Somnambulism

My alarm clock woke me up this morning.

This is odd. While I do usually set an alarm on the days I'm coaching, I am almost always awake before it goes off. I am a morning person, and am usually 100% alert and ready to get the day started from the moment I open my eyes. I accomplish more in my first few hours than I do during the rest of the day combined.

So why did I stay asleep until after 4:00 this morning?

I should have recovered from the Pike's Peak hike by now. Oh sure, I got up a little earlier that morning, and didn't sleep all that well because of the leg soreness afterwards...but that was days ago. I ran a track workout last night and was pleased that my legs seemed to be operational. I got to bed at a decent hour. I should be recovered.

Oh well. The good news is that I don't have too many meetings at the office today. If I start getting drowsy at my desk, I can just get up and walk around. I plan to play tennis tonight after work, but should still be home in time for another good night's sleep. Perhaps after that, I'll be back to my normal level of alertness.

I need to be sharp for the race car thingy on Friday. I coach swim practice on Saturday morning, but then hope to get in some good bike and run training over the rest of the weekend. I'll also see if I can finish my next article for "USMS Swimmer" magazine. (If anyone has any topics you'd like to see me write about for USMS, please let me know. I should be talking to the editor again later this week. Thanks!)

In the meantime, I guess there's always caffeine. Or trivia challenges -- like finding the common element between the folks pictured below. If anyone has any other tips for maintaining alertness while slogging away at the corporate computer console, by all means, share them with me. I'd appreciate anything that can help keep the ZZZs away. Thanks, and have a great day!

Pike's Peak

It's all Reynold's fault.

The idea was simple enough -- we'd take the "Devil's Playground" trail up the back side of Pike's Peak. It's a significantly shorter hike than the Barr Trail, and Reynold assured Desmond and me that it was well within our hiking capabilities. He send us directions, maps, and photos -- to make sure we had everything we needed for a successful hike.

But he didn't come along with us. And that was the problem.

Desmond and I met at the Ridge at 3am. The drive to the small town of Divide was smooth and uneventful. But then I missed a turn and drove an extra 8 or 9 miles before I discovered the mistake.

There was no problem with the instructions. I just didn't follow them very well. I won't bore you with the details, but after a couple more U-turns, we finally arrived at the trailhead. Because of my faulty navigation, we were starting a bit later than we had hoped. The sun was already starting to come up.

About a half mile down the trail, we saw this sign.

In the dim pre-dawn light, neither of us saw the faded arrows designating the two separate trails. We both saw the words "Devil's Playground" on a sign that was on the path we were hiking, and assumed that it meant we were heading the correct direction. Closer examination of the sign (or even a momentary use of our recently-extinguished headlamps) would have told us to take a sharp right -- as would a careful reading of our printed instructions. And if Reynold had been there, he could have prevented our mistake, as well. But he wasn't there -- so the fact that we proceeded toward The Crags is completely and utterly his fault.

The good news is that it was a lovely trail, with some cool rocks to look at.



But we didn't seem to be heading toward Pike's Peak.

After a while Desmond pointed this out, but I was expecting to see Pike's as soon as we hit the top of the next hill, so I insisted we keep going. But no...while that hilltop did have a nice view, it did NOT provide any assurance that we were on the right trail. No 14ers in sight.

About that time, a lone runner who had passed us earlier came running back down the trail. He paused to inform us that he had realized this wasn't the Pike's Peak trail, and was heading back to find the correct path. We turned around to follow him. By the time we reached the sign again, it was light enough to see the arrows. Finally we were off toward the summit!

We had taken a 4-mile detour, but were still feeling good. After a long gradual ascent within the woods, we finally popped out into the open.



We saw some fungus.



Some wildlife (hover your mouse on the picture to highlight the sunbathing marmot.)



And some impressive landscape.



There were wide open spaces, cool rocks, and plenty of other hikers.











Finally, we came to the point where you could see off the other side of the mountain. It wasn't the top yet, but you could at least stand on a precipice and get a feel for the vastness of the land below. Desmond was kind enough to hold my trekking poles while I took the photo...and then clipped them onto his pack so that I could use my hands to climb across the field of humongous boulders. (By the way, the trekking poles were a great help in ascending some of the steeper sections...but were absolutely indispensable on the way back down. The SLR camera might've been a problem if I didn't have a belly strap for it, but I was able to cinch it up tight across the front of my body.)



For some reason, there were a zillion birds circling around the rock fields. I was getting pretty ragged at that point, so at first I thought they might be vultures anticipating my imminent demise...but they weren't. Ravens, maybe? (Click on the photo to see them in more detail.)



The rock field was challenging enough going up, but I wasn't at all sure my knees (and balance) would provide the stability I'd need to go back down that way.



We made it to the summit! But the sky was getting darker, so we didn't stay long.



I whined enough about my knees that Desmond agreed to take the wimpy route (the road) back down. It may have added an extra mile to our trip, but I'm certain we got down quicker than we would have if I'd have been forced to scramble over the rock field again.

On the way, we saw the cog train coming up.



We reconnected with the hiking trail a few switchbacks later and followed its rolling course back to Devil's Playground. That put us at about 14 miles...which would've been our total round trip distance if we hadn't taken the Crags detour. As it was, the worst was yet to come. From Devil's Playground, it's about a mile to where the hardest part of the trek begins.

Desmond may be older than me, but he sure didn't act like it. He was as quick and surefooted at this point as he had been from the start. I was struggling to descend the steep rocky sections, leaning on my poles and relying on arms more than legs. But he just walked down as if he was doing another of his famous workouts on the steps at Red Rocks. No problem. I really appreciated his patience as he waited for me to work my way through the tough stuff. I slipped a few times and fell pretty hard once, but I never saw him get the least bit wobbly.

I tried to push my pace, knowing that the afternoon storms were rolling in. I desperately wanted to reach timberline before the lightning started. We had been hydrating and snacking on PowerBars throughout the day, but we never took any long breaks as we tried to shed altitude.

