Frod

I am a fan of the English language, and am continually delighted at the variety of clever ways it is used to enlighten and entertain me. But...you have to admit that English is pretty stupid.

I mean, why do we use the same word to describe a locomotive as we use to describe what we do to get in shape for a competition? And why do we use the word "fast" to describe something speedy when it also means colors that won't run, and also a period of nutritional self-denial?

Why do these three words sound exactly the same, but have radically different spellings?



As you've probably inferred from all this, I had to cancel my credit card yesterday. Because of course, that process got me thinking about all the words that rhyme with "fraud."



Anyway, the irony is that the charge on my card that prompted the investigation was paid to Oxford University Press, which sounds like an organization that would be quite concerned with the English language. It seemed especially odd (another rhyme) that an identity thief (bloody sod) would purchase educational materials from abroad (!)

I started by merely protesting the Oxford charge, but when an additional purchase was made at Apparel Alley (of which I had never heard -- which is grammatically correct, but sounds stupid, Strunk and White notwithstanding), it seemed obvious that I was dealing with an actionable security breach. Ergo, the card (which would also rhyme--if I was from Boston) would need to be expunged.

Surprisingly, the MasterCard support person was a pleasant and articulate American who took care of everything quickly and efficiently. I'll be getting a new card in a few days. In the meantime, I'll try not to spend any money.

On another subject, last night's run practice was another set up uphill sprints at Dinosaur Ridge. My hamstring was stiff and tight from Saturday's long run, but after carefully easing into a long warmup, it loosened up to where I could run until my lungs gave out. I'm happy that I did the workout, but let's all just agree that sprinting uphill is not my strength. (I'm not sure what my strength is, though, unless it's "power TV watching".)

The good news is that I have been back in the water a couple of times since my last post. My shoulder still requires caution, so I'll be taking it easy and avoiding butterfly for some time to come yet. But it is SO nice to get a chlorine fix and actually put in a few productive laps.

Anyway, the Colfax race is now less than 3 weeks away, and my running continues to incrementally suck less and less. I'll begin my taper after this weekend, and intend to post progress reports during that time. Please stay tuned, and have a great day!

[Background data on embedded graphics. Top: General Zod, from Superman II. Middle: clawed, clod, Jean Claude. Last: Mod Squad, Maud Adams, Maude Flanders. Personal note: I can't think of Maud Adams without remembering her from "The Man with the Golden Gun", where James Bond fulfilled one of my greatest fantasies by tossing that obnoxious midget overboard. Can you say "De plane!" from 20 fathoms deep, ya little twerp? Anyway, Maud was also in Octopussy and A View to a Kill...but who cares?]

Curse You, Doug Smith

My old Wichita Swim Club friend Doug Smith is most famous for being a screenwriter and movie actor. His unbridled creativity meshed well with my Super 8 film-editing skills and dazzling martial arts choreography. We had fun making movies together, and both remain intensely interested in that particular art form.

But everybody knows that. What you may not know about Doug is that his creativity and other talents were influential within the swimming community, as well. Though my memory is unclear about specifics, I'm pretty sure that he was the author of most of the swim team pranks that were not initiated by Glenn Nyberg, Bruce VanBebber, or Roger Neugent. Doug was always entertaining.

He led the "playing the pool cue" movement, which would later be known as "air guitar." We spent many an hour pantomiming heavy metal jams along with Jimi Hendrix and Blue Öyster Cult. Some of Doug's ideas were darn good ones.

In the mid 1970s, Doug came up with an idea for a game called Tramplepit, which foreshadowed the creation of "American Gladiators." Of course, he also had his misfires, which included the notion that turning up the bass on the stereo would "suck the low notes" out of the record and render it soprano.

But his worst idea was that Wichita Swim Club could gain a psychological edge over our competitors by getting darker suntans. His reasoning almost seemed sensible: Sun-darkened skin implied more hours outdoors -- specifically, hours in the pool working out. He would hold his toasty brown arm up next to his opponent's and say "I am more tan, therefore I am more fit. I shall defeat you!"

Perhaps it worked. Doug did have a lot of swimming success. (At one time he held the Missouri Valley record in the 1500m freestyle.) But his "catchin' rays for the podium" strategy has had long-term negative consequences.

Yep, you guessed it...the biopsy on my arm splotch came back positive for basal cell skin cancer. This is my third round of the stuff, and while it's not life-threatening nor even all that difficult to manage, it certainly is a pain in the rear. So thanks, Doug, for all those hours you convinced me to lie out baking in the sun.

