Sweathog

Relax! I'm not going to say anything about Arnold Horshack or Vinnie Barbarino.

This is about ME. And possibly a bit about climate, workout intensity, and genetics.

You see, I sweat a lot. Not in street clothes; not at work, or in social situations, or even out walking around. I'm cool as a cucumber then. But when I go to the gym, well, you can bet it's going to get damp.

What's up with that? I look around at the other weightlifters and the folks on the cardio machines, and they all seem to be working as hard as I am. But I'm the only one who's drenched.

Lots of people overheat more than I do in the swimming pool. I can crank hard in water temperatures that leave others gasping on the deck. But in the gym, I seem to be the hottest. I wear the wicking t-shirts, hi-tech headbands, and shorts that are supposed to maximize coolness...but the sweat still runs like a river.

Keeping my hair so short may contribute to how much liquid the headband has to manage. Folks with ponytails seem to have a built-in mechanism for channeling the moisture away from their faces, but my minimalist hairdo results in a dripping face just about as soon as I begin to exercise.

But I like my hair short. Sigh -- I guess I'll just have to drip.

Oh well. I suppose a healthy perspiration system is a wonderful benefit when I'm out on the road. I always stay hydrated, and my thermal system seems to function reasonably well. I don't think my gym-based sweatiness is an indicator of any problem or concern. But I'm curious as to why no one else seems as moist as me. If you have any ideas, let me know.

And here's another question: What's up with the immutable law of physics known as the "locker room space paradox"? The LRSP is the variant of Finagle's Law that says that if there is ONE other guy in the entire locker room when you come out of the shower, he will be using the locker right next to yours...no matter how many unused lockers there are everywhere else in the room. From conversations I've had, I know that it's never intentional -- the dude chooses the space he deems most likely to be unoccupied...but as soon as the selection is made, the next-door neighbor emerges from the shower.

Oh well. Being forced to share a bench (or move to another spot) is a small price to pay for the priviledge of having a membership to a well-equiped gym. And having strong muscles and a healthy heart is well worth the discomfort of having soaking wet shirts and headbands after the workout.

Anyway, I hope everyone is enjoying the Olympics. I know it's been fun to incorporate the previous nights' swimming events into our practices as a timed challenge in the morning. We aren't swimming quite as fast as the folks in London, but we are working hard and relishing the effort. I'll have more to say about Olympic swimming over the next few posts. In the meantime, remember to kick hard off each and every wall, and have a great day!

Olympics!

If you added together the ages of Missy Franklin and Ryan Lochte, you'd still be more than a decade short of the number of years I've been swimming. I have extensive experience, my friends, as well as tons of maturity and competitive wisdom.

So why aren't I faster?

Sorry. Not a serious question; I know the answer. From the very earliest moments of playground sports exposure, I've been well aware of my athletic shortcomings. Though an eager participant in neighborhood games, I was likely to be the last kid picked before Doug Griffin...often even selected after my stupid little brother, who was two years younger. I was slow, uncoordinated, and unintimidating. When strategies for victory were developed, my name was specifically excluded from the planning process. It was no secret that any talents I might have were not going to get an "X" placed in my "Athletically Gifted" checkbox.

But I've stuck with it over the years. I've paid attention, watched what the talented people do, and have tried to imitate them to the best of my ability. The mere acts of "hanging around" and "continuing to try" have paid off with various successes here and there over the years, and I have no complaints. To be sure, I am endangering none of the Olympic records, but I'm still having a blast...and I expect to continue working out and competing for many more decades.

Heck, swimming is just plain fun!

I think you would also agree that it's one of the best Olympic sports to watch on television. The coverage (and especially the post-race Q&A) would be better if I were in charge of the network, but what're ya gonna do?

It's easy to get stuck in front of the television. I also enjoy the cycling, rowing, water polo, and even volleyball. But I do think it's time to admit in public that I'm really kinda creeped out by the gymnastics competitions. I'm not sure why it makes my skin crawl, because I admire the amazing athleticism and strength they display. But there's something about the people and equipment involved that make me want to light a torch, grab a pitchfork, and run them all out of town. Almost all of the swimmers seem like real human beings you could imagine seeing at the mall buying bluejeans...but the gymnasts seem like joyless automatons stamped out by some sort of demonic Pokemon factory, with secret programming that will someday be activated when it's time for Dr. Frankencommie to use them to implement his plans for world domination. They scare me.

And perhaps I'm just paranoid from too much LDS in the 60s, but I'm thinking Bob Costas has become just a little bit creepy himself. Has he undergone plastic surgery? Been replaced by a space-invader pod person? The victim of a bad makeup assistant?

Hmm. They are in England, so I suppose any of those things are possible. But for my money, Al Trautwig is the one who has earned the right to be the next Jim McKay. Let's put him in the main studio.

Anyway, Stephanie came up with the idea of timing one of the Olympic finals events at each swim practice during the Games. It's been fun so far, and people have gone pretty fast. (We might have to repeat the 200 fly, though -- I think we can do better.) We've also been working on techniques displayed by the Olympians, such as finishing strong and getting that snappy undulation off the walls. We haven't done any drills that involve answering reporters' questions, or loading up your iPod with the most inspiring music, but you never know. And squeezing your head a full size smaller by using two cueball swim caps is probably a technique that will never be needed by our little band of competitors. But can we get inspired to work harder, use better technique, and get ourselves in better shape, based on what we've seen the Olympians do? Yeah, I think we can.

