressure rise with every late-inning meltdown the Rockies throw at me. My health will deteriorate, my to-do list will continue to expand without accomplishment, and my couch will become littered with Dorito fragments. Eventually, I suppose my friends will stage an intervention and sever the co-ax that has led to my sad condition...but in the meantime, my descent into potato-hood continues at a breakneck pace.

Of course, if the Rockies would just get WAY ahead early, I could turn it off and go about my life, couldn't I?

Sigh. We can hope and dream, can't we? Well, in the meantime, I shall urge you to do everything you can to avoid the lure of mass media sports entertainment, and don't let your discipline dissipate into the ether. And have a great day!

Whoo-eee! That's Cold!

Yes, there are inexplicable mysteries in the world. Some have been discussed ad nauseum by the public at large (the pyramids, crop circles, Leonard DiCaprio, etc.) and some are probably only mentioned by Jerry Seinfeld (Why do we say something is "brand" new? Can something be brand old? And why do we say the "very" first time? Can there be a very second time? etc etc.) But other mysteries don't receive widespread attention; so it becomes my job to publicize these oddities and raise questions to increase public awareness, and possibly generate funding for research.

Today's question is: Why do people swim in lakes when it's SO freakin' cold?

OK, I guess I do understand the people who are training to swim the English Channel, or who have a walrus fetish or something. And there are those who were always picked last for Bombardment in gym class, and therefore feel compelled to prove that they've grown up to be as tough as Gary Busey. But why would anyone else be swimming in icy water when our fair city has many heated indoor pools that are open to the public?

There's a doctoral thesis in this for somebody. It probably wouldn't put you in Stephen Hawking territory (or even at the level of, say, Subrahmanyan Chandrasekhar), but at least you might be credited with naming a new psychological anomaly: You could call it "Deep Unconscious Metabolic-Based Arctic Swimming Syndrome" and maybe even develop some sort of acronym to go along with it.

Anyway, you can probably deduce that the reason I bring this up is that I went out to the lake on Monday, and yes, did get into the water. I was curious whether I could tolerate a 57° immersion without a wetsuit, so I waded into the water up to about mid-thigh and waited to see how long it would take to acclimate. The skin on my legs turned a lovely shade of fire-engine red, and my toes felt like they'd been trampled by wildebeests. I tried to go into Kwai Chang Caine mode and zen out to the point where I could philosophically accept and embrace the chill...but just wasn't successful in channeling my inner Shaolin. I climbed back onto shore and grabbed my wetsuit.

That, my friends, was an ordeal in itself. Neoprene is more closely related to Velcro than to Teflon, and doesn't cooperate all that well when you're already cold. Plus, I bought the suit a couple of decades ago when I was, um, less muscular (ahem), and it's a tad tight these days. Fortunately, a couple of other folks on the beach took pity when watching my wiggling, and helped me get the darn thing zipped up. I couldn't breathe very well since it was crushing my chest, but at least I was warmer. I put on my cap and goggles, and sloshed back into the pond.

The worst part was the brain-freeze feeling from putting my face into the water. It just plain hurt, and I couldn't keep my head down for the first few hundred yards. But eventually, I either got used to it or lost all sensation (hard to tell), and was able to get in a pretty good swim. At the end, I was feeling so good that I fed the onlookers the straight line "My face hurts", with the full expectation someone ashore would say "No kidding; it's killing me!" But no one took the bait. (I guess there's some empathy among the icewater swimming community.)

I even peeled the wetsuit off and swam another couple hundred yards without it. It's amazing what the body can do once it gets used to the conditions. Of course, there is a price to pay -- when I got home, I completely depleted my water heater's contents while I stood in the shower, and still had to wrap up in blankets afterwards to re-warm myself to my normal comfort level.

Was I glad I did it? Well, sure. I mean, I had already driven all the way into the park; might as well get some exercise out of it. But would I do it again?

Why not? In about a month. Let's get the snow season over with and throw in a few 90+ days and I'll be right back out there. In the meantime, I'm going to nuke a cup of hot chocolate and throw another log on the fire.

Have a great day!

May Day

When I was a kid, we used to celebrate the first of May with various "May Day" activities. I have no idea what the celebration was for -- probably some hold-over from the days when our European ancestors emerged from their caves to hunt the first wild monkey of springtime or something. Or maybe it had to do with bathing for the first time since last October's harvest. Whatever it was, it probably involved bagpipes, virgin sacrifices, and election of a new Lord of the Dance...and is probably best left buried deep in the past. But I do wonder why the traditions of my childhood seemed to have completely vanished.