(I'm pretty darn sure that none of MY opponents was ever intimidated by my tan. Hmm. In all my years of WSC swim meets, I think I only made the finals once. Regardless of hard work, wishful thinking, and bucketsful of activated melanin, it's still tough to win if you don't have any natural talent. So I guess I can thank my ancestors for that particular genetic oversight. And those jerks probably have to share the blame for the skin cancer, too, come to think of it. Being hereditarily pasty-white and easy to burn made me even more susceptible to the negative aspects of Doug's misguided psychological strategy. Stupid Caucasian forebears.)

Anyway, I urge you all to use sunscreen at all times.

The biopsy process begins with a local injection of Lidocaine and Epinephrine. The 'caine numbs it up, and the Epi is supposed to suppress bleeding. The lovely little tool shown here is a "biopsy punch", and they come in multiple sizes. It's basically a cookie cutter with a handle, only the cutter is made from the finest surgical grade steel.

Sorry, I just had to use that term. You hear it on Ginsu commercials and the like, and it sounds impressive. I looked it up, though: It turns out that there is no ANSI spec that defines "surgical grade" -- it's just a term folks use to mean "reasonably sharp and durable." In the case of the biopsy punch, such a designation is indeed accurate; it didn't take very much pressure for the doc to carve a 3mm divot out of my forearm. After snipping the skin chunk free, he applied a single stitch of black fishing line, slapped a bandaid on it and said "Stay out of the pool for a week."

I am happy to report that the Lidocaine did its job. I didn't feel a thing. The Epinephrine, on the other hand, seemed, um, less effective. I bled all over the place. I also found myself feeling a little flushed and light-headed. While I imagine myself to be a hard-boiled manly man, it appears that I'm still mentally affected by watching parts of my body being removed and inserted into a plastic bag. I had to sit still and take a few deep breaths before I was ready to amble over to the admin desk to make a follow-up appointment.

The good news is that we confirmed my shoulder problem to be the result of mere muscle inflammation, and if I adhere to the physical therapist's recommended exercise and stretching regimen, I shall soon be fine. I will probably be ready to swim again long before the dermatology surgeon will let me back in the pool. That's OK, I guess...I can still run and ride my bike. But I miss my swimming. A lot.

Oh well, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. I'm just glad that I live in times where surgeons are competent and plentiful and where Congress has made healthcare affordable. Or whatever.

I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, I guess I'll have to incorporate more reports about running and cycling workouts...or perhaps just stick to TV trivia. You'll have to come back to see which it will be.

Have a great day!

Jimmy Olsen

Like all good KU Journalism graduates, I own a bunch of cameras.

My 35mm film camera rots in the closet -- a sad victim of the inexorable march of digital technology. The same goes for my VHS-C camcorder and its dozens of obsolete tape cassettes. My very first digital photo camera, a Kodak clunker with a laughable few hundred pixels of resolution, avoids the landfill because of its value as a historical curiosity, but has no expectations of resurrection.

With the exception of the Pentax that turned out to not be waterproof if you didn't close the battery door, the others are all in perfect working order, with batteries fully charged. Even my crummy cell phone takes reasonably good pictures.

You would think, then, that my C.B. deBodine instincts would couple with my Boy Scout training to ensure that I'd always have some sort of device available to capture the little daily moments that deserve preservation. You'd expect me to be prepared to take pictures of the wonders of nature, document the thrill of victory, and archive the significant events that shape my life. Wouldn't you?

Sigh.

Alas, the photo above is not mine. Nor do I have any photographic support for the other tales I wanted to share with you today. I am not Peter Parker, Karl Kolchak, nor even Jimmy Olsen. I wasn't carrying a camera with me on my adventurous runs in the snow and muck of Springtime in the Rockies.

[Interlude: Was Jimmy Olsen supposed to be a photographer? Or was he a "cub reporter," whatever that is? And if that's what he was, then what does it take to graduate to "webelo reporter"? All I know is that Jimmy seemed like a swell kid (if a bit dim), and probably would've been more fun to hang around with than either Mr. Kent or Miss Lane.]

[OK, so that brings up this question: When was the last time you heard anyone addressed as "Mr. Whatever," rather than their first name? It would seem jarring for Jimmy to call Clark by his first name, but Clark never ever referred to Jimmy as "Mr. Olsen." What was the magic maturity age number that made a person deserve misterhood?]