But Olympic competition is not the only thing occupying my time. There's the standard corporate dronery, of course, as well as my continuing experiments with "zero-drop" running shoes. (More about that later.) There's also... pancakes!

No, not the ones in this photo; they're healthy. (Click on the photo for the recipe.) The pancakes I ate were accompanied by bacon...not fruit. Bacon isn't really on my "should eat" list right now, but that's what they offered, so that's what I ate.

This was on Saturday. I traveled to downtown Golden with Joe and Kristen for the annual "Buffalo Bill Days" celebration. The pancake breakfast is a fund-raiser for the Fire Department, and also (apparently), a gathering place for politicians looking for opportunities to kiss babies and such. Joe Coors had the best shirt.

The pancakes and bacon were tasty enough, I suppose, but the best part was watching the cook scoop them off the griddle and fling them up in the air. Some of the cakes rose to heights of 20 feet or more, and looked pretty cool as they spun through the bright morning sky. A couple of young girls with serving trays raced around to try to catch the flying flapjacks, but a fair percentage hit the pavement nonetheless. I hate to see good food wasted -- but at least there was grand entertainment value in the unsuccessful outfielding efforts.

With Buffalo Bill Days, the Olympics, and a challenging Sunday swim practice under my belt, I'd have to mark this weekend as both a pleasure and a success. I didn't achieve a great deal of relaxation, and I anticipate this workweek to be a challenge due to the sleep deprivation the Olympics will cause, but I'm feeling good and smiling a lot. As long as I don't have nightmares about hordes of 4-foot gymnast-bots somersaulting their way through the town square, I expect to enjoy this week as well.

Have a great day!

(Oh, and by the way, Twiki's voice was performed by the legendary Mel Blanc, who also did Bugs Bunny, Barney Rubble, and the Tasmanian Devil, just to name a few.)

Adaptations

I've been to two "good luck in your new pursuits" celebrations this week. One was for a coworker who found what he hopes is a better-paying job with more opportunity to pursue his passion. And the other was for a swimming teammate who is returning to her hometown so that both she and her husband can continue their paths toward achieving their goals. It's sad to see them go (especially Becca, who is our fastest backstroker), but it's also exhilirating to see people strike out toward new challenges.

Becca had us sign her swim fins so she'd have something to remember us by. That's WAY cooler than a mere greeting card. I know she'll come back to swim with us during some future visit, and it will be fun to catch up and learn about her progress. She and her husband are both outstanding people, and are destined for great things.

Of course, we ALL have adventures in front of us. Among the people sitting closest to me last night were Desmond (off to climb a 14er today), Cliff (about to swim the 21-mile length of Lake Tahoe), his wife Julie (starting an exciting new job next week), and Sammy (competing in a World Championship pentathlon event in a few weeks.) And that's just the ones who sat next to me.

Me? Well, I'm arranging for my trip to Seattle. I'm planning to swim an open-water race while I'm there, visit the Space Needle, and hopefully get to hear Tanner's band perform their latest compositions.

In the meantime, I owe you a quiz answer. And here it is:

Row 1: TC. The fellow on the left is Roger E. Mosley, best known for his role as T.C. on "Magnum, PI". The initials T.C. were short for Theodore Calvin. The guy on the right is Jerry Mathers (no relation to Marshall Mathers, aka Eminem), who is most famous for playing "The Beaver", whose full name was Theodore Cleaver...which could also be abbreviated as T.C.

In the second row we have William Conrad and Harry Morgan, shown from publicity photos for their roles on "Cannon" and "Dragnet". Conrad's character was Frank Cannon, and Morgan's was Frank Gannon. Close enough, if you ask me.

The dudes on row 3 are both "Sergeant Carter." The one on the left is Technical Sergeant Andrew Carter (played by Larry Hovis) on "Hogan's Heroes", flanked by Gunnery Sergeant Vince Carter, played by Frank Sutton on "Gomer Pyle, USMC."

The crown-wearing hippie mermaid on the bottom row is the Starbucks company logo. I'm sure there's some significance to why an overpriced coffee vendor is using a half-fish chick to adorn their cups and stuff, but I haven't bothered to look it up. Next to her is Dirk Benedict, shown in his role as a character named Starbuck on the first TV show that attempted to capitalize on the success of Star Wars, "Battlestar Gallactica." Most of the show's props were reused a short time later for the utterly silly (but somehow enjoyable) "Buck Rogers" series.

Extra credit if you can tell me who did the voice of Buck's robot sidekick Twiki.

Was Twiki the worst robot character ever invented? Oh my goodness, no. Twiki was an abomination, true. But his horridness didn't begin to approach the complete and utter stinkitude of any of the robots in Disney's science fiction disaster, "The Black Hole." And I know you won't believe me when I say this (unless you've seen the movie), but the stupid, stupid, stupid robots in that movie were actually the best part of the film. But even with the stellar vocal talents of Slim Pickens and Roddy McDowall, this movie taxes the very limits of human tolerance. I have been known to endorse some pretty bad space movies (I actually enjoy "Plan 9 From Outer Space", for example), but if anyone ever invites you over to watch their DVD of "The Black Hole", you should immediately terminate that relationship.