I've heard speculation that it's because our country's current movement toward consolidation with Mexico has left May Day overshadowed by Cinco de Mayo. (I have to confess that I only have a vague impression of the significance of that holiday, too -- something to do with Santa eating brownies with Cheech and Chong, maybe? I dunno.) But it could be that May Day will make a comeback now that the intolerant bigots in Arizona have created an army of robocops to round up and shoot anyone with a tan. (At least that's what I've heard they've done. My knowledge of current events is about on par with my mastery of European history.)



As for why my generation hasn't clung to the May Day traditions of our youth, well, it may be because the "holiday" had no particular resonance with me and my peers. If I remember correctly, the celebration consisted of making "May Baskets" and distributing them to friends and neighbors in some sort of secretive fashion. I seem to remember placing a flower-filled construction-paper basket on a porch, ringing the doorbell, and then running away to watch their reaction from behind a bush or something. Let's face it, when your holiday celebration so closely resembles the famous "flaming dog-doo" gag, it's got some image problems.

And then there was the Maypole. Kids would get dressed up in Easter-esque finery and do this bobbing and weaving dance around a modified tetherball pole on the school playground, holding crepe paper streamers with the goal of somehow braiding the various strands together into a vertical version of Chinese finger-cuffs. I have no idea what purpose this served, except to give Groundskeeper Willie something to do when it came time to clean up the mess. I guess it also served to expose young boys to the idea that dancing was a hideous ordeal to be avoided at all costs, and that anyone who enjoyed it was gay.

Enforced crepe-paper-themed ritual dancing, labor-intensive construction of baskets, delivery of unwanted materials to underappreciative recipients -- well, the whole thing just seemed like a lot of work. And with no huge accompanying meal, no buckets full of candy, and no presents to open...it seemed like a gigantic waste of time. May Day was something that belonged to our parents, not to us, and would be rejected when we got older, along with other outdated geezer ideas like Brylcreem and neckties.

Whether you celebrate May Day, Cinco de Mayo, or a more Bacchanailan form of Spring celebration, though, you have to admit that it's good to get this month going. School will be over soon, outdoor pools will be open, and sunscreen manufacturers will once again make a profit. Life is good at this time of year. Let's get out there and enjoy it (with or without baskets)!

Open Water Season!

The Chatfield gravel pond is open for swimming!

Yeah, I know it's still cold and there's more snow in the forecast. But the calendar says it's May, and therefore open water season. The Park Rangers have declared it thus, and COMSA has arranged for people to sit on the shore and verify that everyone has signed the proper waiver. And believe it or not, there are people who show up to swim.

As I've stated before, it's a known fact (backed by billions of reliable scientific studies) that swimmers are smarter than normal people. (Infinitely sexier, too, but that's not germane to this discussion.) However, this high intelligence does not preclude the possibility that some of them are not necessarily sane.

I volunteered to be the Hall Monitor on the first Monday of May. I knew the water would be cold and had no particular desire to swim myself, and therefore figured that it would be a good opportunity to put in some volunteer hours so I wouldn't feel guilty about avoiding my civic responsibilities later in the summer when I did want to swim. The gig is pretty simple: bring a folding chair, a wide-brimmed hat, and a clipboard, and verify that each swimmer is registered with COMSA and has signed the "It's my own fault if I become fish food" waiver form. I put on my ballcap, printed out the registration list and a handful of blank waivers, and grabbed my camp chair out of the storage closet. I was ready to go.

Well, not really. Turns out the bag I grabbed from the storage closet actually contained my folded-up camping "coffee table" (complete with mesh cup holders) instead of a chair... but I could still sit on it, I suppose. I didn't discover the mistake until I was at the pond, so I just hoped that no one would notice. Or if they did, that they'd assume that I was merely eccentric in my choice of outdoor lounging accessories, and not a moron (and therefore unworthy of the "swimmer" label).

According to Chris Nolte's portable thermometer, the water temperature was 54.7°. Most swimmers don't consider the water to be comfortable until it reaches the high 70s, so we were definitely in what most people would consider wetsuit territory. In fact, the first several people who took the plunge wore multiple caps, including a couple of folks who had the strap-on earflap thingies that made them look like Charles Lindbergh.

About a dozen people were brave enough to swim that evening. I was entertained by watching several of them struggle into their wetsuits, which apparently are designed with the idea that you'll be covered with Crisco when you attempt to pull them on. But there were a few brave souls who decided to swim without the aid of full-body neoprene, and so I was treated to the sounds of hideous shrieking and colorful language as well.

