Lookout Mountain Triathlon

You know, it's been a LONG time since I've competed in a triathlon. Back in the primordial days, when there was no such thing as "triathlon clothing" and people wore cutoff jeans and rode Sears bicycles during the races, I did pretty well. I brought home my share of trophies. Ah, the good old days!

Back then (when Jimmy Carter still held the "Worst President" title), there were two factors that helped me achieve my moderate success.

1. The swim was longer, and represented a more significant percentage of the race time. This gave swimmers a decided advantage.


2. The multi-talented superstud "natural" athletes had not yet discovered the sport. Almost everyone who competed in those days could do ONE sport well, and completely stunk at the others. Being a decent swimmer and a mediocre cyclist/runner, well, I was in a position to occasionally climb onto the podium.

Then my son was born. My "adult life" responsibilities grew exponentially at the same time the real animals were getting involved in the sport. Thus, it seemed like a good time to trade in the toe clips for a hammock and a BBQ grill. If my life were a movie, this segment would appear as a musical montage showing increasingly disturbing scenes of consumption and sloth, culminating with a closeup of the horror on my face when I realized I had actually signed up to compete in this race.

Well, OK, perhaps I exaggerate. It was a sprint tri; the distances were short enough that no training was required. I had no aspirations for awards, so I did not spend any time working on transitions. I did oil my bike chain, and made sure that my goggles were appropriately tightened, but that's the entire extent of my preparation.

Fortunately, Joe and Kristen took care of me. Joe loaned me a pair of "tri shorts", which serve the dual purpose of swimming suit and bike pants. Kristen loaned me a "bib number belt" to hold my race number without having to stick safety pins through my shirt. I slapped some sunscreen on my arms, slung the bike onto the transition area rack, tossed the shoes on a towel next to the bike...and I was ready to go.

Or to wait, as it turned out. My swim seed time put me in the very last group to start, so I had several hours to cool my jets while the other folks began the competition. Starting late left me with challenges the earlier competitors didn't face:

• I began to worry about whether I had eaten enough breakfast.


• I had to watch racers cross the finish line; they were done and eating the brunch before I even started.


• The roads were mostly empty during my bike and run segments. The course marshalls were tired and apathetic by the time I came through, so I might experience problems figuring out where to go on the race course.


• And worst of all, the sun was up and the heat was rising. The first racers were able to complete the triathlon in reasonably nice weather; but I would be on the course during the sweltering hell of July's relentless summer sun.

But it was a short race. It was survivable, even for someone like me.

As much as I'd enjoy describing the race in excruciating detail, I'm sure that readers would instead appreciate a brief bullet list of my notable observations regarding how I could've gone faster. So, here goes:

• Be tougher when you exit the pool. Oh sure, the pavement is hard on your tender tootsies, but c'mon...there were girls out there who didn't stop to put on sandals before running to the bikes. And face it, you're not exactly a marksman when it comes to putting on footwear. You must've wasted two minutes mincing around in your spastic sandal-donning dance. Geez.


• Dry your feet before trying to put on your cycling socks. Or better yet, skip the socks altogether. Or if you MUST hop around like a headless chicken, at least make sure someone videotapes it for the end-of-year highlight reel.


• If you're going faster than the motorized vehicles, then just pass them. It was a long hill -- you could've gotten around him easily before you had to make the turn at the bottom. The fact that he had flashing lights on top and the word "ambulance" written on the side of his truck didn't alter the fact that he was in your way, and deserved to be ignored, sped past, and flipped off -- just like any other unworthy competitor.


• Either put on sunscreen, or remember your shirt before heading out of the transition area onto the run. It adds a lot of time to have to turn around and go back for your shirt when you realize you're going to roast your pasty-white skin.


• Remember to pick up and put on your bib number belt. It adds a lot of time to have to turn around and go back for your race number...especially after you've already made the trip once to pick up the shirt you forgot to put on.


• Ditto with hat and sunglasses. Any spectators who were watching your "3 exit attempt" transition would assume (rightly) that you're a complete moron.


• And finally, just keep in mind that when you're the next-to-last person on the race course, the course marshalls and aid station volunteers may not be paying the same attention they paid to the earlier finishers. It's not his fault that the kid at the turn just stared at you numbly when you ran past the path you were supposed to follow. After all, you'd have seen the arrow if you'd have just cranked your nect about 170° in that direction once you passed the rock that obscured it. Sure, he coulda said something, but he was probably too busy laughing at how your shirt and bib number looked like they had just been thrown on at the last second. And it was totally YOUR responsibility to avoid the aid station worker who was engaged in a water fight with his buddy at the last water table. How was he to know that you'd be running right down the middle of the path? You couldn't very well expect him to look behind himself as he was backing up to avoid getting splashed, could you?

