I usually don’t vote. Ever since I have been of voting age, Illinois has been a “Blue” state and in that time period, Illinois never had an election close enough to be labeled a “Swing State”. It’s not that I’m heavily political in one direction or the other; it’s just that I don’t particularly want to spend the time making the trip down to the polling center. I’m thoroughly apolitical and lazy when it comes to these issues such as elections and campaigns. I know I’m abusing my electoral privilege as a US citizen by not voting, but with some relatively twisted logic, I see it a different way.
Here’s my logic: Illinois carries 21 Electoral College Votes, and the direction of those Electoral Votes is determined by each state’s Popular Vote (which is what how as individuals vote). The next President Elect is determined who gets the most Electoral College Votes. Each state tips all of it’s ECV’s in one direction in the other, with only Nebraska and Maine being the only states able to “split” it ECV’s . It’s basically all or nothing for Illinois and the majority of the other states. In 2000, there was a tie between Gore and Bush, and Florida was the last swing state to be tallied. We all remember that huge debacle with some pregnant guys named Chad and it had become important because their votes would swing Florida’s ECV’s, and hence, the election to either Gore or Bush. I tend to remember that Florida’s outcome was a narrow 500 votes to win the state, and it swung the ECV count to George W. Bush. Al Gore won the Popular Vote by a margin of 540,520 individual votes over Bush across the nation, but the way the system works, the election was determined by a few voters in Florida who couldn’t correctly punch holes in a card.
Since Illinois has always been one direction Red or Blue by such a large margin, a single lazy voter like me isn’t going to make much of a difference since there are so many other voters out there willing to take my place. Couple that with Obama being a Chicago home boy, there is no way Illinois is going to be anything but a Blue state this year, as it would be blasphemy to vote for the opposition. If I lived in Florida or another swing/split state, I’d vote. If the Popular Vote was the default in the result of an Electoral College tie, I’d vote. I fully believe it’s more important for me as an Illinois resident that voting on the State/District/County propositions and electoral positions is more important than the presidential campaign. These votes on the local politics are much more important because most likely it will have a direct impact on what happens in my community. Unfortunately, I am never prepared or know who or what I am voting for when it comes to local stuff and I always end up never knowing what I was voting for or against. I just figure it would be best for everyone if I stayed away.
So, with my intent on not voting this year, I was going to avoid the polls, and if I were to vote, to research all the local issues and candidates so that my vote would have some sort of logic and reasoning. I totally failed. In a surprise move, I got talked into going to vote with my mother, Meredith, and Precy, to go to the Early Polling center. My mother is a manager at the company I work at, and she whipped out some rule that employers must provide time to vote, as required by state law. Not idea if that was true or not, as I believe she just made that up, but time away from the desk to vote can’t be all that bad. We carpooled down to the polling center, ID’s and residency documentation in hand.
Voting was relatively simple. You check in with your ID, they give you a memory card, and you then head to a computer that runs you through the voting process. Once again, I was faced with making decisions on propositions and community elections that I had no idea about. I had no clue who I was voting for; if they were good people, axe murderers, or if they were even still alive (we did have an incident a few years ago where a dead person was elected to position).
Once it was all over, I huddled with Meredith to ask how she handled the voting for the positions such as Circuit Court Clerk, Town Commissioner, and Village Idiot. “I went down my party line” she said. Logical. I would have probably done the same if I wasn’t busy making patterns out of the check boxes. Remembering there were a couple instances where multiple candidates were in the same party for a single position, I asked how she handled those. “I went with the names I liked. For one of them I chose the guy who had his nickname in quotes because that’s just hilarious. His name was “Sparky”. I loved that he had that in there.” I totally avoided Sparky, because his name WAS in quotes. People like Joey “The Clown”, Vincent “The Butcher”, and “Fat Tony” kept coming to mind. Quotes in their name aren’t always a good thing. But for all I know, I probably voted some villain into office just because he left his nickname off the ballet.