And I guess that's all I have to say for today. Next topic: Pancakes.

Enjoy this embedded clip, and have a great day!

High School - Continued

What are your most prominent memories of high school?

In the previous post, I mentioned some of the things I learned during those years. But if you asked me to describe a typical day from my pre-adult life, I'd most likely talk about making movies with my swim team buddies, or dreaming about the girls I liked...but would never have the courage to speak to.

In truth, most days were fairly dull -- Swim practice before school, marching with the band during 1st hour, and then struggling to stay awake during the rest of my classes. Being the shy guy, I didn't contribute much to class discussions...but I do remember occasionally challenging my favorite teachers to explain why they thought it was important that we learned the Pythagorean theorum, or the Bohr model of the atom. Their answers always seemed to be along the lines of Emil Faber's famous axiom, "Knowledge is good." Being a typical idiotic rebellious teenager, I was inclined to argue the point. But as an adult, I totally agree; knowledge IS good.

It's just a pity that my knowledge seems limited to random data about Star Trek, Green Acres, and Weird Al Yankovic. Sigh.

But as long as we're talking about that subject, let's take a moment for another brief TV trivia quiz.

What's the common tie between the characters on each row in the graphic to the right?

Answers tomorrow.

You know, I really don't remember watching that much television during high school. I was probably on the fast track to success and fame up until I fell under the influence of my best friend (and college roommate), Mickey. Once we moved into the dorm and discovered the wonders of UHF programming, I pretty much spent the next four years with my eyes affixed to the CRT. Being a TV/Film major, I could argue that there was some justification for my boob tube addiction...but the truth was that I just really enjoyed watching old movies and silly sitcom reruns.

Not Gilligan's Island, though; that was offensively stupid and inane. Nor did I get too deeply immersed in Brady Bunch milieu; despite my deep affection for Maureen McCormick and Eve Plumb, I was too creeped out by Florence Henderson to ever really relax and enjoy the show. I kept hoping that He-Man would suddenly show up and use his magic sword to dispatch her back to the evil realm from whence she came.

And speaking of evil, did everyone recognize the photo at the top of this post? The Omega Man had us all talking like photophobic mutants for a while. Unlike Mathias and crew, though, we didn't actually burn everything that upset us. We mostly just complained about it.

Anyway, here are a few other high school memories that have popped up over the last few days, in no particular order.

• When our band was invited to march in the Cotton Bowl parade, I passed a mere five feet away from an ABC television camera. (Of course, the telecast's director chose to use the shot from the camera that was following the cheerleaders, so none of the band's musicians ever made it to the network feed.) We played the theme from "Hawaii Five-0."


• I think I was sick when all my friends went to the West vs. Ark City football game...so I missed the road trip in which opening all the car windows wasn't enough to save the car's occupants from one of the riders' deadly flatulence. The guilty party shall remain nameless, but his gaseous assaults on all that is decent became legendary that night, and are still feared by anyone who has heard the tales.


• I was expecting a "Longest Yard"-style comedy when I saw Burt Reynolds' name on the marquee for "Deliverance". Whoa. Not what I expected, or wanted to see. To this day, I'm still freaked out by hillbillies, banjos, and Jon Voight.


• I had a rat-tail comb, and tucked the tail up under my belt to discourage pickpockets. (My memory is fuzzy on why comb theft was a constant concern.) The only thing I miss about my long-hair days was having it freeze when we walked out of swim practice on frosty December mornings. There was something cool (or should I say "groovy") about combing the ice off your head as you crossed the parking lot.


• Maintaining a 3.5 GPA earned me an "Honors Pass", which meant I could leave school at any time without permission. I took advantage of this ill-conceived policy, and because Steve Odle agreed to give me his class notes, I rarely showed up for 6th-Hour Psychology Class. (Still got an "A", though. Pretty cool.)


• My off-campus lunches at McDonalds cost $1.03 for 3 hamburgers, fries, and a coke.


• The cafeteria's bizarre graham-encrusted attempt to emulate a chocolate mousse dessert received the nickname "the creeping crud." I blame this culinary abomination for the fact that I threw up on Randy Douglass during the our swim meet trip to Enid, Oklahoma. This was a special bummer, because Enid had the worst team we would face that year, and I was expected to win the 100 freestyle. It was my only chance for an event victory that year...but I spent the entire meet in the locker room barfing.


• I have zero regrets regarding the academic portion of my high school career -- even the minor rebellion that earned me an "F" on my Junior Research Paper. (As I matured, I did finally understand the point Mrs. Griffiths was trying to make; that discipline is a valuable skill to learn. I still maintain, though, that teaching such a lesson by forcing students to perform utterly stupid and wasteful tasks is the wrong approach. The paper I wrote using my labor-saving method was every bit as good as any that were written with her "do it the same way I did it 50 years ago" process. She may have thought she was teaching discipline, but she was actually sending the message that authority's job is to extinguish creativity. I'm glad I now work for a company that encourages innovation, and I hope that I foster such thinking among the people I might influence.
  