Oh well. Despite my numerous mental lapses, I somehow managed to be fast enough for third place in my age group, and I received this lovely coffee mug as an award. I shall cherish it forever.

Or not. The bottom line is that I'm glad I did the race. I re-learned some things I had forgotten, I got a good workout, and I was able to hang out with my friends and eat a meal while sitting on a curb in a country club parking lot. And you know what? I'm pretty sure I'll be doing it again.

Until then, well...have a great day!

What the heck am I doing?

Normally, I'm pretty good about turning down requests to do stuff I'm not completely certain about.

I used to accept questionable invitations on the assumption that it would downgrade my "Coolness Factor" (CF) should I decline. A few years ago, though, I discovered that my CF (and the associated "Friendship Strength Index") were so low to begin with that my attendance behaviors did not significantly affect either measure. In other words, when you're a dork, it doesn't matter if you play with the cool kids...you're still gonna be a dork. And the people who consider you a friend have accepted your dorkiness already, so they'll forgive you for additional event attendance truancy. So under my current policy, if I'm not completely convinced that I'll enjoy myself at a particular event, I simply choose not to attend.

But I have now succumbed to two consecutive exceptions to this rule. Not sure what's going on in my head...perhaps I'm just starved for attention or something.

First, I agreed to meet my brother at a political fundraiser. It didn't sound too difficult; show up, eat dinner, be nice to a few hand-shakers, and cough up a few bucks for the cause. Like most Americans, I've been dismayed with the conduct of both the state and local governments of late, and figured it wouldn't hurt to do what I can to help install representatives that aren't quite so...well, stupid. So even though it was scheduled for later in the evening than I like to stay up, I figured I could handle it.

The second decision, though, is the one that makes me doubt my sanity. For years now, my friend Kristen has been bugging me to enter a triathlon. I've steadfastly declined, on the basis that a) I don't want to spend the money, b) I'm not in shape, and c) I never know whether I'll have to work the weekend or not. Well, for reasons we'll discuss in a future post, item c) turned out not to play into this decision. And item b) was overridden by an unexplained urge to just get out and DO something competitive -- which may be a remnant from some emotional turbulence left over from doing the Triple Bypass a couple of weeks ago. So this time, when Kristen twisted my arm with increasing force (by which I mean she promised there'd be an extravagant post-race breakfast)...I caved. I entered the Lookout Mountain Sprint Triathlon.

In addition to the promise of "Country Club" food, this particular venue boasts some nice hills, an outdoor pool, and indoor plumbing. I figured if I was going to do a sprint triathlon, why not do it someplace that's beautiful and comfortable? And since it was the first year for the event to be held, it occured to me that there might not be that many geezers my age entering the darn thing. They were giving awards to 3rd Place, and it's mathematically conceivable that there could be only three old guys in the race. So -- What the heck...I'm in!

And of course, as soon as I get the PayPal receipt, the buyer's remorse kicks in. What was I thinking? I'm not a triathlete. I run like a walrus, sunburn easily, and don't own any of the requisite clothing. I haven't practiced transitions for decades, and am certainly not going to do the "run without socks" thing that the serious guys do. My feet are tender, and by grabs, I needs my tootsie padding, man.

I don't have aero bars on my bike, don't have a pointy teardrop helmet, and don't have any triangular tattoos. My sunglasses are the dweebish kind that clip over my trifocals, and I transport my bike by throwing it on its side in the back of my 12-year-old, decidedly non-Lexus station wagon.

Then there's the whole "pasty white fat guy" thing...which is OK when you're at a Masters swim meet, but not so much when you're immersed among a group of chisled bronzed gods. I'm not a Vegan, I can't tell you what brand of shoes I wear, and I have no idea how many teeth are on the cogs of my bike freewheel. I'm definitely out of my element in a race like this.

Oh, and then there's the fact that this is a "sprint" triathlon...and I HATE sprints.

But I paid my money -- and if nothing else, I'm certain I'll perform well at the breakfast. It should be fun, and I promise to give you a complete report.

Until then, have a great day!

Lightning

I am personally embarrassed, dumbfounded, and frankly, a little frightened—now that the USA has no human spaceflight capability. Oh sure, I know we have "plans" to continue with a new capsule in just a few years, but if the peabrains in Washington can't even figure out that the first step toward getting out of a hole is to stop digging...well, I don't have much faith that they'll be able to get us back into space before the Klingons arrive. It was nice to see all the tributes to the Shuttle program when Atlantis landed, but it's still disturbing to think that we're dependent on the Rooskies if we even want to put a dadgum chimp in orbit.

(Speaking of chimps, did you see that there's a new Planet of the Apes movie coming out? I guess I'm not the only person who views space program cutbacks as the harbingers of simian apocalypse. Hmm.)