[Is there one single person anywhere in the world who thinks of Phyllis Coates when somebody says "Lois Lane?" I doubt it. Teri Hatcher, maybe, and I'm sure Margot Kidder is the default Lois among heroin addicts. But for most of us normal people, the ideal of Lois Lane will always be Noel (pronounced No Ell, same as Santa season) Neill. I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but Ms. Neill was an accomplished singer, and the number 2 most popular pinup girl after Betty Grable. To me, Grable wouldn't have been in the top 10, ever...but if I were born in the 30s or 40s, I could see having a Noel Neill poster on my dorm room wall to keep me company until Cybil Sheppard and Farrah Fawcett became available.]

Anyway, the point is that I wish I'd have had a camera along for last week's snow runs. They were definitely worth documenting.

On Thursday evening, I ran with the Revolution Running group on the Highline Canal trail. The weather fluctuated between all-out blizzard, puffy-flaked snow painting, and chilly spring rainstorm...but the entire 6-mile run was a wet muddy mess.

We were supposed to go easy, then pick up the pace, then pick it up again...until our last 5 minutes was at 5K race speed. While I was able to pick up the pace from the starting tempo, I was not successful in achieving my anticipated race pace by the end. I'll blame it on the slippery trail, the weight of the mud stuck to the treads of my shoes, and the general motivational effect of being in a blizzard a couple of days after being in shorts.

The snow was pretty, though. And so were the various spontaneous streams that sprang up to channel the runoff waters into the canal. I wish I'd have had a camera.

I had the same thought during Saturday's run in Waterton Canyon. It wasn't snowing; in fact, most of the snow had melted off the road. But the moisture and temperature fluctuations had taken their toll on the canyon walls. Rocks had fallen.

I saw a half-dozen spots where rockslides had strewn debris across the road. Some of the fallen stones were nearly the size of Kenny Baker, which would squish you as flat as my son's bank balance if they hit you. I made sure to keep to the river side of the trail, and to listen for cracking and crunching sounds from above.

Sure enough, at about the 5-mile mark, I heard the sound of rock hitting rock somewhere up the mountainside. I looked overhead as my adrenaline prepared me to leap aside if I saw a granite volkswagon careening toward me. But t'was just a baseball-sized chip, accompanied by a few additional pepples. It could still have damaged me had I been beneath it, but it was small enough to come to rest pretty much where it hit the road. It did not roll across the street to chase me Indy-style, and I survived.

At this point, I have to acknowledge the efficiency and thoroughness of the Denver Water Department. I ran up past the dam to the Colorado Trail access point (where the snow was slushy and a couple of inches deep -- not exactly conducive to smooth, fast running), and by the time I came back down the canyon, every single one of the rockslides had been cleaned up and removed from the road. I was tired and slow during the descent, but no longer needed to navigate around rockslide debris fields. In fact, by that time, a good portion of the roadway mud had dried into a reasonably decent running surface.

I was slow, but at least I was able to finish my long run without hurting myself. As for my pre-existing injuries (shoulder strain and skin biopsy stitches), I'll save that discussion for tomorrow. As for Tuesday's run, well, we're scheduled to do our team workout in Bear Creek Lake park. I'll try to remember to tote along a camera, so I can document anything interesting that happens. (I just hope it isn't more snow.)

Thanks for dropping by. Have a great day!

Illogical

Some days, I wish I were the ruler of a planet full of nubile and subservient androids. Two days ago, I was running outdoors in t-shirts and shorts...and today I'm sliding all over the road while driving in a raging snowstorm. Hmmm.

Anyway, you were absolutely correct if you said that the Chekov dance photo in yesterday's post was from the episode "I, Mudd," one of the many episodes in which Captain Kirk essentially talked computers into blowing themselves up. I should probably do an accurate count someday, but I know there were at least 4 (Landrew, Nomad, M5, and this Mudd episode, which is sometimes known as "Norman, Coordinate.")

The bad guy in the episode was Harcourt (Harry) Fenton Mudd (pictured above), played by Roger C. Carmel. The episode's realism is striking: I am quite sure that 100 years from now, all interstellar con men will wear handlebar mustaches and gold necklaces...and that "Norman" will be the default name for android supervisors.

Anyway, if you looked closely at the joggers in the other picture, you probably recognized Steve Austin and Jaime Sommers, aka The Six Million Dollar Man and the Bionic Woman. Because they had nuclear-powered mechanical legs, they were both incredibly fast runners...almost as fast as Hayley Benson.