  (NOTE: I am NOT saying that it's OK to do a one-hand touch on breaststroke and butterfly.)

After high school? Well, I am happy to say that the college years provided many additional memorable stories that I'd love to share with you. As for what I learned in college...well, there was plenty of insider info about the craft of filmmaking, as well as the standard exposure to B.F. Skinner, Maslow's Hierarchy, and the Milgram Experiments. I also absorbed facts about Stonehenge, Gauss's Theorum, and how to conjugate Spanish in the Subjunctive Mood. And in Calculus class I learned the most important lesson of all -- that just because somebody is paid to stand up in front of a classroom and brandish chalk, it doesn't necessarily mean they know diddly squat about teaching.

Anyway, those sordid tales will have to wait for another time. For the moment, I shall ask you to share the images that dominate YOUR memories of your formative years. Most of my readers probably tend toward Ninja Turtles rather than the incomparable Ms. Fawcett, but I'm sure we each remember the posters that capture the essence of our maturation experience. I look forward to hearing your thoughts. Have a great day!

Other High School Memories

I forgot to mention yesterday that our high school's mascot was the "Pioneer". [Pie-in-ear...hence the coining of the phrase "piehead". Get it?]

Our school colors were maroon and gold, and our letter jackets were actually pretty warm winter coats. Our swim coach knew a lot about diving, our band director was an outstanding oboe player, and the main school hallway had a well-defined hierarchy for group congregation locations. The pinnacle of social status (aka the "Senior Window") was nearest the Principal's office, and the coolest kids would gather there before school and between classes.

Despite my obvious nerdish uncoolness, I was allowed to linger on the cool group's fringe. Having a letter jacket helped (even though swimming was considered a "minor" sport), and having gone to grade school with Sam Wee (Student Council President) and living across the street from the Debate Team Captain (Herbert the Pervert) granted me a sort of contingent access. (Strangely, my high GPA and marching band rank of "Squad Leader" carried no popularity weight whatsoever. You'd think that the trumpet playing alone would make me a total chick magnet...but sadly, no.)

I probably would've enjoyed the reunion's school tour as much as any other part of the event. After all, I can stay in touch with the people via Facebook and email. But it's been a LONG time since I set foot in the hallways where all those devoted teachers struggled in vain to set me on a path toward success.

This is not a comprehensive list; it's just what popped into my head this morning. But if you asked me to recall the things I learned in high school, these are the facts I would probably share with you.

• WWI Flying Ace Eddie Rickenbacker invented the automobile rearview mirror.


• Hemingway, Faulkner, and Steinbeck all suck. Mark Twain rules.


• Economic considerations always trump political motivations. Or do they?


• F = MA.


• Typing is one of life's most valuable skills.


• Basketball is defintely not my sport, and wrestlers generally don't swim well.


• E = IR.


• 8 strides of high-steppin' marching technique can accurately measure 5 yards.


• Star Trek was more effective at promoting racial harmony than forced busing was.


• g = 32ft/sec².


• Clarinets are pretty much useless.


• The sum of the square roots of any two sides of an isoceles triangle is equal to the square root of the remaining side. (No, wait...I learned that from the Wizard of Oz.)

Everything else I know I learned in Kindergarten. (Well, either that or on the streets.) Actually, I'd be surprised if I didn't pick up some other math or grammar skills in high school, and I suppose I learned a bit more about history, government, and baroque composers, etc...but at the end of the day, I really can't give you a detailed accounting of the value of my high school education.

Joe Fellers taught me how to make pizza, Doug Sidles and Bill Spahn taught me how to coach swimming, and Doug Smith taught me how make movies. I taught myself how to ride a motorcycle (with apologies to the lady whose flowerbed I accidentally destroyed in the process). But none of these vitally important skills came from the public schools.

But I digress. I was supposed to be discussing fond memories of my high school classmates and experiences. And of those, there are many. As you might suspect, I have more cherished memories from standing in the hall and being in the pool than from anything that happened while my nose was buried in a textbook. This photo is from the reunion tour -- the West High pool looks pretty much the same as it did when I swam there. Looking at how narrow this dinky 20-yard pool is, I wonder how we ever managed to have real workouts in there. I know that collisions were frequent, and my hands still carry the scars from many a scrape against the walls. And I know that younger readers won't believe this, but the laneropes we used in swim meets were even more dangerous -- they were actually ropes...like the kind you climb in gym class, and would strip the flesh clean off your body if you were unfortunate enough to make contact.

If that weren't bad enough, my high-school swimming career also took place in the dark times before the invention of polycarbonate goggles. We swam many a workout without benefit of eye protection, and would suffer horrible eye pain and tears during the long drive home after practice. The first goggles I had were large rubber frog-eye contraptions, with glass lenses that would shatter if you dropped them...and trust me, shattered glass is not a desirable thing for a swimming pool deck. I'd wear them in practice, but would leave them off during competition, and suffer additional eye irritation accordingly. Ugh.