I sometimes still hear the expression "We can put a man on the moon, but we still can't [insert desirable outcome phrase here*]." Well, I hate to say this, but we haven't been able to put a man on the moon for 40+ years. We've spent billions creating mandates for labels telling people not to stick their tongues into lawn mowers, and paying for research studies to see if people enjoy having dinner forks impaled in their shinbones...but we can't even replicate accomplishments we pulled off when freakin' Nixon was President. Geez.

Anyway, the point is that we've had some amazing lightning displays during the evening monsoons over the last couple of weeks. There have been a couple of times when I've been driving home from my temporary work location in Louisville and have been able to watch Nature's Fury unleashed across the southern horizon. I've seen some pretty intense lightning over the years, but I don't recall ever seeing lightning that stayed sizzling for such a long duration. It's not that it was any brighter or more crackly than other lightning -- just that it seemed to stay in the sky forever.

That's some serious electricalicity, man. Tesla would be proud (if he were alive today.) I'm also quite certain he would say "Dudes -- Nature is going to continue to kick our butts if we don't get smarter! C'mon folks...let's send people to Mars and beyond, so we can learn about hard stuff and figure out better ways to deal with harsh conditions!"

Roddenberry would say the same thing. So would Asimov, Sagan, and Abraham Lincoln. Probably even Gary Coleman and Frank Zappa. And definitely Slim Pickens. So let's do it, people -- every time you see a bolt of lightning in the sky, use it as a reminder to communicate frequently with your elected representatives, and to let them know that we want to see vision as opposed to regulation -- boldness as opposed to helotry. We used to admire the spark, and pursue the thunder, but now it seems that we have many more extinguishers than fires. Let's get out there and give new meaning to the phrase "Rocket's Red Glare", OK?

Yeah.

OK, 'nuff said for now. Have a great day!

---

*Top Ten Phrases that Follow "We can put a man on the moon, but we still can't..."

• ...get rid of Ryan Secrest.


• ...re-animate Jimi Hendrix.


• ...understand why all them silly furriners enjoy soccer so much.


• ...have Reese's Easter Eggs all year 'round.


• ...find intuitive video editing software for the Macintosh.


• ...discover any U2 music that doesn't completely suck.


• ...elect a Pontiff called Pope John Elway the First.


• ...cure Rosie O'Donnell.


• ...figure out how to pronounce "Shia LaBeouf".


• ...pass laws against rap music and wearing ballcaps backwards.


• ...believe in the vast government conspiracy that faked the moon landings—which by the way, renders this list completely gratuitious, since it's based on an assumption that is patently false, as you can plainly see by analyzing the shadows in that one picture of the waving flag. And c'mon -- how the heck is the flag supposed to be waving when there's no wind in space, anyway, man. It just doesn't make any sense at all! Wake up, people; don't let them get away with these lies!!!Fight the power!!

Lost Weekend

I was talking with my friend Russ about people who were well suited to their jobs. He was telling me about a fellow he frequently sees driving a forklift around campus; the guy always has an ear-to-ear grin on his face. We figured he was the kid who picked up a Tonka bulldozer in the sandbox and was imprinted for life. He never had to hesitate when someone asked what he wanted to be as a grownup. "I wanna drive heavy equipment! I wanna lift stuff, push stuff, and move stuff around!" You could see the sparkle in his eye and feel the love he has for his chosen profession.

Some people do indeed find their calling as adults, and make the world a better place through application of their talents and dreams. I've known a few other guys like that: My buddy Cary, for instance -- he's a fantastic engineer because he sees the world entirely in terms of design tradeoffs. On his days off from work, he builds stuff. He does calculations for fun, and looks at everything in terms of how to make it function more effectively.

Then there's my pal Joe. If you ever have a 10-minute conversation with him, you'll know beyond a doubt that he's a top-notch computer programmer. He's all about the data, and how it fits together. If it weren't for his ultra-sharp sense of humor, you might mistake him for Mr. Spock (well -- perhaps if Mr. Spock were also a serious triathlete, anyway.)

I envy people like that. How perfect would it be to have a job that lines up with your aptitudes and passion? I, on the other hand, have spent most of my adult life earning money for performing jobs that are a loose fit, at best. Oh sure, I'm competent at what I do, but I've always felt that my true talents have not been applied (or of much use to) my daily remunerated labors.

So, what would be my dream job, anyway? If you've followed my blog for very long, you probably have some good ideas about that—And if you said "Official Massage Therapist for the Swedish Bikini Team", you'd be correct.

Well, no...not really. Might be fun, but I doubt if I'd be very good at it. I'm not even sure where Switzerland is, for one thing...and I don't speak Swahili—so there would definitely be cultural obstacles to overcome. Not that I wouldn't give it a try if offered the position...

But this weekend, I was reminded of another profession in which I would undoubtedly excel. I'm sure I've written about it before, but I think I would be a fantastic Usability Tester. Just give me a product to try, and I can quickly point out ways for the manufacturer to improve the item. (Or if you prefer a more cynical phrasing of the same concept: I could point out all the ways the @#$!* morons screwed up in designing it.)