Finally we were back in the trees. I started to try to estimate how much further we had to go, and how much longer it would take us. I calculated that there was still a chance we'd outrun the storms.

Or not. With more than 2 miles to go, the thunder started and the rain began to pour. Almost immediately, the raindrops turned to hailstones and began to pelt us as we walked. We paused briefly to put on jackets and protect the camera, and then trucked onward through the storm. We debated seeking shelter, but decided that as long as the hailstones stayed small, we'd just keep going.

The path turned into a stream, and we were soon soaking wet from head to toe. Fortunately, the temperature remained tolerable. The thunder and lightning were a little scary, but vastly entertaining at the same time. As long as I didn't feel any electrical tingling, I was happy to listen to the booming rumbles throughout the rest of the hike.

We eventually outwalked the weather. The storm never reached down to the trailhead, so the parking lot was still dry. We loaded back into the car, shed our wet shoes, and congratulated ourselves on surviving the hike. Here's a graphical summary of our journey:



We stopped in Woodland Park for some satisfying Mexican food, and were still home before the sun set. Even with the detour, my creakiness on the downhills, and a mild run-in with Mother Nature, I'd have to say it was an altogether grand day in the mountains. It is such a great privilege to live in Colorado, and to have such good friends who invite me on adventures; I am truly a lucky person. I may whine about how my hamstrings are a little sore (totally Reynold's fault), but the bottom line is that life is good, and I'm having a lot of fun.

What's next, then? Well, I'm driving a race car on Friday, doing a track workout tonight, and coaching swim practice tomorrow morning. I might even try to get out on the bike again before the weekend. The fun times continue, as always. Thanks for dropping by, and have a great day!

Gravity

There are probably better ways to reduce my ignorance.

But for some reason, I had it in my head that the low gears on my mountain bike would enable me to ride up any trail, regardless of its steepness. I was well aware of my limitations in technical skill, and wouldn't dream of trying to ride over anything that required balance, precise steering, or good vision. But I figured as long as the road was wide and fairly flat, the angle wouldn't matter.

So, with my britches full of such ill-informed optimism, I took the new bike up to Green Mountain and confidently headed up the fire road. I am pleased to say that no injuries occurred, but my education commenced almost immediately.

Lessons learned:

1. Do not listen to people who may not fully understand your limitations.
   
   When asking around about "beginner trails", I was told by a couple of different people that Green Mountain was probably the easiest non-boring trail there is around here. Well, I learned that I am not yet ready for "non-boring".
   
   I will say that I have one friend with good judgment. Kim Clemens warned me that GM might be a tad challenging, and even recommended an alternate path. But because I wasn't sure I could follow his directions to the trailhead, I ignored his advice and went on over to Green Mountain, anyway.
   
   
2. Having really low gears is not the only factor affecting the ability to ascend.
   
   Who knew that loose gravel and sand would make such a difference? I still think I might have been able to make the climb if the surface was paved, but the crumbly nature of the route meant that I felt I needed to hold a certain minimum speed to keep from getting bogged down and falling over. I worked like a maniac trying to hold that speed, but because the fire road goes straight up without respite, I was only able to make it about a mile before my heart and lungs simply refused to cooperate.
   
   I'm sure I'll get better at this, too, but when barely moving forward, I found that I was also afraid I wouldn't be able to unclip from my pedal before falling over. Fortunately, I did not topple during this process, but I definitely wasn't comfortable with my steep-incline dismount skill level. And then after stopping, I bet I stood there straddling the bike and panting for a full three minutes before I was able to even think about how I was going to get back down the mountain.
   
   
3. Using the brakes effectively on a scrabble-sloped steep descent isn't exactly easy, either.
   
   The good news is that my brakes seem to have survived the ordeal, but they were definitely hot and unhappy as I clamped onto them to control my downhill speed. Even so, it was a bit of a scary descent.
   

There were probably other lessons as well, but they can all be summarized under the "restrain your optimism, ya pinhead!" category. I may be able to master mountain biking someday, but I'm going to have to take it slow. REALLY slow. I need to get many more rides under my belt before I go up to Green Mountain again.

Anyway, I did make it off the fire road safely, and ended up riding for another hour or so on the bike paths and nearby roads. I found the (paved) climb up Dinosaur Ridge to be delightful, and really enjoyed the views from the bike path near 6th Avenue. I got a decent amount of exercise, and got a better feel for shifting and pedaling on the new bike. And I learned a few things. Overall, that's a positive thing, right?

Next up: Hiking Pike's Peak. Have a great day!

A Lot to Learn

I have a hard time understanding whether media coverage happens because there is genuine interest in a topic...or if they try to generate interest in nonsense just because they're incapable of talking about anything of substance.

Am I the only person in America who has absolutely zero interest in the fact that there's a new baby in line for the British throne? I find the level of US news coverage of this event rather astounding, especially since this kid is not likely to affect us in any way. Ever.

And yet, nobody covered the birth of Kim Jong Un, who is a far more influential royal ugly dude. If some British prince grows up to be a psychotic pinhead, it's unlikely that he'll be given control of a nuclear arsenal. But crazy little Un already has his finger on the button...and the media remains content to ignore him.

Thoroughly unpleasant people like Gordon Ramsay, Donald Trump, and all those Kardashi-whatsits must draw viewers or they wouldn't be finding sponsors for their shows. And meanwhile, truly outstanding people like Karen Nyberg remain completely unknown. I don't get it.

Oh well. I guess I'll have to accept that I'm abnormal. I can't get the hang of Facebook, don't own any Apple devices, and prefer BTO to Justin Bieber, Lady Gaga, or Kanye West. I am destined to be forever exiled from the mainstream. Sigh.

The good news is that I did take the mountain bike out last night. I rode the Cathy Johnson and Coyote Song trails in South Valley Park.

The bike seems pretty nice. It shifts instantly, seems to roll over bumps with ease, and is fairly comfortable. The bad news is that I have no detectable mountain biking skills at all. Even though the Cathy Johnson trail is rated as one of the easiest in the state, I was pretty much terrified as I rode down its gentle slope. I didn't fall, nor was I ever in any real danger -- but I certainly recognized the need for more experience, more confidence, and additional knowledge. Fortunately, I have a wealth of resources among my swim team friends, and certainly intend to take advantage of their willingness to share their expertise.