My next question to Meredith was “So how did you vote for the Illinois Constitutional Congressional Meeting? It’s supposed to happen every 20 years and it got voted down last time.” I had personally voted it down because there must have been a good reason why it was turned down last time and do we really need a bunch of politicians boozing it up on our tax dollar at the state capital? Meredith response was “I voted it down because there must have been a good reason why it was turned down last time. Besides, the only thing all those guys are going to do is party it up on our tax dollar.” WOW. That was almost freaky.
I then asked her about our hometown’s proposition to issue 21 million dollars worth of bonds to rebuild the Community Center. “I voted yes because Lisle needs improvement like that and they probably would have spent the money on something or another, so it might as well be on something good for the town.” I had also voted for it, but was really unsure what the “if it doesn’t pass” option was. Out of curiosity, I Googled it when I got back to the office. Basically, the proposition said that if it didn’t pass, Lisle would spend 11 million dollars on patching up the existing center that is inadequate and spend another 10 million on various projects not yet outlined.
I guess when it comes down to it; I’m not sure what to really think about the voting process. All I know is that I’m still guessing about what I just voted for. Sometimes you vote for the right thing, sometimes you don’t. I’m sure Meredith and I are just a microcosm of how everyone else votes, picking names because they way they like how it’s sounds or because they unknowingly recognized it from an obituary. Did Illinois really need the constitution to be congressed on? If important issue sprang, wouldn’t they have a special voting meeting for it? Or are we shooting ourselves in the foot by denying a 2008 gathering of congress type people? All I know is that there’s going to be a huge booze fest, which had been 40 years in the waiting, down in Springfield if it passes. I wonder if "Sparky" will be there.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
What was the “safe word” again?
I have wanted to write this for some time now, but I’ve been distracted with non-writing stuff ever since I have come back.
What was the “safe word” again? I think I need to get out of this.
The Ironman Hawaii this year was one of the biggest challenges I have had to overcome in at least the last 3 years. When I first stepped up from the Olympic distance to the 1/2 Ironman distance (70.3), I had my struggles there too. Fortunately, a ½ distance race going pear-shaped only takes an extra hour or two to get out of, at most. Having a bad day at an Ironman, regardless of how prestigious it is, can lead to a very long, very hard day.
The day started out at around 4am. Did the normal race morning rituals I had done for every race, except that this one would be the Hawaiian Ironman. Last year was my rookie year at this. I know I had made several mistakes in 2007 regarding hydration, electrolytes, strategy and inexperience with the heat. I was determined to learn from those mistakes and I had made several corrections and countermeasures. Unfortunately, all of the meticulous planning can be unraveled by not having the head together right on race day.
The morning at the pier was exciting. There was so much activity and buzz going on, it was what makes Kona such a memorable event. Two Navy SEALS that were participating parachuted in. Watching the 100+ kayakers, boarders, and surfers paddle out from the beach head. All of this went on as I saw the sunrise go over mount Mona Loa. All that was missing were a couple dolphins and a rainbow.
I was instructed by the officials to jump in from the pier and held a position in the relatively un-crowded front center. Everyone was either far right or far left, along the buoy markers boxing the start in. The start was chaotic mix of mixed languages, people surging back and forth from the start line as they treaded water, all waiting for the sound of the cannon. I swear I had a clear line of sight and nothing but open water in front of me, but as soon as the cannon went off, I found myself clambering over a surf board rider. No idea how that happened.
I had originally hoped to find a clean gap between the two sides. Never did. The entire swim for me was very turbulent, and any gap that would form, would quickly be filled in by other swimmers. My speedsuit, which I had practiced for miles in, was chaffing me on the triceps, a new place that it had not done before (I still have the scars from it two weeks later). With salt water entering the fresh scrapes on my arms, I could not wait for the swim to be over, and as it did, I quickly ran up the steps into the ensuing chaos of entering the T1 change tent with 200 other people.