I learned that those hardy folks were training to swim a relay across the English Channel, and are trying to learn how to deal with very cold water so they'll be ready when they jump in there with the sharks and seals and u-boats and stuff. More power to 'em, I say. The problem is that this pond will soon be too warm to satisfy their need for icebergian conditions, and they'll have to migrate to higher elevations. Theirs will be an interesting story throughout the summer; perhaps I'll try to collect some interviews and share their quest with you as it progresses.

With so few swimmers, and such entertaining people to watch, the monitoring job was simple and actually pretty fun. The only stress came when one of the women didn't return at the expected time and we started to worry. This meant that several of us stood on the shoreline straining our eyeballs for signs of splashing: "Is that her? No, that's a duck. How about that? Nope, that's a guy fishing. Where is she?"

She eventually appeared, and it turned out that she was merely enjoying herself at the other end of the pond, swimming a few strokes and then floating around for a bit, watching the clouds and becoming "one with Nature", I guess. Unlike the standard triathlete types who make up most of the pond's population, and want to just crank across the pond without pause (and some, without even looking to see where they're going), this woman was determined to get the most possible enjoyment out of smelling the roses. (Or the fishes, or whatever -- but you know what I mean.) She was having a great time, and didn't think that the folks on shore would be getting ready to call out the Coast Guard. But all ended well, and everyone who entered the pond safely re-emerged before the 7pm deadline. It was a good day for all concerned, I think.

Anyway, the point is that the pond is open, and it won't be long before I'll expect to see hundreds of humans joining the fish and geese in making use of this resource. I may even try it myself soon. I'll let you know. In the meantime, have a great day!

Oh, and FYI -- no one noticed that I was sitting on a "table". Whew!

The Joy of Running

Because I complain about my own running and its obvious lack of grace, speed, power, and beauty...you may think that I could never understand the sheer joy that people experience by doing this sport. Just because I rarely loosen up and get into that groove that brings the endorphin high, you could easily assume that I don't even know what it is. But I do understand these things. I have experienced them; not often, perhaps, but enough to know what it must feel like for a natural runner to glide along the road with a happiness that truly lights their life and lifts their day. It is a hard thing to describe. But an easy thing to witness.

Luckily, I now have pictures. These are some photos from the Collegiate Peaks Trail Run. The runners had a choice of a 25-mile course or doing the loop twice for a total of 50 miles. As a spectator, I couldn't tell which was which until they reached the halfway point and either turned around for the second loop...or stopped running to head for the breakfast buffet. But regardless which race they were running, they exuded a vitality and energy that was contagious and inspiring. The mountain morning was so beautiful and the athletes so fired up that it was easy to get caught up in the joyful vibes that were bouncing off the hills.

If you want to add a little positive energy to your life, I'd highly recommend attending one of these races. It's very, very cool; I guarantee you'll enjoy it. So without further comment, I'll let the pictures speak for themselves. Have a great day!

Collegiate Peaks Trail Run

If you've been paying attention at all, you've probably figured out that I like hanging around with studly athletes. Not only are they positive role models and upbeat people, but they occasionally do crazy stuff that provides me with blog fodder. And there's always the hope (however faint) that some of their studliness might rub off onto me.

(And some of the girls have really nice legs, which is not a bad thing, either.)

Three of my friends decided to do the Collegiate Peaks trail run. Sue ran the 25-mile course, while Jean and Katie did the loop twice for a total of 50 miles. Certainly, running that far under any circumstances is an amazing accomplishment, but this particular race occurs at high altitude, spends most of its time deep in the woods, and has LOTS of hills. (OK, mountains.) Hey -- Steep inclines, low oxygen supplies, and the possibility of being eaten by bears -- what more could you possibly want in a springtime Saturday morning?

Oh, I don't know...how about high winds, cold temperatures, and a forecast of snow? Oh yeah, now we're talking. This event had it all.

The race started at 6:30 am in the lovely town of Buena Vista*, which is more than 2 hours away from Denver. Joe and Kristen and I are part of Katie's ultra-marathon support team, so we got up at 0-Dark thirty and drove up into the mountains to be there for the start. My support role is photographer/videographer/documentarian, so I expected to run my camera batteries down and fill up my hard drive capturing every little nuance of the event.

I left home shortly after 3am. It was dark and I was sleepy. I don't think anyone can blame me for forgetting my camera. Oh, I remembered to fully charge the batteries and pack all the accessories into the bag...I just forgot to pick up the bag as I hurried out the door. D'oh!

Oh well. We arrived a half hour before the start. It was interesting to contrast our bleary-eyed "what am I doing here?" morning shuffle with the focused gazes and enthusiastic energy displayed by the racers. These folks wanted to GET GOING!