The next challenge is Green Mountain on Friday. It may be too steep and too challenging for a neophyte like me, but if I chicken out when I get to the hill, I can still get some good exercise just riding up and down Rooney Road. I know that I'll get better with practice, and I have to start somewhere. Wish me luck, and have a great day!

Still Not Recovered

I thought about riding the mountain bike after work last night.

Unfortunately, I am not always able to translate my thoughts into action...especially when the action would be beneficial to me. Oh sure, any random thought about eating a Peppermint Pattie seems to be quickly adopted into reality, but carefully developed plans about engaging in healthful exercise in the evening are just as readily discarded.

My excuse is that I'm too tired after a long day of slaving over a hot computer. The grueling tasks required by my merciless corporate overlords have sapped my energy, my will, and my ambition. By the time I drag my spent carcass out of the office into the open air of freedom, the only thing my body wants to do is refuel and rest.

But logically, it is hard to believe that I'm really that fatigued. My morning workout was pretty mellow, and while my day job does tend to require some mental focus on occasion, it never requires physical exertion--so it is quite likely that my feelings of exhaustion and depletion are mostly imaginary.

Somebody should invent a "Fatigue-O-Meter". Some kind of device that could instantly and accurately assess a person's training level. The low end of the scale (0) would represent how you feel when you first wake up in the morning on Day 4 of a relaxing and restful vacation of lying on the beach in the Bahamas. And 10 would represent the way you feel when you collapse on the pavement and have to crawl the last 100 yards to the finish of IronMan.

Yeah, I know that your resting heart rate can be used as a general guide for such things, and that various blood tests can analyze lactate and oxygen content to help assess your training vs. recovery status. But I'd prefer something more specific. I should be able to get home from work, press a reader device to my forehead and have it tell me "You need to ride your bike 12 miles before you can call it a day," or "Dude, nice effort. Hit the sack, man."

Anyway, I wimped out last night. I was sound asleep by 7:30, and still couldn't swim worth squat at practice this morning. So those facts tell me that I am still recovering from the weekend, and that it's probably OK that I called it a day when I did.

Anyone want to wager on whether I'll ride after work tonight? No?

OK, then. Let's talk about these guys:



The bike rider pictured toward the top of this post provides another clue to the puzzle's answer. He is a Norwegian sprint specialist who has won quite a few Tour de France stages over the years; Thor Hushovd. Even though his name is spelled like the hammer dude from the Avengers, he pronounces it "Tor", which happens to be the answer to what the guys in these photos have in common.

Frame 1 contains former pro wrestler and star of "Plan 9 from Outer Space", Tor Johnson. I have no words to describe his talent.

The second panel is actor Nestor Carbonell, shown here in his role as BatManuel in the highly entertaining TV series "The Tick." My other favorite performance of his was as the annoyingly smooth rival detective Declan Rand on "Pysch."

Next is Castor Oyl, Olive's brother. He is of no real importance, other than as a trivia question about people named after things that don't mix with water. Their father was Cole Oyl, and they actually had an uncle named Lubry Kent Oyl. Hmm.

Of course, that brings up the question of how many people you can remember whose names contain the word "eye." Other than Popeye, Peepeye, Poopeye, Pupeye, and Pipeye, I suppose you could include Hawkeye Pierce, IronEyes Cody (who, as we've discussed before, was actually Italian), and of course, Marty Feldman.

The daguerreotype fellow is John Jacob "Jack" Astor IV, who was a rich hotel magnate and science fiction writer who sank with the Titanic in 1912. As a man of means, he would order and pay for his hamburgers on the same day, rather than asking his creditors to defer billing until Tuesday.

The last frame isn't a real guy -- it's a painting. But the painting represents a fiduciary functionary within the Roman Empire; an administrative and bookkeeping specialist known as a "quaestor". It's pronounced "kwee-ster", and I included it just because it was one of the words Dan Smith used to insult people back in my days with Wichita Swim Club. I guess Daniel thought it sounded like a dirty word, and with his limited intellect, using words correctly was a challenge under any circumstances. But he did make me laugh, and I have never forgotten what the Romans called their accountants.

Anyway, I'm hoping that getting a good night's sleep last night has put me on the path to regain my normal energy levels. I plan to take the mountain bike up to Green Mountain on Friday, and hike up a Pike's Peak trail over the weekend. Should be fun. But first, I have the tennis league tomorrow, and (possibly) some sort of exercise this evening. I'll let you know how it goes. Have a great day!

Anticipation

My mountain bike is ready to go.

I've got my SPD pedals and shoes, have installed the ergo handgrips, and had the guys at the local bike shop do a once-over to make sure everything is adjusted and safe. During the fitting, I got a slightly longer stem and tweaked the seat a bit, and am now confident that the geometry is set for me to achieve maximum performance.

Now all I have to do is learn to ride it. Depending on the weather and how tired I am after work, I may take it out around the neighborhood this evening.

Over the weekend, I watched a show about extreme unicycling. That made me think that I ought to get the old unicycle out of the closet as well. And that reminds me that I need to buy a Lotto ticket, because I just spend far too many of my hours working for a living. Oh well.

You can expect more details about my mountain bike learning curve in the coming days and weeks. Right now, I just wanted to explain yesterday's mystery picture...and then give you a new challenge to ponder.

The two women pictured above provide part of the answer to why I included this photo in yesterday's post. The gentleman on the left is Graham Kerr, aka the "Galloping Gourmet." And since we were talking about refined tastes in meal preparation and consumption, I thought it appropriate to throw in a photo of a gourmet. He's the only one I know.

Not being well-versed in gay culture colloquialisms, I can't explain what the "Galloping" part meant, but I do know that his show was on TV in the era when alcohol consumption was considered an essential part of every program. (Bewitched was the worst, but even Cap'n Kirk was known to knock back some sort of green or blue potent potable on a regular basis.)