I spent the entire weekend struggling with an abomination called the iMac.

Now before you go all Mayor Mac-Cheese on me and start questioning my IQ and ancestry, let me publicly admit that I recognize the Unquestioned Genius of Mr. Steve Jobs. I am completely willing to concede that he could pummel me in a chess match, or solve equations that would baffle Matt Damon and leave me in tears. He can probably speak Klingon, bake a pie from scratch, and juggle Fabergé eggs while quoting Proust. I can barely manage English, regularly burn toast, and cut myself shaving with an electric razor. I will not argue these points, nor will I argue that the iMac is not a gorgeous piece of equipment. Aesthetically, it makes the Mona Lisa look like a used birdcage liner.

But if you ask me how much I enjoyed my first weekend of trying to get work done on the Apple monstrosity, the answer is simple: Not at all.

I spent the entire weekend trying to finish a veteran's video for the APHA. That was the entire point of getting the Mac, after all -- to be able to crank out videos quicker. But after dozens of hours of hair pulling and teeth gnashing, I found myself approaching Monday with bleary eyes, potential ulcers, and not a whit of progress made toward burning the DVD I needed. I'm not sure if it's programmer incompetence, Apple arrogance, or some sort of personal vendetta that Jobs has initiated against me...but the Mac video editing and DVD authoring software have frustrated me greatly.

Yes, I know that the "Apple way" is to make everything clean and simple. And I suppose it is. But sometimes you just want "functional". And that, my friends, was much more difficult to find. What good is "gorgeous" if it doesn't stinkin' work. (And no, I'm not talking about the Bikini Team here -- what is your obsession with that topic, anyway? Geez.)

Anyway, the point of this post is not to list the dazzling array of missing features, poorly-handled interface opportunities, or counter-intuitive naming conventions. Nor is it to detail all of the "Click here to pay another $29 to get the feature that any rational person would assume was included" message boxes that popped up. No, the point of this blog is to state that if Apple wants to learn how to make customers far more happy (and probably sell a lot more of these devil machines), I would be delighted to sell them my list of "Suggestions for Dramatic Product Improvement" compiled throughout my weekend of labors lost.

(Of course, you'd think they'd hire their own usability testers before tossing the product out into the marketplace, but obviously did not.) If any of you, Dear Readers, have a product whose functionality and user-friendliness you'd like to verify, feel free to give me a call. I'm well-suited for the job...and I work cheap.

Have a great day!

Runnin' in the Rain

Other than possessing some incredible dance moves and an impressive list of movie credits, I don't really have that much in common with Gene Kelly. I don't wear a fedora, don't carry an umbrella, and don't wear a necktie to work each day. And if I ever run across a two-foot high talking mouse, my response would likely involve baseball bats and D-Con, rather than tap shoes and gayness.

But that said, I have to confess that I do appreciate the joy one can experience while exercising in a rainstorm.

My brother and I had a track practice scheduled for Tuesday afternoon. While we knew that thunderstorms would be moving in, we decided to try to get in a few laps before the skies opened up. We almost made it.

We completed our warm up and a few initial sprints before the drops began to fall. I was still tired from the Triple Bypass, but did the best I could to complete the workout before the heavens really opened up. But more and more drops were hitting us, and we still had a couple of 600s to run. The intention was to hold our goal mile pace for the first 400 of each one, and then just hang on with whatever we had left. When the rain began, the cooling effect probably helped us achieve extra speed. But the deluge moved in quickly, and we were soaked to the bone and running through puddles by the time we started our last repeat. Pat ran fast, and left me far behind. But I was having fun, and almost broke into song as I squish-squished my way around the muddy oval.

Hey, once you're wet, you're wet...might as well enjoy it, right? It was a good workout, and I was grinning like an idiot as I slogged around the track. I was pleased at how my legs responded after the bike ride, and I'd have been happy to do more, but the lightning was drawing ominously near. Neither of us had any desire to partake of 50 million volts, so we called it a day and went out for tacos instead. Overall, I'd rate it as an excellent experience, and an enjoyable connection with the elements...and with the spirits of movie star hoofers of the past.

Have fun, my friends, no matter what the weather. And you can always sing if you want to. Have a great day!

Triple Bypass!

I survived!

The Triple Bypass bike ride goes from Evergreen, Colorado to Avon -- a total of 120 miles. Riders travel over the tops of Squaw Pass (11,140 ft), Loveland Pass (11,990 ft) and Vail Pass (10,560 ft), and back down again. There are very few places where the road isn't steep. And the lowest valley is still at about 7400 feet, so the entire trip is spent up where there's considerably less oxygen than you find down in Denver.