You may have discovered a more direct route to connect Star Trek to The $6M Man, but the connections that occurred to me are represented in this picture (click to embiggen):



Captain Kirk starred in the forgettable cop show "T.J. Hooker," which also featured the unforgettable Heather Locklear (panel 1). Locklear then starred in "Dynasty," which featured Linda Evans (panel 2). Evans, of course, had appeared as Audra Barkley on "The Big Valley" (panel 3)." Her character's brother, Heath Barkley, was played by Lee Majors, who eventually was rebuilt to be stronger, faster, and accompanied by groovy sound effects.

I threw in the final panel to show the bionic couple posing with Bigfoot. When I first saw that photo, I thought perhaps Bigfoot was played by Ted Cassidy (aka Lurch), who was also a Star Trek alum. But it turns out to be a charming french fellow named Roussimoff, who is better known as Andre the Giant.

Enough for today. I'll leave you with an entertaining clip to watch as you huddle near the fireplace during the April snowstorm. In addition to the world-class acting and stuntwork on display, you will no doubt also appreciate the enthusiasm with which the sound effects crew approached the job.

My next post will contain a medical update, and possibly a cold-weather run report. Have a great day, and I'll see you then!

I Pity the Fuel

Good form is critical.

But so are effort, recovery, hydration, and fueling. Finding the correct balance among all these factors is a constant challenge. Last night's hill workout reinforced this.

I am training with the Revolution Running group. I've only been with them about a month, but I feel like my running is much improved. Better still, I'm actually rather enjoying putting in the miles. I was feeling optimistic that I'd be able to run hard on Tuesday night's hill repeats, and was looking forward to the challenge.

After warmup, though, I was feeling a bit light-headed. Even though I had consumed a healthy snack before I had left the office, it felt like I might be a tad low on energy. My seat-of-the-pants calorie meter told me that I should be adequately fueled, but the fuzz in my brain and the spongy feeling my legs indicated otherwise.

I almost always carry some energy chews in my fanny pack. My default choice is Honey Stingers, but I had picked up a tube of Clif Shot Bloks as race swag at some point, so that's what I tore into last night. Between each of our post-warmup technique drills, I was gulping down a Blok or two.

The hill repeats would be up the Dinosaur Ridge hogback hill near Rooney Road and Alameda. It's been closed to auto traffic for quite a few years now, but the road remains in pretty good shape, and is well-used by cyclists and hikers. It's not the steepest hill around by any means, but the slope is enough to get your heart rate up in a hurry.



We started each repeat just above the barricade, and ran as far as we could during the time allotted. The workout consisted of 8 repeats total, alternating between a 75-second uphill sprint and a 90-second burst. Our rest was to walk (or slow jog) back down to the barricade after each climb.

Though I haven't been with RevRun all that long, I have begun to identify the runners who seem to be in my pace group. As we started the intervals, I kept an eye on those folks to gage my performance.

For the first 50 yards or so, it felt easy to keep up with them. But suddenly, my breathing became labored and my legs ran out of juice. I watched my pace group surge ahead and leave me in the dust.

It was the same on each of the first 6 repeats. I felt fine for the first few dozen strides, and then watched the pack pull away. I felt as if my effort was consistent throughout, but the dramatic change in my relative position in the group made it obvious that I was fading badly.

Then came repeat number 7. On this one for some reason, the piano didn't drop. I started out the same as I had on the others, slightly behind my target pacers. But suddenly, I noticed that they were the ones dropping back. I finished that segment a good 15 yards further up the hill than I had on each of the others...and I felt fine! On repeat number 8, I surged even further ahead, and hardly noticed the slope at all.

I do have a history of end-of-workout improvement, but that's usually because I save a little bit of juice for a good, strong finish. This was not a case of sandbagging, though -- I was going as fast as I could on each of the repeats. I simply didn't have it for 6 intervals, and then suddenly found it on the seventh. It had to be the Bloks. Had to be.

If you know me well, you probably wonder if I am smart enough to learn anything from this experience. Time will tell, I suppose. But at the moment, I'm thinking that this season, I'm going to pay much better attention to fueling than I have in the past, and will be ready to down some gels or something at those critical workout or race moments instead of relying solely on my ample fat reserves. I would ask that you, my friends, help me keep this commitment by reminding me of the "spinach effect" at appropriate times. Thank you.

OK, let's finish today's entry with a couple of really easy questions.

1: In the Chekov dance photo above, what is the middle name of the bad guy after whom the episode is named?

2: What unique running quality do the two joggers in the second photo possess?

For extra credit, what is the quickest way to Kevin Bacon yourself from the first photo to the second? Answers tomorrow. Have a great day!