The photo of Mr. Kerr just happened to remind me of Eduard Khil, probably because of the colors, but also the smiles. And for some reason, displaying the two photos next to each other amuses me. And that's reason enough, right? By the way, I know most of you recognized the ladies above, but I do have some readers in Oklahoma, so I have to explain stuff. On the left is Heather GRAHAM, and on the right is Deborah KERR...so we end up Graham Kerr. Get it? OK then.

Of course, Deborah Kerr pronounced her name "Carr" for some inexplicable reason. And there were other Grahams I thought about including, such as Graham Stark, the fellow pictured here. (He appeared in a boatload of Blake Edwards movies, most notably the Pink Panther series.) And then there was Sylvester Graham, the Presbyterian minister who invented the famous "s'mores" cracker. And of course, there was Alexander Graham Bell, who, if I remember correctly, invented the fast food taco restaurant. Which brings us back to the topic of gourmet dining.

But I have nothing more to say about that. I am hoping that I'll enjoy my mountain bike so much that I'll choose to ride in the evenings instead of eating ice cream all night long. We'll see.

In the meantime, here's a puzzle for you. What's the connection between all these guys? (Click to embiggen.)



A couple of hints: The guy in the third panel is NOT J. Wellington Wimpy, and the fellow on the far right is included because of his profession, not his individual identity. Hope that helps. Answers tomorrow. Have fun, and have a great day!

Overtraining vs. Overeating

According to the Government's Physical Activity Guidelines for Americans--yes, there really is such a thing (your tax dollars at work)--my activity level should keep me pretty healthy.

In fact, they say if you do 5 hours of exercise each week, you'll have more health benefits than McDonalds has French fries. This weekend, I did 5 hours of exercise on Saturday, and then again on Sunday. And about 2 hours worth on every other day of the week. According to the Government, I should be one happy and energetic Adonis.

But all I am is tired. And fat. And aching all over.

I am happy, though. I really enjoy the exercising, even though it tires me out. On Saturday, I had the best 8-mile training run I've had for a while, then swam a couple of laps in the pond with my friends, and then had a wonderful bike ride through the Chatfield park. On Sunday, I jumped on the road bike again and cranked it up Deer Creek Canyon and took the CityView loop up to Pleasant Park. I'll admit that my body was a tad sluggish during swim practice after that -- but it was still fun. Working out, whether solo or with my friends, is among my favorite things to do.

You probably think I'm going to argue that the Government must be wrong in their workout/health calculations...especially since I'm always complaining about their idiotic fiscal and regulatory policies that seem so focused on robbing us of our money and freedom. But I can't honestly do that. Within the Guidelines, they also talk about how exercise is most effective when it exists in partnership with a healthy nutrition plan. And that's where my life takes a slight deviation from the recommendations.

I eat too much.

The weird thing is that I don't really care about food. I am not an epicure, and must admit that my taste buds are not highly refined. While some people can distinguish the subtlest nuances of exotic seasonings and will only dine at the finest restaurants, I seriously doubt that I could tell the difference between Del Taco and Taco Bell, nor between Chipotle and Qdoba. While some folks pay hundreds of dollars for quality wines, I couldn't tell you the difference between Keystone Light and Pabst Blue Ribbon.

OK, I can distinguish a York Peppermint Pattie from a Pearson's Mint, and an Oreo from a Hydrox, but that's about it. I don't watch cooking shows, and don't understand why anyone would want to pay to eat at Elway's when you can get the same calories at Wendy's for one tenth the price.

But I do enjoy my desserts. My main course is almost always healthy. I eat salads, drink green smoothies, and get plenty of rich nutrient goodness from other veggies such as beans and rice. But despite getting enough fuel from such healthy offerings, my brain doesn't accept that the meal is finished until my taste buds have confirmed the passage of at least one of the major finishing groups: peanut butter, chocolate, mint, marshmallows, or ice cream. Usually it takes a combination of all of those things to signal the completion of feeding time.

Up to this point in my life, my strategy has been to offset this excess consumption by burning the calories in exercise. But now that I'm over 30, I find that two factors are mitigating the effectiveness of this strategy. One is that my general metabolism has slowed; just being awake all day doesn't seem to burn fat like it used to. And the second is that I can't recover from hard training like I could in my youth. While I would love to exercise 5 hours every single day -- not only for the fat-burning benefits, but for the pure joy of the activity -- the fact is that after a few intense workouts in a row, my body requires rest. In other words, every minute of Ferrigno must be balanced by a few hours of Bixby. Sigh.

Yeah, I know, I could hire a hypnotist to curb my chocoholism. I could seek a 12-step program. I could get liposuction. Or...I could just be more disciplined.

We'll see. In the meantime, if you're curious why I included the two guys in the middle photo, I'll explain tomorrow. And despite the fact that I slept in and rested on Monday morning, I may try to drop by the gym after I pick up my mountain bike from the shop tonight. I'll have more to say about the new bike tomorrow, as well. For now, just let me know if you have any hints on the delicate art of balancing training vs. Peppermint Pattie intake, and have a great day!

Kirk to Enterprise...

I've never been much of a telephone conversationalist.

Oh sure, as a youth, I spent hours and hours on the phone with my very first girlfriend, probably engaged in an endless loop of inane Beavis laughter as opposed to thoughtful conversation. But once that relationship flamed out, the appeal of cradling the receiver against my head diminished drastically.

And now that email has been invented, it is crystal clear that I prefer typing to talking. This may surprise some people -- because of my experience in public speaking and my reputation as an articulate, witty, and charismatic conversationalist. But those who are aware of my strong tendency toward introversion are likely to recognize why I prefer the keyboard over the mouthpiece.

For one thing, email simply shows up...and then waits patiently for an opening in your schedule. Phones tend to be demanding. What you say via email has the ability to be proofread, so there are far fewer foot-in-mouth incidents. (Well, assuming that I actually do re-read and think a little bit...which isn't necessarily a given.) Also, when you're typing an email, your coworkers might assume that you're actually working; the advantages are numerous.