But the best thing about high school swimming was that the cheerleaders were required to attend a certain number of minor sports events...so we occasionally got to see a hot babe in the stands. Without mandatory cheerleader attendance, our only support would've come from parents. And face it, while parental support is greatly appreciated, it pales in comparison to any sort of acknowledgement (mandatory or not) coming from bubbly uniformed cheergirls.

One historical note in the interest of factuality: The starting blocks shown in the photo are from a later vintage. When I swam there, the starting blocks were essentially just big homemade plywood boxes, and there was also a diving board. But the tile is the same, and I wouldn't be surprised if the same inefficient filtration system is still in place. Perhaps I'll visit and give you an update at the next class reunion.

Next up, I'll share some non-swimming HS memories with you. For now, I'll just mention that my official Triple Bypass magazine cover photo has been posted here, and I'll (finally) answer our latest trivia question.

1. What is the relationship between the name "Herman's Hermits" and the "Rocky and Bullwinkle" show?

The "Hermits" lads were fans of "Mr. Peabody" (who wasn't?), which was a segment featured during Moose and Squirrel. These budding musicians somehow saw a resemblance between Peabody's boy "Sherman" and Peter Noone (the lead singer), but being British, somehow misheard the name as "Herman". So they started calling Pete "Herman", and it stuck. When it came time to name the band, well, it only made sense to incorporate the nickname. Seriously, I am not making this up.

2. What does their lead singer have in common with the movie "The Exorcist"?

Despite their trouble with pronunciation, the British apparently have no qualms about spewing names all over the landscape when christening their children. The Hermits' lead singer's full name is Peter Blair Denis Bernard Noone. The connection to the movie is pretty obvious -- The star of "The Exorcist" was Max Von Sydow, and "Noone" is the time of day when the sun is at its "Max"imum elevation.

I suppose I could also give you partial credit if you connected them by noticing the similarity between Mr. Peabody and Miss Pea Soup, but that's a bit of a stretch, don't you think?

The real question is how my musical tastes managed to evolve from Herman's Hermits to Blue Öyster Cult in just a few short years. Is that something I learned in high school? Perhaps.

While I ponder that deep philosophical question, please enjoy some good clean rock n' roll highlighting the quality of marital persistence, and have a great day!

Pioneers

My high school class had its latest reunion last weekend.

I wasn't able to attend in person, but through the wonders of email and the magic of Facebook, I did manage to derive some enjoyment from vicariously getting together with old friends. As at most reunions, the majority of the activities seemed to involve reminiscing while eating and drinking. But they did take a tour of the school, and a few were even able to paint some new graffiti on "the hump."

And therein lies a tale.

The initial school building was constructed in ancient times -- back when school employees could call students "slackers" without fear of ACLU reprisals, when cars had fins and hairstyles required grease, and when the "Enchantment Under the Sea" dance didn't involve any trademarked Disney characters. Back then, there was no such thing as color TV, manned spaceflight, or touch-tone telephones. And since photovoltaic and wind-power energy sources had not yet made fossil fuels obsolete, the school's heating system was forced to rely on old-fashioned combustion to keep the students from freezing to death in the harsh Kansas winters. They burned something called "heating oil", and they stored it in a great cylindrical tank that was half-buried just outside the school building near the student parking lot. Partly submerged and on its side, the visible portion of this heating oil repository resembled something like a meter-high, 5-meter-long speed bump.

The exposed upper half of this tank became known as "the hump", and was often used by graduating seniors as a target for spray-painted graffiti. This graffiti was applied under cover of darkness, and generally consisted of hastily-scrawled notes of pride such as "Seniors '68" or expressions of eternal devotion like "CH + MP." Each year's class would simply spray their words on top of the previous entries, leaving the hump looking like a caffeine addict's multi-colored pre-school fingerpainting.

Just as Mark Spitz emerged to recalibrate swimming, and the Beatles & Led Zeppelin rewrote the history of music, there arose a pair of artistic geniuses who would forever change the way the hump was to be adorned. Wanting to remain true to traditions, but without the traditional artistic compromise, this intrepid unidentified duo planned a way to leave their mark upon the hump while at the same time greatly improving the overall aesthetics of the tank, and indeed of the school grounds in general. Rather than using an anemic spray to stencil another lame slogan, these young stalwarts bought gallons of heavy-duty paint and the biggest brushes they could find...and at the stroke of midnight, proceeded to render the entire hump a gleaming uniform white.

Given the size of the "canvas", I'd imagine the task took quite a while. The students involved were probably highly-trained athletes, using all their strength, stamina, and coordination to boldly paint the entirety of the hump's visible surface. The pristeen uniformity of their efforts shone clearly under the moonlight, and was sure to cause wonderment aplenty when school resumed on Monday.