T1 is pretty crazy. Everyone and everything is wet, people are everywhere, all trying to pull on their cycling gear onto wet bodies, which is frustratingly hard because of the friction. The exit on the bicycle from T1 was madness. Everyone was gunning it, popping out of the turns and pushing the climbs, seemingly to go at an all out effort. I forced myself to sit down and keep the effort low. There was nothing to be gained in the first 3 miles of a 112 mile race and my plan was to ride the bike as gently as possible and save the race for the run. The bike is hard, as there is nothing to see or do on the bike. It’s just lava fields and straight pavement. Once in a while I would come across an interesting racer, like the one who decided to make an aerodynamic fairing out of duct tape in the empty space between the down tube and seat tube on his bicycle (not the greatest idea in a race known for its cross winds. Disc wheels are prohibited for a reason). The ride was going as planned, and at the turn off to Hawi, the cross winds picked up. I’m sure the Duct Tape guy got blown out to sea, because the winds were very strong that day. It was a bad sign when I could see the riders ahead of me leaning at a 30degree angle, just before I got hit by it. It blew me almost 6 feet across the road before I could lean enough to correct it. The seriousness of the race was cracked at times when we would all look at each other and laugh in amazement how obnoxiously strong the winds were. This continued for the next hour, and then it got really ugly, when it turned into a headwind. The headwind was crushing. It made whistling noises as it blew across the rugged terrain and it was unrelenting in its force. I believe this is where my Ironman went from a race to “survival”. My head slowly tightened into a painful knot that could not be loosened. Nothing in my body was tired, but it was becoming increasingly hard to stay focused as the pain in my head turned into a migraine. I told myself I would feel better once I got off the bike, but in the meantime, what had supposed to be a routine ride, riding at a the same wattage level I had practiced for thousands of miles at, had become excruciatingly difficult.
As I rolled into T2, my legs felt numb, my head was pounding and I felt exhausted. I sat in the chair to change shoes and I just wanted to take a nap. I paced myself out of the T2, waiting for that migraine to melt away. It didn’t happen. It was just hot, and now with the pounding head, the feeling of fatigue, my heart felt like it was beating out of my chest. It was all too much. I wasn’t sure what caused the migraine. Maybe it was too much effort on the bike (even though my wattage download showed it to be right on), or too much fighting the wind, or too much mental stress of the day, but I broke down very badly. The migraine was so bad, the only thing on my mind was to lie down and sleep. Liz was there screaming at me. She was everywhere screaming at me, like a sergeant drilling a new recruit. I tried to ask her what was going on with me and all I got was more screaming. At one point, I just told her I didn’t want hear her anymore, resulting in only more screaming at me. The yelling persisted for another 4 hours as I stumbled my way through 21 miles, half awake, with the other half concerned with only lying down. Someone handed me a cup of chicken soup and I saw the Tiki torches being lit up…the clues that I had been out here for a while. I was eventually left alone after the Energy Lab and I staggered my way back to the finish.
Alii Drive was filled with people. Everyone was screaming and cheering. The street was lined with people and activity; it was all a blur to my head. I saw the bright lights of the finish, so I headed toward them. I couldn’t think about anything but making my head stop pounding and now the noise and people screaming was deafening. As I approached the lighted stage at the finish, I was concerned that I didn’t see my family as I knew they would be waiting for me along Alii. I found myself on the finish carpet and walked up the ramp to a volunteer.
I felt horrible. They kept asking me where I was from. I kept on saying Chicago, and that I was not sure why I was feeling unwell. I was quickly dragged to medical, got weighed at 1lb less than what I started and was given a cot. All I could do was lie there in the fetal position, clamping my head between my arms. Someone came by asking questions about where I was from. Chicago. My head hurt. My chest felt like it was being pulled apart. Someone else took my pulse. Another decided to take off my shoes. A blood sample was taken from my arm and for some reason the valve for the needle didn’t close, so now I was lying in small pool of blood. Then an IV went in. A scribbled note on yellow paper was handed to me“Buck up camper. – Liz”. Then the IV came out and I was starting to become able to think without so much cloudiness in my thoughts. I talked with the doctor who had been overseeing me, and we agreed that I had just needed a moment to get over my “understandably long day”. He helped me up and then helped me find Liz. I was a little bit better, but the head was still very painful, and now my ears were starting to ring from the pain. I asked to be lowered on the ground and Thomas gave me a big assist. I just wanted to go home.