But the main thing I find frustrating about telephones is that nobody uses landlines anymore. That means that the pace of conversation is radically different than it used to be. Cell phones require a rhythm that acknowledges the lag time inherent in the process. Attentive and courteous cell phonists understand that you need to pause a beat after each statement to allow for responses.

Unfortunately, most people still haven't accepted and adopted this syncopated style. I try, but it seems that every conversation requires multiple restarts when the participants step on each other's statements. Seriously, have you had a conversation in the last year that did NOT have at least one "Sorry...didn't get that" moment in it?

Face to face, you can both talk at the same time without loss of understanding. In the ancient past (ie, the days of landlines), you could do the same thing. But with mobiles, it can't be done. My question is...why not?

I am not a physicist, but I think I understand some of the basics of electromagnetic wave propagation. Radio waves travel through the air at the speed of light, which is the exact same speed that electric impulses travel through wires. Both landline and mobile phone calls have to pass through some number of switching and routing relays, so you would think the time spent doing that would also be equal with both technologies. And while phone companies do probably share the "we don't really care about service quality" attitude possessed by the cable companies and taco restaurants, it would seem to me that their engineers would still be trying to remove echoes, delays, and "I'm inside an oil drum" distortions from their services. They've been at it a long time, but it's still pitifully simple to tell when you're wireless.

I have no idea what technological advancement will move us into truly instant and reliable sub-space communication, but I'm sure it's coming at some point. And I'm certain there are young Daystroms and Cochranes out there working on it as we speak. (And probably young Uhuras preparing to master the technology when it is available.) For now, though, I will simply avoid telephones as much as I can, and will urge those who can't resist the darn things to learn to take a breath after speaking, so the dude on the other end knows it's his turn to talk.

Enough for today. Tomorrow's tasks include getting my mountain bike all tuned up and ready to ride. I'll be sure to let you know how that goes. Otherwise, there will be runnin', swimmin', and eatin'. Should be a great weekend...I hope you have one, too!

A New Era?

Something has happened. I think I have become even more deranged.

Not only did I purchase a new mountain bike (pictured above -- the Gravity 29Point6), but I have entered the Horsetooth 2.4-mile swim, and the "Vuelta a Salida" century ride. I'm pretty sure I'll enter the "Bear it All" off-road triathlon, too. So I guess I need to get my buns off the couch and start getting serious about training.

The good news is that my ankle didn't seem to be a factor during the TriRock race. The bad news is that my physical therapy on that ankle needs to continue. Scar tissue still remains around the joint, and while it no longer seems to affect my running too much, it still hurts on occasion. So for the present, I shall continue to have the experts dig around in there, beam their ultrasound waves into my foot, and torment me with exercises that aren't any fun to perform. I remain optimistic that my ankle will someday be back to normal. Or at least close to it.

Anyway, the interesting thing about the two new races is that they're one day apart, on opposite sides of Denver. It will be interesting to see how well I can swim the morning after finishing a hundred mile bike ride over several mountain passes, and then being stuck in a car for the long drive. And it will be interesting to see how the time I spend trying learn to ride a mountain bike affects my abilities on the road bike. And if I want to ensure that my future triathlons avoid the sort of running melt-down I had on Saturday, I'll need to increase my run training hours.

Yeah, I think deranged might be the correct word.

Oh well, you can't buy a bike (or a race entry) and just leave it sitting in the closet. Ya gotta git up and GO! So, my friends, I will certainly appreciate any help you can give me in this epic fight against my slacker tendencies. Thanks, and have a great day!

TriRock

OK, this might be the coolest finisher medal I've ever earned. It's a guitar, which is groovy enough...but also a bottle opener, which I could take to parties and use to impress the ladies who can't get their beer bottles open. By finishing this race, I may finally have found a way to become popular.

Or not. I don't go to very many parties these days.

I don't do very many triathlons, either. My lack of practice was clearly evident during the race, especially when my legs simply refused to cooperate during the run.

I thought I felt pretty good at the end of the bike ride, but when I left the transition for the run, I found that there wasn't much spring in my step at that point.

But I digress. Let's start at the beginning.



Our ITN tennis league had its official kickoff on Thursday evening. Robert and Praveen (pictured here) were almost as rusty as I was as we warmed up, but all three of us improved as the night went on. I knew that heat-of-the-day tennis probably wasn't a formula for a perfect race taper, but I didn't want to miss the fun of the first night with the group. The three of us played "winner stays on the court" and rotated through based on the results of each game. I had a streak where I stayed on the court for quite a while, and actually got a few of my serves in.

Then I did a short run and a relaxed swim practice on Friday morning, and spent the rest of the day assembling my new mountain bike (more about that later) until it was time to head to Aurora for race packet pickup.

That was a bit of a pain. It's a long drive, and with Friday afternoon traffic, it took well over an hour to get there. But I got the packet, attended the optional race briefing, and got a feel for how little shade there was going to be along the race course. Sunscreen would be an essential part of my morning prep.

After the long drive home, the only tasks left were to pump up the tires, organize the transition accessories, and apply the temporary tattoos that denoted my race number and age group.

I don't know who came up with this idea, but it is a great one. The numbers look so much cooler than the old magic marker style, and they seem to be easier to remove, too. I decided to do the remaining tasks in the morning.

I woke up, slammed down a green smoothie, performed ablutions, and began the required self-adornment. Once I was tat-tagged, I slathered on the BodyGlide, coated everything with sunscreen, and loaded up the car.



No problems with setting up the transition area, even though the bikes were closer together than I'd have liked. I set out my sittin' towel, my dryin' towel, my shoes (and shoe horn), as well as the helmet, shades, and sweatband. I chatted briefly with my friends Jean, Sharon, and Paige and then wandered down to the beach.

My swim goal was to get out of the water first in my age group and to be one of the first 10 swimmers overall. I was a little worried about navigation since the sun was directly in line with the first buoys, so I hoped I could find a good navigator to draft and not have to look up very often.