Dehydrification

I have not seen any of the "Twilight" movies or TV shows...nor have I read the books. But I gather they portray vampires as sympathetic and aesthetically appealing characters.

Ick.

Personally, I have never been fond of the taste of blood, nor have I been particularly drawn to the genre of the Nosferatu. I did become temporarily excited when I learned there was a movie called "Jesus Christ, Vampire Hunter," thinking that it couldn't miss with a title like that. Unfortunately, it was a terrible movie, and a disgrace to both the religious genre and to horror films.

Still, if I win the Lottery, I might try to buy the rights to remake it. I'm sure I could get Chuck Norris and Wesley Snipes to sign on.

Anyway, the point is that if there were any undead bloodsucking fiends in my condo complex, they'd have been compelled to visit me last night. Thanks to a rather exuberant nosebleed I was not expecting, the aroma of corpuscular discharge was probably overpowering. But no vampires appeared.

Some background: As a youth, I suffered nosebleeds aplenty. Paper thin nasal membranes gave way at the slightest impact. Sometimes, sneezing would set one off, sometimes it was merely a good blow into a hankie. Occasionally, blood would flow for no reason whatsoever.

OK, another side trip: When I wrote "blow into a hankie," it made me think of this:



In the 1960s, Kleenex ran TV ads to demonstrate the strength of their tissues. They covered a trumpet bell with a Kleenex, sprayed it with water, and then told Harry James to cut loose with all the lungpower he had. The tissue didn't break.

The ads made an impact on me for multiple reasons. For one thing, I had never heard of Harry James before. As a trumpet player myself, I was surprised by this. I had thought that Herb Alpert represented the pinnacle of the art form...yet here was a really old guy who had some serious chops. Perhaps there had been music worth listening to in the days before I was born. This opened up a wonderful and exciting time in my musical edification. Later on, I discovered Maynard Ferguson, Doc Severinsen, and Bill Chase, but never lost my admiration for the Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy and his big band brethren.

The other impact of that commercial was that it sparked my sense of skepticism, and reinforced my admiration for the benefits of science. Rather than making me think that Kleenex was really strong, it made me think about how the advertisers had used the principles of physics to essentially lie about their product.

Oh, there was nothing fake about their commercial. James really blew into a wet Kleenex. But it was an easy demonstration to replicate, so I got a rubber band and a spray bottle and tried it with my own trumpet.

It was immediately obvious that the force of the trumpeter's breath had a negligible impact on the tissue. While I'm sure that Harry James generated more air pressure than I did, I was equally sure that even Franco Columbu wouldn't have enough lungpower to rip the Kleenex. For one thing, the trumpet's bell has orders of magnitude larger area than the mouthpiece, which means that the force that went in would be spread over hundreds of times greater space by the time it reached the Kleenex. And that air is moving through several feet of tubing, introducing plenty of friction to attenuate the flow. Plus, much of the air's kinetic energy is converted to vibrational energy as it resonates within the instrument to produce the sounds. These factors alone would render Harry's breath harmless to the wet paper.

But the bigger factor is this: Kleenex tissues are fairly porous. What little air energy is left at the bell mostly passes through the tissue without harming it. In fact, when I tried to burst the Kleenex using only the trumpet's mouthpiece, it still wasn't easy. Oh sure, you could poke a finger right through it without even noticing the resistance, but air wasn't going to harm it no matter which musician's lungs were brought to bear.

Sorry for the length of that explanation. I'm sure all of that was obvious to adult readers. But when I was a kid, it took an experiment to help me understand. For some reason, though, I did not apply the scientific method to dealing with my nosebleeds. Probably because there were adults to tell me what to do. I had no reason to think they were wrong.

Well, OK, maybe I should have questioned authority. After all, these were the same people who told me to wait an hour after eating before I got in the swimming pool, which I knew was completely retarded. But I treated the bleeding as I was told to: tilt your head back, and put a cold wet washcloth on your forehead and the back of your neck.

Tilting your head back during a nosebleed tsunami only guarantees that you'll swallow a lot of blood. While swallowing your own blood isn't particularly harmful, it is certainly not pleasant, and will ruin your appetite far more effectively than a mid-afternoon Oreo. But this is the treatment that was applied for much of my youth.

At some point, though, medical technology did advance. The replacement treatment involved a simple pinching of the nose (no washcloths needed...unless there were drops to clean up), and that usually stopped the bleeding in less than a minute. I didn't even have to stop what I was doing, as long as I had one hand free to do the pinching. No more auto-vampirism required.