I don’t know what happened. The day was very hard, and I’m sure that I did not meet the expectations people had for me, but in the end, I was glad just to finish. Truth be told, the only thing I really regret about the day was missing my family at the end. Apparently they had been feet away from me at the finish line, screaming their heads off as I passed within an arm’s reach of them. I had absolutely no recollection they were there, only having found out after being told about it. I also did not get family photos with them on the little stages in the back of the finish, as 9 people had come from across the world to be with me. As for the Ironman, I don’t know where things went wrong. It’s totally possible I stressed myself out in the expectations of doing good here, or maybe it was something I failed to do with my nutrition, but the experiences on this trip was a lot more than just the end time on a clock.
What was the “safe word” again? I think I need to get out of this.
The Ironman Hawaii this year was one of the biggest challenges I have had to overcome in at least the last 3 years. When I first stepped up from the Olympic distance to the 1/2 Ironman distance (70.3), I had my struggles there too. Fortunately, a ½ distance race going pear-shaped only takes an extra hour or two to get out of, at most. Having a bad day at an Ironman, regardless of how prestigious it is, can lead to a very long, very hard day.
The day started out at around 4am. Did the normal race morning rituals I had done for every race, except that this one would be the Hawaiian Ironman. Last year was my rookie year at this. I know I had made several mistakes in 2007 regarding hydration, electrolytes, strategy and inexperience with the heat. I was determined to learn from those mistakes and I had made several corrections and countermeasures. Unfortunately, all of the meticulous planning can be unraveled by not having the head together right on race day.
The morning at the pier was exciting. There was so much activity and buzz going on, it was what makes Kona such a memorable event. Two Navy SEALS that were participating parachuted in. Watching the 100+ kayakers, boarders, and surfers paddle out from the beach head. All of this went on as I saw the sunrise go over mount Mona Loa. All that was missing were a couple dolphins and a rainbow.
I was instructed by the officials to jump in from the pier and held a position in the relatively un-crowded front center. Everyone was either far right or far left, along the buoy markers boxing the start in. The start was chaotic mix of mixed languages, people surging back and forth from the start line as they treaded water, all waiting for the sound of the cannon. I swear I had a clear line of sight and nothing but open water in front of me, but as soon as the cannon went off, I found myself clambering over a surf board rider. No idea how that happened.
I had originally hoped to find a clean gap between the two sides. Never did. The entire swim for me was very turbulent, and any gap that would form, would quickly be filled in by other swimmers. My speedsuit, which I had practiced for miles in, was chaffing me on the triceps, a new place that it had not done before (I still have the scars from it two weeks later). With salt water entering the fresh scrapes on my arms, I could not wait for the swim to be over, and as it did, I quickly ran up the steps into the ensuing chaos of entering the T1 change tent with 200 other people.
T1 is pretty crazy. Everyone and everything is wet, people are everywhere, all trying to pull on their cycling gear onto wet bodies, which is frustratingly hard because of the friction. The exit on the bicycle from T1 was madness. Everyone was gunning it, popping out of the turns and pushing the climbs, seemingly to go at an all out effort. I forced myself to sit down and keep the effort low. There was nothing to be gained in the first 3 miles of a 112 mile race and my plan was to ride the bike as gently as possible and save the race for the run. The bike is hard, as there is nothing to see or do on the bike. It’s just lava fields and straight pavement. Once in a while I would come across an interesting racer, like the one who decided to make an aerodynamic fairing out of duct tape in the empty space between the down tube and seat tube on his bicycle (not the greatest idea in a race known for its cross winds. Disc wheels are prohibited for a reason). The ride was going as planned, and at the turn off to Hawi, the cross winds picked up. I’m sure the Duct Tape guy got blown out to sea, because the winds were very strong that day. It was a bad sign when I could see the riders ahead of me leaning at a 30degree angle, just before I got hit by it. It blew me almost 6 feet across the road before I could lean enough to correct it. The seriousness of the race was cracked at times when we would all look at each other and laugh in amazement how obnoxiously strong the winds were. This continued for the next hour, and then it got really ugly, when it turned into a headwind. The headwind was crushing. It made whistling noises as it blew across the rugged terrain and it was unrelenting in its force. I believe this is where my Ironman went from a race to “survival”. My head slowly tightened into a painful knot that could not be loosened. Nothing in my body was tired, but it was becoming increasingly hard to stay focused as the pain in my head turned into a migraine. I told myself I would feel better once I got off the bike, but in the meantime, what had supposed to be a routine ride, riding at a the same wattage level I had practiced for thousands of miles at, had become excruciatingly difficult.