There was no countdown; the starting horn went off without warning. I didn't realize this, but my retarded GPS was in its stupid "Do you want to reset?" mode, so my frantic stab at the start button was ignored. (I finally got it started somewhere in the first few miles of the bike ride.) I didn't want to kill myself in the first sprint, but I tried to work hard enough to get into the lead group. There were a few bumped shoulders and legs, but nothing traumatic. Within a couple hundred yards, I was established in the second pack, with the two leaders only a dozen yards or so in front.

I think I was the only person without a wetsuit, so everyone else looked exactly alike to me. I found out later that Paige was one of the leaders I was tracking, but at that point I was just trying to gauge their pace to make sure they didn't get too far away. I settled into a comfortable rhythm.

As we approached the corner buoy, I noticed that the lead dogs were taking a wide approach, leaving me some room to cut inside them. Three of us reached the buoy together, and stopped in unison to sight the next target. The guy who had been in front yelled "Where the @#$! is it?" at about the moment I saw the thing. "That way," I shouted, pointing and then diving forward to head toward it.

And that was the last I saw of them during the swim. I assumed they would be drafting off me, but didn't look back to see where everyone was. To my surprise, we were a third of the way into the swim and I had the lead all to myself. I was now responsible for sighting and swimming straight, but fortunately, the final corner buoy (and then the swim finish arch on shore) were fairly easy to see now that we had turned away from the sunrise. Since I didn't have to watch out for other swimmers, I allowed myself the luxury of putting my head down and concentrating on keeping my stroke long and smooth. I was feeling good and having fun!

I did some alternate breathing to make sure no one was sneaking up on my blind side, and tried to push a bit harder as I closed in on the beach. I enjoyed hearing the cheers as I stood to jog up the ramp, and allowed myself a quick glance behind me. Nobody was anywhere close. I had won the swim by almost a minute!

I didn't win the transition, though. No surprise there. I wanted to make sure I didn't forget anything, and that my feet were dry and clean. I put on more sunscreen, put on a shirt, drank some water, and finally grabbed the bike to clomp over to where we could mount. By the time I was clipped into my pedals, I was in fourth place.

That didn't last long. The next hour and 20 minutes were spent reading leg numbers on the 25 people who passed me. None of those legs showed my age group, so my hopes of a podium spot were still alive. But I'd be lying if I said it wasn't disappointing to be passed, and not to be able to do anything about it. A couple of them stayed in sight for quite a while; but others (including the overall race winner) went by me like I was standing still...and were out of sight over the next hill before I could even blink.

Oh yeah, there were hills. Nothing but hills, in fact. I don't think there was a quarter mile of flat road anywhere on the course. None of the hills were all that steep, but it was still a mental challenge to keep pushing on both the ascending and descending sections. I felt OK, though -- and despite being passed by so many other bikers, I thought I was performing about as I would've predicted. I began to look forward to getting off the bike and onto the run course.

My next transition was fairly smooth...except that I forgot my bib number and had to run back about 30 or 40 yards to get it when the course marshal reminded me. But then she directed me into the chute that led to the street.

As a coach, I would advise athletes to make sure they review the course layout prior to the race. As a participant, of course, I did no such thing. I came out of the cattlepen onto the street and realized that I had no idea which way to go. I couldn't see any other runners, there were no marshals, no signs, and no arrows on the pavement. I stopped and asked a spectator which way I should go, and she told me that she thought I had come out on the wrong side of the transition area and needed to go back through. That didn't sound right, so I asked another guy, and he pointed to the left. He seemed confident, so I went that-a-way.

Once on the concrete path, there was no chance to get lost. This pleased me greatly, because I figured it would make it easier for the paramedics to get to me when I collapsed from heat stroke. My legs were rubbery, and my left shin was refusing to loosen up. I was tired from the swim and ride...but not exhausted -- so I felt I should have been able to get into a running rhythm. But I was getting very little cooperation from my lower extremities.

The good news is that I did eventually loosen up. The bad news is that the heat began to take its toll. The breeze we had felt of the bike course was nowhere to be found, and the sun was relentless. About the time I started feeling like I had my stride, I also started to overheat. By the first mile marker, I realized that it was going to be a struggle to get through this thing. I grabbed some ice at the aid station and tucked it into my cap. Water poured down my face as the ice instantly melted. I felt a couple of hot spots starting blisters in my shoes.

I hate to admit it, but I ended up walking. A lot. It's embarrassing; I mean, good lord, it was only a crummy 10K. I realize that I hadn't done ANY bike-to-run training, but I should still be able to hop off after the ride and glide through 6 lousy miles without looking like a Plan 9 zombie. I could feel my flesh frying, blisters forming on both feet, and my chances for winning my age group fading with each plodding footfall.

But no old guys passed me. And when I was finally close enough to the finish to hear the race announcer, the adrenaline kicked in and propelled me under the arch at an actual running pace. And there was finally some shade! I sat, I guzzled water, and I gave silent thanks that the ordeal had come to an end.

Of course, 30 minutes later, I felt fine. When the announcer called my name to accept the first place award for my age group, I bounced right up onto the stage. (Check out her swim cap tutu -- I'm gonna have to get me one of those!) I can't imagine how they could miscalculate so badly, but they ran out of first place mugs a half dozen age groups before, so I'll have to wait for them to mail me my award.

There's more to say about the rest of the weekend, but it'll have to wait. For now, though, I'm just trying to decide what races to do next. If you have any suggestions, please let me know. In the meantime, try to stay cool, and have a great day!

Tapering

Having completed my 4 days of serious triathlon training, I have now begun my taper for the race this weekend.

Yes, I know that the general philosophy of tapering usually includes a LONG period of high-workload training, followed by a gradual reduction in workout durations. Therefore, my plan of a half-week of moderate training followed by a near-total cessation of activity may seem an unlikely recipe for racing success. But I am completely confident that my performance at TriRock this weekend will convince the world that training and actual preparation are over-rated.

Or not.