The other great advance was the hint to keep the inner nasal membranes from cracking by moistening them with Vaseline. Now, in addition to my swimming-driven addiction to Chapstick, I also made sure that petroleum jelly was kept around the house. Nosebleed problems became a rarity.

But last night as bedtime approached, all I could think about was the sweet appeal of dreamland. I hadn't been paying attention to relative humidity levels, and did not realize that my sinuses had dried out. I went to sleep oblivious of the impending hemorrhage.

In the middle of the night, I got up and ambled into the bathroom, where I decided to blow my nose. I didn't turn on the light, so I didn't see how red the tissue was. But a moment later, I felt the telltale drip.

It's probably more interesting to leave what followed to your imagination. But I will say that cleaning blood off the bathroom rug in the dark is not all that easy to do with an injured shoulder and one hand pinching a sopping red Kleenex to your nose. I'm certain that a competent CSI team would find all sorts of spatter evidence that I missed in my rush to get back into bed so I could feel refreshed for today's hill-climb run workout. Oh well. The good news is that the "pinch" method still works just fine, and Kleenex continues to be a strong and absorbent product. And I'll remember to use the Vaseline tonight, I assure you.

I will leave you with a video that will please both trumpet fans and swimmers. Enjoy it, and have a great day!

Let Them Eat Wake

Spring has sprung.

Greenery abounds, flowers are budding, and P. Caspar Biddle is diligently scanning the treetops with his binocs. Snowstorms may yet materialize, but we no longer expect them. And weekend wardrobes now include shorts and obligatory sunscreen.

Hmm. It's supposed to be a time of renewal and optimism, energy and industry. After all, the Rockies are still above .500 at this point, right? But for me, the arrival of Spring has been accompanied with a feeling of inertia -- as if I'm still frozen on the starting blocks long after Duaner fired the gun. It feels like everyone else has a head start.

Even so, there are many things that are going well as the season begins. I have been working out with Revolution Running, and am very pleased with the results so far. I have a long way to go before the Colfax race in mid-May, but I'm certain I'll be better positioned for it because of this group's support and encouragement.

Before we get too deep into today's discussion, let's take a moment to review some basic existential philosophy, shall we?



People always tell me that I'd make a wonderful king. After all, I'm handsome, benevolent, well-groomed, and blessed with nearly infinite wisdom and a keen vision of what the world should be like. Seems logical. But the truth is that sometimes I suffer from the dreaded BNS (Black Knight Syndrome), wherein I believe myself to be invincible, despite the copious evidence of severed arms to the contrary. Sigh.

The Bible tells us that the concept of sprinting is an odious manifestation of darkness invented by Satan himself, and that short races are to be avoided by all people of high virtue and solid character. Yet every decade or so, it seems that I succumb to the temptation. When signing up for the State Meet last month, I slipped over to the Dark Side and entered the 100 Freestyle.

Feeling invincible, I began the meet with the standard 1650 and 1000 races on Friday night, followed by a 500 free and 200 fly Saturday morning. While I wasn't particularly fast in any of those races, I felt reasonably strong and was able to finish with discernible gusto. My goal for the 100 freestyle was modest, so when the time came, I took the blocks with confidence that I wouldn't suck too egregiously.

Unfortunately, that confidence was badly misplaced. You see, the whole idea of sprinting is to place the maximum stress on your body, trying to propel yourself at the very limit of your structural tolerance. And apparently, I did not accurately assess my structural integrity before pouring the coal on the fire. About halfway through the race, something in my shoulder gave way.

Being the macho manly man that I am, I restricted my screams to the underwater portions of the breathing cycle. And I'm certain that any dampness inside my goggles was from pool water, not from tears of pain. But when I was finally able to drag myself from the pool, my right arm was hanging limply to my side...and my swim meet was over.

It's been two weeks. The expected visit from the government's bionic medical team has not materialized. I've been sitting out practices and trying to rehab myself with standard techniques like ice cream and Star Trek reruns, but so far, I'm still unable to exercise symmetrically.

And as you've probably guessed, my work obligations and social commitments have been voluminous as well. I do have photos to share and tales to tell that go beyond my usual whining and self-pity bloggery, but I'm going to ask your indulgence for a while longer until I can figure out a way to get everything done with one arm. Or until I get my bionics. Whichever comes first.

Oh, and by the way, the ice cream does seem to have a positive effect. I'm pretty sure I got that from some famous doctor's website or something. Anyway, thanks for dropping by, and have a great day!