As I rolled into T2, my legs felt numb, my head was pounding and I felt exhausted. I sat in the chair to change shoes and I just wanted to take a nap. I paced myself out of the T2, waiting for that migraine to melt away. It didn’t happen. It was just hot, and now with the pounding head, the feeling of fatigue, my heart felt like it was beating out of my chest. It was all too much. I wasn’t sure what caused the migraine. Maybe it was too much effort on the bike (even though my wattage download showed it to be right on), or too much fighting the wind, or too much mental stress of the day, but I broke down very badly. The migraine was so bad, the only thing on my mind was to lie down and sleep. Liz was there screaming at me. She was everywhere screaming at me, like a sergeant drilling a new recruit. I tried to ask her what was going on with me and all I got was more screaming. At one point, I just told her I didn’t want hear her anymore, resulting in only more screaming at me. The yelling persisted for another 4 hours as I stumbled my way through 21 miles, half awake, with the other half concerned with only lying down. Someone handed me a cup of chicken soup and I saw the Tiki torches being lit up…the clues that I had been out here for a while. I was eventually left alone after the Energy Lab and I staggered my way back to the finish.
Alii Drive was filled with people. Everyone was screaming and cheering. The street was lined with people and activity; it was all a blur to my head. I saw the bright lights of the finish, so I headed toward them. I couldn’t think about anything but making my head stop pounding and now the noise and people screaming was deafening. As I approached the lighted stage at the finish, I was concerned that I didn’t see my family as I knew they would be waiting for me along Alii. I found myself on the finish carpet and walked up the ramp to a volunteer.
I felt horrible. They kept asking me where I was from. I kept on saying Chicago, and that I was not sure why I was feeling unwell. I was quickly dragged to medical, got weighed at 1lb less than what I started and was given a cot. All I could do was lie there in the fetal position, clamping my head between my arms. Someone came by asking questions about where I was from. Chicago. My head hurt. My chest felt like it was being pulled apart. Someone else took my pulse. Another decided to take off my shoes. A blood sample was taken from my arm and for some reason the valve for the needle didn’t close, so now I was lying in small pool of blood. Then an IV went in. A scribbled note on yellow paper was handed to me“Buck up camper. – Liz”. Then the IV came out and I was starting to become able to think without so much cloudiness in my thoughts. I talked with the doctor who had been overseeing me, and we agreed that I had just needed a moment to get over my “understandably long day”. He helped me up and then helped me find Liz. I was a little bit better, but the head was still very painful, and now my ears were starting to ring from the pain. I asked to be lowered on the ground and Thomas gave me a big assist. I just wanted to go home.
I don’t know what happened. The day was very hard, and I’m sure that I did not meet the expectations people had for me, but in the end, I was glad just to finish. Truth be told, the only thing I really regret about the day was missing my family at the end. Apparently they had been feet away from me at the finish line, screaming their heads off as I passed within an arm’s reach of them. I had absolutely no recollection they were there, only having found out after being told about it. I also did not get family photos with them on the little stages in the back of the finish, as 9 people had come from across the world to be with me. As for the Ironman, I don’t know where things went wrong. It’s totally possible I stressed myself out in the expectations of doing good here, or maybe it was something I failed to do with my nutrition, but the experiences on this trip was a lot more than just the end time on a clock.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Day 3 of the Longest Weekend
It being Labor Day weekend, Monday was another opportunity to get large volumes of training in. After yesterday’s relatively “easy” day, today would be tougher. I used to remember when days like Day 2 were the “hard” days, earning a recovery day afterwards. Training for Ironman has required a rethinking of the scale of hard. Now on this new “Ironman Scale of Hardness” (kind of like the Shore Durometer scale), yesterdays “hard days” are today’s “recovery days”. So after a double workout of a 3400 yard swim and 8 mile run as recovery, today was a tougher brick consisting of a sixty mile ride and 6.5 mile run.