The thought of doing this ride would probably never had entered my mind, if it weren't for the encouragement of my training buddy, Kim Clemens. He seems to enjoy taking on crazy challenges, and his enthusiasm is infectious. But even with Kim's prodding, I probably wouldn't have done it if it weren't for our other inspirational friend, the ageless Reynold Kalstrom. For an animal like Reynold, this would be just another leisurely ride, so he had signed up for the event months in advance. Unfortunately, some unforeseen circumstances left him unable to do the Bypass, so he offered me his slot.

I didn't exactly jump at it, but eventually the guys persuaded me. And as regular readers know, Kim had pushed me through a few good training rides on the local hills in the weeks leading up to the event. Any rational coach would've recommended far more training that what I did, but when have I ever behaved rationally, eh?

Reynold was kind enough to offer us a ride up to the starting line, and we arrived in Bergen Park before 5am. It only took a few minutes to assemble the bikes, pose for photos, and strap into our backpacks, and then we were off!

The sun rose as we climbed up Squaw Pass, and as the journey began, it was all fun and sociable. Pleasant weather. Lots of colorful bikes, beautiful forest, and scenic views across various valleys. I didn't pay much attention to how many people we were passing, nor to how many were passing us -- but there certainly were a boatload of bikes on the road. Fortunately, there was not much auto traffic; it was a very pleasant ride, indeed.

I was a bit surprised by how much I wanted to eat at the first aid station. Peanut butter bagels, oranges, nuts, and fig newtons, all washed down with Gatorade. We took our time, enjoying the friendly banter of the aid station workers, and dutifully waiting our turns in the porta-potty line. So far, so good.

The next section was a bit more challenging. Though the specifics of the course are a blur to me now, I know that at some point we left the road and got onto a bike path. It was pretty crowded, and you had to pay much closer attention to the other cyclists as the path wound its way through the woods. I lost track of Kim around that time, and ended up trying to hold onto a draft behind another rider for a while. I tried to remember to soak up the scenery and deeply inhale the pine-scented morning air...but I'm afraid there were long stretches where my vision was focused on the tire in front of me, and on when I needed to shift gears.

When the path finally began to descend, I found a nice spot to pull over so I could take a photo of Kim when he passed that point. Unfortunately, those photos were pretty crummy, so it was a wasted effort. I didn't realize it when I pulled over, but we were only a few hundred meters from the Loveland ski area aid station. As Kim rode by, I yelled that I'd meet him in the sandwich line, and he rode on by.

I think that's about when Kim realized that he hadn't entirely rid himself of the flu bug that had attacked him the previous week. He tried to eat a ham sandwich, but said it just wasn't appealing to him. I had no such troubles, and wolfed down a turkey sandwich, some cookies, and some fruit, and was still more than happy to finish off the remainder of his sandwich. It was all delicious to me.

I'm not sure I've done any other event where the aid stations were essentially a party spot. Since it was publicly accessible, riders were kissing their spouses, high-fiving their kids, and being licked by their dogs. The place had music, vendor booths, an abundance of solid and liquid fuel, and the ever-popular porta pots. Once again, we took our time, and relished the ambience as we prepared ourselves for the daunting trip over the rest of Loveland pass.

Since Kim knew he didn't have his normal pep, he urged me to go on ahead, so I tried to find some other riders to draft. Unfortunately, when the hill is that steep and the speeds that slow, you just don't get much help from having someone in front of you. So I ended up just riding fairly hard, and not worrying about what anyone else was doing. I just wanted to make it to the top without stopping, and I was able to do that.

At the summit, I chatted with a few other riders who were also taking a break, and learned that some of them were not only doing the "Double Triple" (ie, riding the same route AGAIN the next day), but were also intending to ride back down to the Loveland aid station so they could do the climb again. Yes, that does sound extreme (and stupid)...but since I regularly hang out with people who run 100 miles at a time, or swim more than 20, well, I can pretty much just accept it when people tell me stuff like that. More power to ya, dude -- say "hey" when you pass me for the second time, OK?

Anyway, when Kim rejoined me a few minutes later, we decided it would be worth it to wait in line for the obligatory "Summit Sign" photograph. We took our turns snapping shutters on other peoples' cameras so that they would do ours. OK, so it's not Ansel Adams, but I'm pretty proud of that picture.

As you can tell, I had already put on my long sleeves for the descent. Kim was hot from the climb and thought he wouldn't need the extra wind protection...but we only made one switchback before he changed his mind. We pulled over so he could shirt up, and I took that opportunity to also add my calf compression sleeves. My legs were feeling fine, but I figured that the fabric would help cut the wind, and the compression might help me get through the tough climbs to come.