Fortunately, Joe remembered his camera, and Katie let me use hers to take a few photos of my own. Our shutters were snapping as the race started right on time, and I think we captured some excellent race pix. And if I end up getting my hands on the photos, I'll try to post some of them here.

The runners took off, chatting and smiling --almost as if they were doing something fun. Kristen and I were freezing in the mountain breeze, with numb toes and fingers (even though we wore jackets and sweat pants)...yet some of the runners wore nothing but shorts and t-shirts. OK, maybe I need to take back that comment about them being role models. Maybe they're just nuts.

Of course, we were standing around cheering and taking pictures; these folks were working. They were out of sight within a couple of minutes.

We drove down the road to the spot where the runners would leave town and head up into the mountains. The road made a sharp turn to the right, and an abrupt change in angle as it headed upwards. It was a good spot for photography; the snow-covered peaks and nearly-full moon provided a beautiful backdrop for the smiles and long strides the runners still held at this early part of the race. Again, we cheered and took pictures and froze our tootsies off as the athletes trotted by us to head into the woods. It was the last time we'd see them for more than 4 hours. The scenery was gorgeous, and the runners were enjoying themselves. As they disappeared into the trees, we piled back into the car, turned the heater on full blast, and went to get breakfast.

We had plenty of time, so we found a sit-down eatery that offered the standard small-town cholesterol-laden breakfast fare. I had "country biscuits 'n gravy", and somehow was able to suppress any guilty feelings about stuffing myself with hot gooey nutrition while my other friends were trotting through the icy woods with nothing to eat but gummi bears and Gatorade. (Hey, it was their choice, right?) Our support-crew plan was to get warm, get fueled, and then go for our own training runs while we waited for the racers to complete the first 25-mile loop. The park where the race had started featured coin-operated showers, so we figured we could clean up and be back in position for the photo ops when the runners returned.

I'm not sure if it was the altitude, the 2-hour-plus car ride, or residual stiffness from Thursday's yoga class, but I was really hurting on the run. Joe took off immediately, and I didn't see him again until I returned to the park. Kristen ran with me for a mile or so, but we eventually became separated, too. I ended up following the race course as it began its ascent, and tried to imagine what this section was going to feel like for the racers on the second lap, after they had already done 25 miles. It seemed to be going straight up, and there just wasn't enough air to breathe!

I was hoping to do a 10-mile workout, but realized that I'd spent too long at breakfast to make that distance at the snail's pace I was going. I turned around after 4 miles and headed back down the hill. Back in my youth, I loved flying down steep inclines, but these days my knees are a tad too tender for that sort of gravity-driven abandon. Therefore, I descended with caution, and wasn't able to go much faster than I had on the way up.

The good news is that I was able to finish the run and position myself for additional photography by the time the runners came through the turn-around. Because the wind and cool temperatures had kept me relatively sweat-free, and the showers were kinda grungy anyway, I decided to skip the cleanup and go directly back to the start/finish line. Along with the other spectators and fans, I clapped and cheered as each runner came through, and snapped as many pictures as I could when my friends ran by.

Several people who had signed up for the 50-miler dropped out after 25. But Jean and Katie barely took the time to grab some additional snacks and hydration before they went flying back out onto the trail. They both looked great at the halfway point, and Sue was all smiles when she came in for the finish, too.

I really wish I could show you the pictures so you'd get an idea of what a cool experience it was. It was inspirational and joyous and, well...beautiful. Oh, don't get me wrong...it won't inspire ME to go run something crazy like that. But it certainly might motivate me to work just a little harder at the things I am doing, and will serve as a reminder that we live in a beautiful state -- and that summer will provide many opportunities for me to get out there and enjoy it.

It has also made me even more of a fan of these wacky ultra-distance runners, so I intend to go to more of these kinds of races in the future. And next time, trust me -- I'll put my camera in the car the night before.

Until then, I'll go back to writing about mundane daily events and filling the blog with YouTube video clips, etc. Stay tuned, and have a great day!

*As Colorado natives know, the residents of Buena Vista pronounce the name of their town as "Byoona Vissta", rather than the traditional Spanish pronunciation of "Bwayna Veesta". I have no idea why. I suppose for the same reason that Kansans pronounce "El Dorado" as "Ell Dough ray dough" and call the Arkansas (Ar kin saw) river the "Arr Kan Zas" river. It provides a handy way to quickly identify foreigners so you can laugh at their ignorance, I guess.