But even after the entire hump was painted, they weren't finished. For in addition to being artists, these youngsters were deep thinkers as well. For intellects such as these, it wasn't enough to merely render an ugly graffiti site into a beautiful adornment to the landscape...they also wanted to engage the minds of the folks who would be viewing their masterpiece. So, as the white paint began to dry, the midnight painters began Phase II of their artistic plan. With foot-high brushstrokes in coal-black paint, they wrote the following memorable phrase:

Big Mic, Big Heg - Piehead
The gorgeously rendered yet bafflingly cryptic hump message received everyone's full attention on Monday morning. What does it mean? Could regular high school students pull off something this brilliant, or would it require assistance from some sort of advanced alien technology? Everyone know what "Piehead" meant, but who were the mysterious "Big Mic" and "Big Heg"? My best friend Mickey and I spent a good portion of the morning standing around the hump listening to the various theories advanced by the public. The conclusion shared by most was that the perpetrators were most likely some sort of superhuman or godlike entities, possessing wisdom and power far beyond the scale of normal high school experience. Mickey and I agreed that Occam's Razor did indeed support that hypothesis, but also acknowledged that the mystery might never be solved.

Anyway, the point is that even after all these years, the hump still exists. School officials had it dug up quite some time ago, but for some inexplicable reason, instead of discarding it, they moved it across the street and partially re-buried it in a field. As an empty fuel tank it has zero value, but I suspect they kept it as an homage to the creative masters who created such glorious artwork upon its surface so many years ago. And now, decades later, people from my graduating class were able to paint their own graffiti upon it. Unfortunately, modern hump adornments have devolved back to spray-painted slogan sprawling rather than graphically pleasing and thought-provoking displays of wisdom words. Oh well. I'm just happy to know it's still there.

I wish I still possessed the photo I took of the hump after the dramatic unveiling of its glorious fully-painted state. But alas, I do not. As far as I know, no one retains any photographic evidence. Spitz's name can still be found among the historical records, and Beatles tunes continue to appear on the airwaves...but the hump artists' greatest aesthetic and philosophical triumph is lost to the ages. Sigh.

Well, I was planning to share numerous other comments about high school, and additional memories of those youthful times. But those thoughts will have to wait for a subsequent post. And for those of you who were not recipients of a West High education, I may be able to explain the significance of "piehead", too. Or not. In any case and whereever you are, have a great day!

Triple Bypass!

You know how great it feels when you nail your taper? When all of your training, nutrition, and recovery plans come together in that perfect gestalt of undiluted power and energy, and your competitive juices are bubbling to the surface at just the right moment? When all your preparation comes together under perfect event conditions to result in your proudest moments as an athlete? Ahh, those are fantastic times, my friends.

But then there are weekends like this one.

Let's start at the end, and then backtrack. As you probably surmised from the photo of the medal, I did manage to finish the Triple Bypass bike ride. So did my teammates Laurel and Kim, and we all completed the ride faster than I went last year.

And nobody got sunburned.

But we did get wet. Totally sopping wet. More about that in a minute.

My tale actually begins on Friday. I had planned to relax Friday morning after a leisurely swim practice, do my ride prep work in the early afternoon, and then get to bed before sunset. We were meeting at Kim's house at 4am, so I wanted to streamline the process to where all I had to do was snarf a bowl of cereal, throw the bike in the car, and drive over to catch my ride up to Evergreen for the start. But alas, 'twas not meant to be. I had four proposals due Friday afternoon.

Here's my training tip for the day: If you want to do well in athletic events, don't EVER get involved in corporate proposal activities. (Gee, I'm thinking I might have mentioned that hint once or twice before on this website.) It is an immutable law of the Universe that stress will build throughout the process, and that everyone involved will be reduced to a sobbing pile of brain-dead goo by the time the documents finally get submitted, 3 minutes before the final deadline. And that's if there's one proposal...when four are due at the same time, well, trust me--it ain't pretty.

So by the time I finally dragged my limp body home from work, I was far too dain-bramaged to complete the tasks on my Triple Bypass checklist. After a quick dinner, I set the alarm for 2am and slipped off to dreamland.

I woke up before the alarm went off, and set about getting ready for the ride. Fortunately, I'm much smarter in the mornings than I am in the evening; I only forgot two things. One was my cell phone, which probably wasn't a big deal since I have the affordable "no coverage anywhere, and certainly not on a mountaintop" plan. The other was my sunglasses, and since it was pitch dark when I left home, you can't really blame me for that oversight, can you?

But I got the tires pumped, stuffed the rain jacket, headlamp, and other essentials into my backpack, whomped up a bottle of fresh Gatorade, and filled my tubetop pouch with Honey Stingers. I Windexed my mirror, grabbed my helmet, gloves, and car keys, and left the condo feeling energized and confident.

My friend Reynold had kindly volunteered to transport Kim and I up to Evergreen, since he and my other longtime swimmer buddy Desmond were heading up to hike to the top of Mt. Elbert that day. (If you're asking yourself if I hang around with anyone who doesn't do crazy physical stuff all the time, the answer is pretty much "no". I'm definitely the slacker wimp of the group, but they cut me a break since I get to make up the swim team workouts.) There were already plenty of other bikers heading out into the pre-dawn darkness by the time we arrived, so we saddled up and flipped on our headlamps. Laurel joined us shortly thereafter, and the three of us ventured off to climb Squaw Pass.



Laurel decided to ride with her friend Paul up to the first aid station, so they took off and disappeared ahead. Kim and I maintained a steady, more reasonable pace and enjoyed the scenery as the sun came up. It got warm quickly, but I was still feeling relatively comfortable as we pulled into the rest stop.