Actually, the truth is that I expect to give it a pretty good effort, despite my last-minute entry into the competition. I'm even planning to practice a transition or two on Friday, just to make sure I remember how to do it. (Putting socks on wet feet is the most challenging part of it. But I'm simply not tough enough to go sockless; sorry.) I'm also making a list of the stuff I need that more stoic triathletes may skip...like Chapstick, a transition campstool, and a shoe horn. (Some guys will lock their empty biking shoes into the pedals and wriggle their toes in there while already riding. I admire such skill, but am certain I'd crash and burst into flames if I were to attempt it. I'll sit on a dorky campstool while donning my footwear, thank you.)

As for the race itself, well, I have to say I'll be disappointed if I'm not the first in my age group to exit the water. And while I know that some of them will pass me, I would expect my cycling effort to keep me within a few minutes of my age group's leaders. But once I'm off the bike, the challenge becomes trying to keep from finishing dead last.

My swimming and biking speeds are reasonably easy to predict. But there's a wide range of "slow" that could describe my running. I would love it if I could get the 10K done in under an hour -- and if the stars align, it should be possible. But if my ankle and hamstring decide to be belligerent, there could be a lot of walking (and/or crawling), too. Who knows?

That's why they have the race, though, right? And of course, I have no control over my competitors...and at the moment I have no idea how many people will be in this race. My usual strategy for attaining the podium is to enter races where there will only be three guys my age, but I doubt that's going to be the case here.

Anyway, I do appreciate the support and encouragement I'm getting from all of you, and I'll try to do my best. I'll provide a detailed race report on Monday.

For now, I'll just throw out the photos I had from the baseball game fireworks display. Because the rockets were launched from behind the scoreboard, they first had to empty the stands (including the Rockpile) and have the fans from that side move onto the field. It was an impressive procession.



They sent up a TON of bright, loud, and spectacular explosives.



There was music playing, though it didn't seem to have any relationship to the timing of the rocketry. It was a rather eclectic mix, with some rap, country, and whiny girl complaint songs intertwined with the traditionally inspiring Ray Charles and Sousa stuff.





It sure was pretty. And at least for me, it provided a nice chance to reflect on my own patriotic feelings. Despite my frequent disagreements with elected officials who clearly do not represent me and my view of the world, I am still intensely proud to be an American. There were tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat at the end of the pyrotechnics. Even though the Rockies lost, I went home with a smile on my face and joy in my heart.

And now I get to rest and relax for the next few days. Whoo hoo! I'm looking forward to a fun triathlon on Saturday, and will enjoy sharing the details with you next week. Whatever you have planned for the next few days, I hope you enjoy it all immensely. Have a great day!

Neighborhood Pyrotechnics

Sadly, I am no longer up to speed on the current state of the art in firecrackers.

When I was a kid, though, the Black Cat brand was unrivaled as the most "pop"ular type of gunpowder-filled fun-time holiday accessory. There were other, less reliable brands that you'd buy once...and then go back to the standard when you realized that they were less than satisfactory. (It's kinda like buying DumDums at Halloween instead of Tootsie Pops.)

Obviously, the main attraction was the fact that the fuses fizzed and the crackers exploded. They could be used to cause chaos and panic within anthills, blow the arms off your sister's dolls, and perhaps even launch tin cans skyward if you set everything up correctly. I loved the smell of the gunpowder, the shiny silver texture of the fuses, and the adrenaline rush you'd get every now and then when the fuse would suddenly accelerate and force you to hurry your throw.

I was also intrigued by the guts of the firecrackers. Not only could you open them up and create awesome flashpiles by combining the gunpowder contents of multiple Black Cats...but the cracker structure seemed to be built from discarded Chinese newspapers. The tattered remnants of exploded ordnance was printed with inscrutable symbols and hieroglyphs that made a kid want to dig a hole in the back yard and burrow through the earth to visit the mysterious culture that was ruled by the snarling dark feline on the package label.

Today, of course, I am amazed that our parents allowed their pre-teen children to handle massive quantities of explosives without supervision. I am also confused as to why they call the fuse-lighting firestick a "punk". And I never have figured out the appeal of the "black snakes" that just spit out a long string of ash without ever having the decency to properly explode. My brother has confessed to enjoying those as a youth, but I always put them in the category with sparklers -- boring stuff that was supposed to keep the kids occupied until the main display was ready to go in the middle of the street.

In addition to fireworks, our neighborhood also had block parades. We'd adorn our bikes and little red wagons with crepe paper streamers and American flags, along with the occasional Statue of Liberty mockup. We'd form a line and ride/pull our various conveyances down the street to the enthusiastic cheers of whatever neighbors weren't out there walking alongside us. As a visual spectacle, it was probably pretty lame -- but as a community bonding experience, it was priceless.

Kids today probably don't even know what a little red wagon is. Sigh. It's no wonder that our once-great country now suffers abominations like rap music, reality TV, and Justin Bieber.

Anyway, the parade photo shown here is from the American Royal parade in Kansas City. My family spent several July 4th holidays in the KC area, mostly visiting with my dad's friend Orville Burtis. Orville had a farm in Olathe (just outside the metro area), which provided plenty of space for Black Cats, cherry bombs, roman candles, and general youth-driven shenanigans. But when it was time for the big parade, we'd douse the punks, put on cowboy boots, and head into town to watch the horses and Shriners.

Ah yes, good times, those. My other vivid Independence Day memories include attending public fireworks displays and spreading out on a big blanket to lie back for the oooohs and aaaaahs. And then of course, there were the epic roman candle duels among my Wichita Swim Club teammates. I had no desire to put myself in the line of fire, but it was great fun watching the stupid kids shoot flaming glow balls at each other. Thank goodness there were no injuries or structural conflagrations as a result. As the same time, I do wonder if such experiences contributed to character building in a way that playing Nintendo just can't duplicate. Hmm.

And yeah, I know that I have once again failed to deliver on the promise of my Rockies game fireworks photos, and I apologize. They're pretty crummy anyway, so you're not missing much. But it was kinda fun for me to dredge through some childhood recollections, and I appreciate your indulgence in reading along. As always, thanks for dropping by, and have a great day!