Low-Budget Sci Fi

Yes, I know I shouldn't waste time watching bad movies when I can't even post a two-paragraph blog every day. I should also work out more, put more effort into making money, and irritate my son with additional unwanted parental morality lectures. But sometimes, the siren song of science fiction is too much to resist.

Let me clarify: It's not actually TV...it's NetFlix on-demand programming (which might just be the greatest invention since the Chia-Head). There's a ton of stuff you can watch online, without even having to wait for a DVD in the mail. Sometimes when I'm brain dead (no comments from the peanut gallery, please), I find myself searching through the lists of zombie and/or robot movies, hoping to discover a hidden treasure among the dreck.

Lo and behold -- they've made a movie called "Princess of Mars"! Could it actually be the Edgar Rice Burroughs classic? I had to check it out. Sure enough, the synopsis said "John Carter of Virginia battles for the love of a princess on the mysterious planet of Barsoom." How was I unaware of this?

For non-geek readers (if there are any attending this particular blog site), Edgar Rice Burroughs is the fellow who is best known for writing "Tarzan", but also wrote a bookcase full of novels about adventures on Mars and at the center of the Earth. The stories are generally considered science fiction, though the "science" makes Star Wars look like a CalPoly doctoral thesis by comparison. In other words, these are ripping great stories, but you definitely need "suspension of disbelief" by the boatload.

"A Princess of Mars" is a love story, with plenty of action. John Carter is a Virginia gentleman and soldier who happens to suddenly find himself transported to Mars, where he meets the incomparable Dejah Thoris, who happens to be the planet's most influential princess and hottest babe. His Earthly muscles and unparalled fencing skills give him an advantage over the Martians ("Barsoomians", in their language), even the 10-foot tall green ones with extra arms. In short order he becomes the most feared fighter on the planet, and gets to kill a whole bunch of bad guys in his quest to protect his princess.


This book has been around for nearly a century, and has millions of geekwad fans worldwide. A movie based on the story would have a HUGE built-in audience, and would therefore have gigantic production and promotion budgets, right? They'd get Jennifer Connelly and Duane "The Rock" Johnson to star in it, and hire the best CG guys to create the monsters and stuff.

Well...apparently not. They got Traci Lords, Antonio Sabato, Jr., and a couple gallons of latex makeup. Ugh.


I've got nothing against these actors, but despite Traci's fine acting work in the past (Talk Dirty to Me Part II, Married with Children, etc), she didn't exactly provide the "irresistable beauty" and charm required by this role. And she wasn't nearly brunette enough. Sabato is OK, I suppose, though his swordsmanship is klunky at best, and his appeal as the love interest of the princess is notably absent.

For some inexpliable reason, the producers made the pre-Mars John Carter a sniper in the middle east, who runs afoul of some drug dealers...one of whom is also transported to Mars (which for some reason, is no longer in our own solar system). This drug lord becomes Carter's nemesis on Mars, and seems to be the lifelong warrior's equal in fighting skills. The Tharks don't have enough arms, are barely 6 feet tall, and wear those $2 cotton work gloves you get at 7-11 so the filmmakers didn't have to use any makeup on their hands.

They never mention the low gravity and its benefits to John Carter, and the only evidence you see of it is that he can jump like the Hulk and hurl people 50 feet when he wishes to dash them upon the rocks. He uses these powers with great restraint, though, and in fact seems pretty wimpy in the few battles the movie does decide to share with the viewers. The rest of the time, well, he talks a lot.

In short, this is a terrible movie. And yes, I admit that I am a pinhead for watching it from start to finish (though you have to give me partial intelligence credit for being able to do the dishes and wash a load of socks during the film. I didn't miss anything, I assure you.) The dreaded Thark warlord appears to be about one sneeze away from losing his tusks (they wobble wildly when he talks), and there are numerous scenes where you can see the lower flap of his latex mask protruding from inside his shirt. Everything about this movie is just terrible.

But I watched it. And I'm pretty sure it won't be the last crappy sci fi movie I get myself sucked into. I may have the discipline to avoid flotsam like the SyFy Channel's "Mega-Shark vs. Giant Octopus", but when there's a film based on a classic book, I'll probably check it out. (I even watched "I, Robot" and "Bicentennial Man". Ugh.) I'm anxiously awaiting "Ender's Game" -- though they'll probably cast Zac Efron and make it a musical.

Oh well, at least you loyal readers can rely upon me to pre-screen these abominations for you. And you trust me to point out when one of them IS actually good. So, my friends, today's advice is: Go rent "Attack of the Killer Tomatoes".

You're welcome. Have a great day!