I had a peanut butter bagel, an orange, and a banana. I also grabbed some trail mix and a bag of Cinnamon Teddy Grahams to throw into my tubetop bag with the Honey Stingers. I was determined to eat regularly all day long to keep the energy reserves in place. I had lined the bag with aluminum foil, so I could just pop the lid open and grab a few bites without having to open a pouch. That was a good plan, and it served me well throughout the day -- though I found that the Teddy Grahams were not nearly as appealing as the Stingers. The softer texture of the Stingers makes them easier to consume when you're breathing hard.

I have come to love the downhills. For some reason, my bike seems to roll really well -- I pass people without pedaling or going into an aero position. I can coast fast. So that's what I did. From Echo Lake all the way down into Idaho Springs, I just enjoyed the thrill of raw, gravity-driven speed.

By now the sun was up. I stopped near the Idaho Springs ranger station, since my friend Mark Merwin had told me he'd be there. I didn't find him, but when Kim arrived a few seconds later, I asked if I could borrow some money to buy some sunglasses at the convenience store just over the bridge. (OK, my third oversight was forgetting to bring my wallet. Again, I would argue that it is NOT senility nor general feeble-mindedness; I totally blame the proposals.) I didn't spend much time worrying about fashion sense; I just grabbed the first frames that seemed like they'd be good in the wind.

Unfortunately, during this interlude, Laurel rode by without seeing us. I told Kim I was going to try to catch her, and immediately latched onto a small pack who were holding a pretty good pace.

This was a serious mistake.

Yes, I did make really good time between Idaho Springs and the next aid station. But I paid a price for that. I didn't catch Laurel during the ride, but she was still at the aid station when I arrived. Kim was doing well, and didn't feel the need to stop at that point, so he passed on by while Laurel and I finished chatting. When she and I got back on the bikes, she seemed relaxed and strong -- while I realized that I had expended far too much energy chasing her over the last segment. By the time we started the climb up out of Georgetown, I knew I was in trouble.

I was on my own now, and hurting. My friends were well ahead of me, and I was beginning to question whether I'd even be able to finish the event. I ate more stingers and grahams, drank a bunch of Cytomax (yuk!), and even took a short break at the Georgetown Loop railroad station parking lot to try to relax and mentally regroup. I knew that there weren't any more downhills (or even reasonably flat stretches) between here and the top of Loveland Pass, and I was dreading the interminable climb. As I began pedaling in full granny gear and struggling to push the pedals all the way around, I seriously thought about quitting. Everybody was passing me, and as I wobbled up the narrow path, I began to feel that I was a hazard to all the other riders.

But thankfully, Kim was waiting for me just a bit farther ahead, and talking to him briefly helped me get back on track a bit. The ride through the woods was beautiful, and knowing that there would be sandwiches and Dr. Pepper at Loveland helped keep me going.

It is amazing how wonderful a white bread, ham, and cheese sandwich can taste. I also had a bottle of Muscle Milk, some fruit, and a turkey sandwich. The three of us just sat on the side of the hill and savored our lunches, knowing that the worst climb was waiting just around the corner. It's fun, though, to watch the hordes of cyclists milling around the area, and fun to listen to the conversations about how everyone's feeling, and how everyone wanted to get over Loveland Pass before the rain moved in. The clouds were gathering, but for the moment we were still dry.

But lunch can't last forever. Once we had downed the sandwiches, refilled our bottles, and grabbed a few snack packs for the road, it was time to head for the summit. I was still feeling punkish at this point, and again wishing I had a few more really low gears. But I also knew that if I could somehow find the energy to make it to the top, there would be a long downhill stretch where I could coast and rest...and hopefully recover.

I'm sure you're expecting me to describe how my lunch revitalized me, and how I powered up the pass with the strength and grace of a panther, passing all other riders and laughing at their puny human efforts. But no, I was not revitalized. I was shaky, and starting to feel numbness in my hands, feet, and face. About a mile up the road, I had to pull over and dismount. I stood there for some time, breathing deeply and flexing my hands and feet, trying to recover my equilibrium. And all the while I watched other riders scamper up the hill as if they were impervious to gravity. It wouldn't have been so frustrating if they'd have been scowling or groaning...or at least panting a bit. But they all looked so relaxed, while I was standing there straining to find enough oxygen to merely remain upright.

Still, it was only about 3 more miles to the top. I eventually got back on the bike, and somehow found my way to the summit. We regrouped at that point and took the obligatory photo:



It was time to put on the rain gear. It wasn't raining yet, but it was cool enough that we'd want some wind protection for the descent, regardless of precipitation. No matter what the weather did, I was simply looking forward to going downhill. It felt great to just relax in the saddle and let physics do the dirtywork for a while.

I also enjoyed the cloud cover and sporadic raindrops throughout the next sections of the ride -- not to mention the delicious watermelon and cookies at the Summit County aid station. I'm not sure how many riders called it a day at that point, but the bike path from Frisco to Copper was not as crowded as it had been last year. Kim let us draft behind him for several miles, and then Laurel decided she'd take a turn at the front. Within a few seconds, she was so far ahead that we couldn't catch up. When we talked to her at the aid station later, she said "I didn't mean to do that; I'm just not very good at setting the pace." OK. Whatever.