Triathlon Training

The LONG weekend made possible by the 4th of July provided an excellent opportunity to start my triathlon training.

Unfortunately, my race is on July 13th, which means that Monday is the day to begin my taper. Ergo, I had about 4 days for serious training.

Despite the implications of Hollywood's various "Eye of the Tiger" montages, the truth is that you can't really get in shape in a week. The good news is that I wasn't starting from zero -- I do have a base level of fitness that makes an Olympic Triathlon survivable. But my goal for the holiday weekend was to do some significant exercise in each of the three sports so that I could feel good about resting up during the week before the race.

I also had an opportunity to test drive a mountain bike. I have a free entry to an off-road tri in September, but have never really ridden a bicycle on dirt. My generous brother (who had also provided me the triathlon entry) offered to let me borrow his hardtail so that I could assess my ability and affinity for trail riding.

Preliminary results indicate that I might actually enjoy riding a mountain bike -- as long as the trail isn't too steep or technical. But my poor vision, slow reflexes, and Foster Brooks balance do not provide a recipe for safety in the woods. During my test ride on the mellow trails of Bear Creek Lake Park, I fell off the bike twice and received a bloody leg gash when I somehow got my shin into an altercation with a pedal. No serious harm was done, though, and I arrived home with a smile on my face.

The rest of the weekend included a couple of pretty decent short runs, a peppy lake swim, and a granny-gear climb up Highgrade/CityView. I'll spare you the blow-by-blow accounts, but I can certainly say that I arrived at Sunday evening feeling well worked and ready to taper.

Oh, and there were also fireworks. I even took some photos, which I shall include in a later post. I hope that you all were able to celebrate our Nation's birth by enjoying enthusiastic displays of bright lights and loud noises, too. It's a pity we can no longer set off our own neighborhood pyrotechnics like we used to, but that's what we get for causing drought by eating trans fats and owning guns.

I make no promises (because I'm clearly not reliable when it comes to blog posting), but my intention is to share some memories about the Independence Day celebrations of my youth. In the meantime, if you have any particular memories of July 4th celebrations of yore, please tell me about them. Until then, please thank a veteran or two, and have a great day!

Fireworks

It's no secret that the United States is the greatest country in the history of Earth, and that our founding fathers showed immense wisdom in setting up a system designed to safeguard freedom and enable opportunities for all. As the anniversary of our independence draws near, it is tempting to spend a little time discussing the myriad reasons I'm proud to be an American...and it's equally tempting to delineate my concerns about the way our elected representatives have let us down in recent years. It is clear that for many of them, values such as excellence, strength, leadership, and liberty are no longer important -- having been superseded by the idea that the government always knows what's best and has the right to make all your decisions for you.

So, it would be easy to jump up on my soapbox and rant about these things...but I won't. At least not today. Instead, I think I'll talk a little bit about magic.

I don't remember exactly how it started, but I became interested in magic around the time I was in the Cub Scouts. I remember being amazed when my Uncle Virgil (who I later found out wasn't really my uncle -- but that's another story) would pull a penny out of my ear, and later being astounded by the card tricks performed by a kid named Al, who was living in my granddad's basement when I visited for a week one summer.

[Pardon my diversion, but isn't it fascinating how many things you accepted with no problem as a youth, but later question as an adult? Or is it just me? I was in my 30s before I actually asked anyone to explain why Uncle Virgil didn't show up anywhere on our family tree. Or why Herbert Everett Bevan, Jr. went by the name "Bob." Or why there was some card sharp kid living in my granddad's basement that summer. I still don't know the answer to that one; I think it was some sort of farm-worker apprenticeship, but I really have no idea. And perhaps most puzzling of all -- I was perfectly happy for years thinking that my dad's career title of "engineer" meant that he drove a train, and that the company he worked for (Boeing) was named after the sound made by a bouncing spring.]

I started with the standard entry-level tricks, doing some minor sleight-of-hand with coins along with a few card tricks. My dad had a buddy who was in a magician's club (the Wizards of Wichita), and was able to get me accepted into their kids' spinoff, which I think was called the Junior Wizards. (OK, that's probably not accurate. Knowing the powerful appeal of alliteration, we were probably called the "Wee Wizards" or something equally obnoxious.) There I learned a few tricks with ropes, hankies, and torn-up newspapers. When I finally graduated to levitating orbs, disappearing milk, and pulling a rabbit out of a hat, I was ready to perform in public.

My dad bought me a top hat and painted a dowel stick to look like a wand. Adopting the stage name "Terrific Terry" (another alliterative appellation, of course), I did shows for relatives, Scout groups, church get-togethers, and even a birthday party or two. And somewhere along the way, I decided to collaborate with my Scout buddy, Jeff Hammond. Jeff was my right-hand man in the Black Widows Patrol, and became my successor as Patrol Leader when I moved on to the Senior Patrol as Troop Bugler. We combined our individual acts and wrote exotic dialog to accompany our ever-more-complex feats of prestidigitation. We thought we were pretty entertaining as well as mystifying.

We actually made some money, but not enough to keep other interests from eventually breaking up the act. Jeff became an excellent musician, and took up acting in school plays. I became more involved in swimming. By the time we got to high school, the suitcase full of magic props had been stowed away and mostly forgotten. Jeff went to a different college than I did, and I didn't see him again for 40 years.

But last week, I had a chance to reconnect with my old friend. It turns out that he lives nearby, and was able to meet me for lunch. We had a great conversation, and learned that our lives contained many parallel pathways. He had also become a video guy, a teacher, and an adult athlete. He competes in cycling rather than swimming, but we have ridden many of the same hills in training. It was really good to catch up with him after all that time.

I know this will disappoint many of you, but I have to be honest. As of right now, we have no plans to resurrect the magic act. Sorry.

But this IS America, after all, and people are still free to pursue their dreams. You never know.

No matter, what, though, I hope you all have a wonderful Independence Day. If you have a chance to reconnect with an old friend, by all means do so. Be careful with fire, but do enjoy your celebratory festivities, whatever they might be. And have a great day!