After the long and fast descent, we climbed over Swan Mountain, refilled out bellies and bottles at the Summit High aid station, and then eventually made our way onto the bike path that follows I-70 from Dillon to Copper Mountain. It's reasonably flat (at least compared to the other parts of this ride), and reasonably scenic. Unfortunately, it was around this time that Kim realized exactly how much the previous week's flu had taken out of him. As much as I wanted to see him stick with it to the finish, it became obvious that it just wouldn't be healthy for him to continue past Copper. Fortunately, he was able to make contact with his son Nick, who would pick him up once he got into town. He gave me a short inspirational speech and urged me onward; I told him I'd meet him at the finish line, and then I was on my own.

Vail Pass was the easiest of the passes -- in terms of pure climbing. But since it came after so many hours of cranking and pushing, it seemed like it was still a pretty tough challenge. The low point for me was when a guy on a mountain bike with a baby trailer attached went around me. I think I actually said "Aw, Come ON!" since it's just not nice to humiliate a fellow like that. But I knew I was getting tired, so I just accepted my comeuppance, and kept the pedals turning.

(Hey, it wasn't as bad as I had thought. I ended up passing him back a short time later, and totally left him in the dust when it got steeper. Bwaahhh haaa haa ha!)

The crowds were thinner at the aid station atop Vail Pass, but I have never been happier to see sliced watermelon. I just wanted liquid-ish fuels at that point, and slurped down a few slices without giving a thought to my normal table manners. After a quick visit to the outhouse, it was back onto the bike for the last leg.

There were about 15 miles of screamin' downhills, most of which was on an isolated road where you could let gravity do its thing with abandon. I had a great time on this section -- I was smokin'! This is where I learned that my bike seems to coast downhill faster than most of the others on the course. Someone who obviously doesn't understand the laws of physics has since suggested that it was my excess weight that contributed to this speed, but I flatly reject that theory. It's a matter of good bearing grease and streamlined wheels, that's all.

Then came the final 10 miles or so of relatively flat section on the pathways from Vail into Avon. At this point, I just wanted to be done. The good news is that I was able to latch onto a couple of pelotons and was therefore traveling much faster than I could've gone by myself. The bad news is that every time we went around a curve or up a hill, I'd fall off the back and would have to wait for the next group of pack riders to go by so I could catch a draft. I probably did this with four or five different groups.

And suddenly, there was the finish line!

Kim was there to take photos and help me figure out what to do next. (By then, my brain was pretty muddy and I was happy to have someone just point to where I should go, and tell me what to do.) His wife and son were there, too, and they had already eaten dinner -- so I grabbed a quick plate of goodies and snarfed it down. I had a veggie burger with more mustard than would fit on the bun, and it was delicious! I could've used some ice cream (and maybe a beer), but the lemonade tasted pretty darn sweet and refreshing.

About the time I was swallowing the last of the burger, the rain started. We made it back to the truck (and yes, I was walking funny at that point...why do you ask?) before the downpour started, but ended up driving through torrential rain for a good part of the trip back to Denver. I felt so sorry for the bikers who were still out on the course -- we could see some of them as we drove, and they looked absolutely miserable. So I guess the one piece of advice I'd give folks who are considering this ride is "Leave early and ride hard". Of course, in some years, the rain starts earlier and you'd still get soaked even if you did follow my advice. But still...

Will I do it again next year? Well, Kim will be back and eager to finish it, and Reynold will sign up as well. So I couldn't very well say "no", could I?

But that's a year away. In the meantime, I think I'll stay off the bike seat for a little while. So, I'll probably see you at the pool, or maybe at the track. In any case, thanks for supporting me...and thanks in advance for helping me train next year! Have a great day!

Goin' to the Dentist

Are there any introverted dental hygienists?

I suspect that you'd have to thrive on human contact to be attracted to professions such as dental hygiene or hairstyling. I could be wrong—it might be part of their college curriculum to practice small-talk skills, and to perfect the art of being friendly while you're scraping gunk off molars or trying to style Rosie O'Donnell into a Jennifer Aniston.

Of course I'd rather feel that the pointed instruments inside my mouth are being wielded by a friendly soul than by an antisocial cellar dweller. But at the same time, whenever I have an approaching dental appointment, I always think about how difficult it is to hold a conversation while having your teeth cleaned.

But think about it: If you're an extroverted hygienist, wouldn't it be frustrating to have spitting, swallowing, and suction hoses interrupting every single conversation you have all day long? It's more disruptive than dealing with a crummy cell phone connection...and on top of that, it's gotta be kinda gross.

That's why Stephen Hawking would be the perfect dental patient. He could hold an absolutely fascinating conversation with his hygienist throughout any procedure...even while getting a filling. And he comes with his own chair. How cool is that?

That's probably what I'll be thinking about when I'm tilted back with my mouth open and the light in my eyes. Quantum physics and the origin of the Universe. And after I leave the dentist's office, I'll be thinking about what I'm going to eat for lunch. Something about having squeaky clean teeth always seems to make me hungry. Oh well.