The bike path follows the river, and might be the most relaxing and carefree leg of the course. I began to greatly enjoy myself. The only negative moment came when I pulled into a parking lot in Copper Mountain. There were a couple of other cyclists standing there, so I thought I'd stop beside them for a short break. I unclipped my right foot as I always do when I stop, and braked to a halt. After that, I'm not exactly sure what happened, but instead of settling my weight onto the right foot, my bike began to lean to the left. Frantically, I tried to unclip my left foot...but I was too late. I toppled over in a very undignified heap, smacking my hip onto the asphalt.

The other guys immediately offered aid and expressed concern. From my supine position I assured them that only my pride had been hurt. And fortunately, the bike was completely unscathed. I rested there on the ground for a bit, then stood up and remounted the bike...greatly embarrassed, but ready to tackle Vail Pass.

The trip to the top was uneventful, except for the questionably-placed official photo opportunity. They set up their cameras at the top of the steepest hill, apparently in the hope of capturing grimaces of pain and agonized drama. Not a good business decision; I think they'd sell many more photos if they set up on the descent so they could capture riders with mile-wide grins and shouts of "Wheeee!" pouring from their lips. But nobody asks me.

At the top of Vail Pass, Kim called his wife and son to let them know we were heading into the last stretch of the ride. But they were stuck in a traffic jam on I-70; a semi-truck had rolled over and burned up, so nobody was moving. We would probably arrive in Avon before they would. Nothing we could do but continue to ride.

Coming down the bike path from the summit, we saw a rider who had suffered a rather bloody crash on one of the sharp curves. He was sitting up talking to the motorcycle cop who was administering first aid, so it appeared he was getting good care. Beyond that spot, there wasn't much more tricky navigation, and we proceeded downhill at a rapid clip.

The serious rain held off until we reached the town of Vail, but then started in earnest. The rest of the ride to Avon was on fairly flat roads and bike paths, but was accompanied by the unrelenting downpour...as well as the splash from passing cars, and the wheel-spray from other cyclists. I love drafting on the straight flat sections, but had to balance the wind advantage against the prospect of having the icy water from the preceeding wheel driven directly into my face. For the most part, I chose the non-pelotonic option.

When the morning began, I was dreading the prospect of getting caught in the rain. But I have to admit that I enjoyed the rainy part of the ride as much as any of it. There was something delightfully sensual about cranking through the puddles, feeling the road spray painting my legs and back, and having my face pelted by raindrops as I tried to find a line that would keep me out of traffic at the same time I could avoid the deepest puddles. It reminded me of playing outside in the rain as a kid, and made me wonder why I go to so much trouble to stay out of such weather in the rest of my daily life.

As much as I love the ride, the food at the aid stations, and the inspiring spectacle of so many enthusiastic athletes enjoying the Colorado mountains; I have to say that the course marshaling (especially through the city roundabouts) was nothing short of abysmal. And if I hadn't already known where the finish line was, it would've been hard to find. The course was not well marked, and there was a boatload of car traffic clogging up the final street that led to the chute. But it's always a pleasure to cross under the inflatable arch and pick up a medal!

Here's Kim's finish:



I felt great after I rolled across that line! Despite my earlier lack of confidence in my fitness, I actually felt better at the end than I had in 2011. The only problem was that once I stopped moving, I realized that I wasn't adequately dressed. I had been fine while I was working, but now as the rain continued and the wind blew, there was no shelter anywhere in the area where you could escape the cold. I put on my tights and arm sleeves, and another pair of gloves, but it wasn't enough. I started to shiver uncontrollably, and realized that I needed to do something to stop the heat loss.

I tried eating, but that didn't help. I tried going to the medical station, but it was an open area on a tennis court that offered no additional shelter. They did have a little propane heater, but there were so many chilly souls huddled around it that I received more warmth from the other hypothermics than I did from the heater itself. Luckily, Nick and Karen arrived shortly after that, and we were able to head back to the truck and finally escape the elements. I felt great once I finally got out of the wind. The trip home was relaxing and fun, with a great chance to review the day in the company of good friends. I am so grateful to Kim and Laurel for companionship and support during the ride, and want to offer special thanks to Nick and Karen for suffering through the traffic jams to provide our transportation home.

I'm sure I'll remember this experience for the joy of riding in the rain, and the feeling that I was still strong and could have gone even farther once I reached the finish line. I will totally forget that I felt wimpishly weak in Georgetown, or that I faded like old bluejeans on Loveland Pass. Instead, I will remember the smiles and encouragement of the other riders, and the beauty of the dark clouds over the vast landscapes below us. I will remember the thrill of flying down the hills while being peppered by unseen bugs and phantom raindrops. And tonight I will gleefully clean the road grit off my bike and oil up the chains and cables, and will look forward to the next time I can drop to a low gear and climb up a long, steep road.

This year's Triple Bypass may not have been my finest performance as an athlete, but I will still cherish it as one of those fantastic Colorado experiences that makes me so incredibly glad to be alive. Thanks again to everyone involved!

Next up: thoughts about my latest High School reunion. Until then, have a great day, my friends!