I'm pretty sure they're going to schedule me to complete the filling replacement process we started a few years ago. Since most of my fillings were originally installed when Ron Howard still had hair, my dentist is gradually replacing them all with the sturdier and more attractive non-metal composites. It'll be good to have all modern fillings, even though the procedure itself is not something I'm particularly looking forward to. Especially if they want to have a conversation with me while they're working.

We'll see. In the meantime, I expect to once again be complimented on my excellence with flossing, and on my robustly healthy gums. And I'll proudly take home my new complimentary toothbrush and mini-tube of Crest. Should be a pretty good way to start the day. You have a great one, too!

Back to Work

My neck still hurts.

I got my first pair of glasses in the 5th grade. By the time I was in college, my vision was so bad that I couldn't identify Screamin' Jay Hawkins from 3 feet away without my specs. I couldn't see the pace clock at the pool. I frequently walked into walls.

OK, the walking into walls thing may have had catalysts beyond myopia. But the point is that I was dependent on corrective lenses. So when I learned that our company insurance plan covered 100% of the cost of radial keratotomy surgery, I went for it. Sure, it was a somewhat experimental procedure at the time, and there was a significant risk of undesirable side effects (blindness, constant agony, etc)...but I figured that the pace of medical research and advances in computer technologies would ensure that if something went wrong, there'd be a new procedure to correct it coming along shortly.

I was right. That modern, improved procedure is called Lasik, and it's widely available now at very reasonable prices. The only problem is that RK patients can't get Lasik because the scar tissue from the incisions weakens the cornea beyond the point where...well, let's just say I'm not a candidate for additional eyeball carving. Ergo, after years of age-related deterioration of my visual acuity, I'm once again completely dependent on glasses. And at this point, I require trifocals.

What does this have to do with my sore neck, and with nose-bone-wearin', skull-holdin' blues singers? Well you see, when I ride my bike and actually want to see where I'm going, the glasses require me to lift my head up to an uncomfortable level. I can tolerate this nerve-pinching position for a limited time, but last Saturday's 4-hour ride left me pretty kinked up. And since I expect to be on the bike for as much as 12 hours this weekend, I'm afraid that I could face some major need for rehab once I descend from the saddle.

Unfortunately, my current insurance program does not cover chiropractic or massage expenses. Which brings me to the deep philosophical math question that forms the central point of this blog.

How can every insurance company save you 15% if you switch to them?

Seriously, this seems to defy logic. If Allstate saves you 15% over Geico, and Geico saves you 15% over Allstate, shouldn't it create a DO-loop that eventually invokes Zeno's paradox? If anyone knows how this mind-bending dilemma can be resolved, please let me know.

And while we're on the topic of unanswerable advertising questions, I'd also like to learn if anyone knows how much extra business is generated by those guys who stand on the street corner and juggle giant arrow-shaped signs in front of oncoming traffic. Most of them flip and waggle the signs so much that you can't even read what business is paying the dude to stand out there in the heat. And if you do figure out what they're trying to sell, you've already passed the intersection before the advertising message can pass through enough brain circuitry to trigger the "Gosh, I should check that out" reflex. I would bet a large sum of money that very few waving arrow signs carry enough emotional clout to motivate a U-turn.

How much do those guys get paid, anyway? And is there a training school for flipping and spinning street-corner advertising media? Do panhandlers ever get in fights with sign spinners over which one stakes a claim on a prime corner? And how in the heck do the store accountants measure the percentage of their daily business that's generated by the sign jockey's manic motions? How do they know they're getting their money's worth by hiring the guy?

And does wearing a costume increase effectiveness? Is a human-sized hot dog more effective than a gorilla, or a hairy dude with a fright wig?

I don't know. They did not teach us those things in my advertising classes back a KU. But if I find out, I'll be sure to pass the info along. In the meantime, give those guys a break by smiling and waving, and have a great day!

Independence Day

Thanks to Dr. Seuss and Gene Roddenberry, I developed a pretty decent vocabulary relatively early in life. By the fourth grade, I could not only spell "antidisestablishmentarianism", but I could use it in a sentence. (Of course, the sentence I used it in was "I can spell antidisestablishmentarianism"—it wasn't until years later that I would understand the concept well enough to debate its merits vs. anarcho syndicalism and whatnot.) But the 4th of July reminds me of one particular vocabularical deficiency I had as a lad: I spent several years under the impression that our great nation's founding document was the "Decoration" of Independence.

This made no sense to me, and my underdeveloped brain struggled valiantly to imagine the famous parchment being used as an interior design element, or perhaps adorning an evergreen tree, as would a Christmas Decoration. And since my Grandma's favorite national holiday was "Decoration Day", I assumed there was some connection between visiting cemeteries and blowing up stuff with fireworks.

Despite the fact that my logic was driven by nothing more than a pronunciation error, I later learned enough to understand that such a connection was very real. There is an indisputable relationship between the freedoms declared by our founders, and the imperative to recognize and remember those who have sacrificed themselves to defend those freedoms. And that brings me to the photo above: It's a picture of a delightful fellow named Clarence Burton, one of the heroes who helped us win World War II.

Oh don't worry, I don't intend to turn this blog into a promotional arm of the American Patriots History Association (though donations and volunteer support are always appreciated). But I wanted to mention Clarence -- not only because of his service and sacrifices, but also because hanging out with him was one of the highlights of my last week. Dave Barrett and I recorded an interview with Clarence a few weeks ago, and he enjoyed the experience so much that he invited us to have dinner with him at the retirement home. Bill Hurd (another entertaining and wonderful WWII vet) joined us, along with his wife. I won't bore you with the details here, but I had a great time, and learned a lot. And I can't tell you how many years it's been since I ate a salad with pineapple, coconut, and marshmallows in it. (I skipped the boiled cabbage, but it actually looked pretty tasty.)

Anyway, I guess the point is that while we pyrotechnically celebrate the wisdom of our founders and acknowledge the greatness of our country, it's also important to recognize the greatness of the people who have worked hard, stood up for our values, and continue to represent us with outstanding character, ready humor, and plain ol' basic goodness. Thank you, Clarence, Bill, and everyone across this land who embodies the principles that were so eloquently published on July 4, 1776.

Happy Fourth of July, my friends! Have a great day!

That'll Do, Pig

Life is good. Not only did I have an outstanding bike ride on Saturday morning, but I actually had a chance to sit down and watch television for a bit.

Next weekend is the Triple Bypass. In a moment of mental instability, I agreed to participate in this high-altitude 120-mile cycling event. Fortunately, my buddy Kim possesses plenty of infectious enthusiasm, and continues to talk me into long training rides to get in shape for it. This time, we went up Highgrade Road, and then rode through Conifer and Evergreen and finally back to Turkey Creek, for a total of over 50 miles. I was toast by the end of the ride, but am reasonably confident that I'll be able to finish the trek from Evergreen to Avon on Saturday. It should be fun!

You're probably wondering what the heck long bike rides have to do with Morgan Woodward, the actor pictured above. Well, I suppose I could argue that this talented gentleman usually played a crazy guy, and you'd have to be crazy to ride 120 miles in one day. Or that the Fourth of July is a good time to ponder the meaning of the "E Plebnista". But in this case, it's just about the fact that I allowed myself the luxury of watching some TV for a bit. It was a good way to mellow out after a good workout.

But I did find this interesting: The two photos above are of the same actor, playing two completely different roles on the same TV show. The one I watched on Saturday is the one on the right, where he plays a respected scientist driven insane by a dentist chair with a rotating dome light. In the other show, he goes nuts because he hangs out with Communists (which needs no further explanation).

The original Star Trek series pulled this trick several times. In one show, an actor might be an omnipotent alien, and in another he'd play a junior Klingon officer. When you slap on a different costume (or better yet, a mustache), this thespian reuse usually isn't noticeable.

But they did annoy me with one particular casting choice. In this case, they used two different actors to play the same role. It wasn't a Darren Stevens kind of thing, where the two fellows each did the best they could to baffle audiences as to why a hot chick like Samantha would ever hook up with a knuckle-dragging pinhead troglodyte. Instead it was a case where the roles were completely redefined. It was as if Han Solo was suddenly portrayed by Marty Feldman instead of Harrison Ford.



I'm talking, of course, about the portrayal of Zephram Cochrane, the fellow who invented Warp Drive. In TOS (The Original Series), he was played by Glenn Corbett, a handsome, articulate, and well groomed young fellow. In a movie that supposedly took place centuries earlier, he's played as a gnarly old drunken hippie by the somewhat craggy James Cromwell. I have nothing against Cromwell, but it was really hard to believe that his disheveled Cochrane would later grow into the dapper character brought to life by Corbett. And it's all about suspension of disbelief, isn't it?

I wonder who made that casting decision, and what favors were called in during the process. Surely they knew that their audiences were full of geeks who would ask these questions, right? And if you look at how consistent with TOS their casting choices were in the most recent movie (with the possible exception of Scotty), you know that somebody in the crew was capable of creating consistency between the old and the new. With the Cromwell/Corbett selection, though, they just blew it.

And yes, I know that very few of my readers care to immerse themselves in Star Trek debates to this nitpicky level, and that's OK. Most folks probably clicked away from this post as soon as they saw the phaser in Capt. Tracy's hand. I expect that. But I also expect to return to discussions of broader appeal over the next few weeks, as I comment upon such topics as cycling, summer, and the psychological havoc wreaked by ultra-long commutes in the blind pursuit of continued paychecks.

In the meantime, stay cool in the hot weather, courteously share the road with two-wheeled travelers, and have a great day!