After Day 1’s miserable journey across state lines, I simply opted to stay super local and just do several loops around Fermi-Lab. Loaded up the Ghetto Honda with water bottles, shoes, and bike, then parked at the local forest preserve/running path, which happened to be only minutes away. It felt so relieving to know that if I had another attack of the Zombie Syndrome today; I could simply be home in less than five minutes.
Fermi Lab is good for a loop or two during weekdays as its pretty much closed to car traffic and only has six stop signs on its 10 mile loop, most of which can be labeled as “optional”. The security force does frown on bicycle riders blowing the stop signs, and I do try mostly to be the law abiding citizen, recognizing that riding there is a privilege. Today Fermi Lab was absolutely vacant. Usually Fermi Lab is buzzing with cyclists on the weekend/holidays, but today I saw no one, not even the errant security personnel. It was hot as the sun out there today. Coach Jennifer would have said that this would be perfect Kona training, riding in full on heat and on a course that can be described as nothing but monotonous. It’s a great mental game, but I’ve already witnessed the torment that the fields of the “Lab” have given me before.
Several years ago, upon going down this particular stretch of road for the 8th time that day, hitting the same bump for the 8th time, and loosing the same rear mounted water bottle for the second time, I in a fit of fury, hammer threw my bike into the fields. Unfortunately, those fancy carbon fiber handle bars DO NOT LIKE to be thrown, nor do they like to land abruptly in the grass either. They snapped into two, with the wounded side remaining attached to the bike only by the shift and brake cables. It was a long 40 minute ride home, supporting myself with one arm, while the other carried the STI shifter, shifting only as necessary so that I may at least have some sort cadence on the way back.
After a rather hot, thirsty, uneventful bike in the Lab, I made my way back to the forest preserve to change into my run gear. I opened up the rear hatch of the Honda and was greeted by what can only be described as a blast furnace. The Honda has no tinted windows and will turn into the “Green House of Hell” if left in the sun. It had gotten so hot while I was gone, water bottles which can normally be described as “firm”, were so soft I could collapse them vertically in my hands. It was pretty bizarre. Even the duffle bags were too hot to touch. I was breaking into a full sweat just trying to find my shoes, and I had not even begun running yet.
After what seemed an eternal 8 minutes to get my bike off/shoes on, I hit the running path. Keeping in mind that I should be trying to pace everything for Ironman, I broke into a comfortable gait for the 6.5 mile loop. Compared to the transition by the Honda, running wasn’t too much more uncomfortable, and even seemed cooler. My HR was not in zone 1 as I had hoped. It quickly went into zone 2, then climbed into zone 3, and then threatened to enter zone 4. I tried to slow down, but anything else was not enough air flow, resulting in an immediate blanket of heat, and it felt better keeping the original gait. I did my simple loop of trails, knowing with every landmark I passed, that I would just be that much closer to getting this day, and this weekend done. It came quick enough, playing the game right, having the home field advantage. The only problem is that I came in at just over 42 minutes. It would be a death knell for any hope of a good marathon time if I were to do this in October.
I got back to the Honda, opened it up, and felt immediately as if I were to pass out. I remembered there was a water pump nearby, so I went over to it to see if I could get some cool water on myself. Except when I put my head near the water, it was too cold. Actually, I really didn’t feel that anymore. I went back to the Honda, and immediately got that heat stroke feeling again. Walked back to the pump, and it was cool. It was that damn Honda. I approached it carefully this time, feeling the heat absolutely radiating from it. I promise myself that I will get some window tinting, Limo Black, if they let me, and I take the hottest 5 minute drive back home.
I get back home only to see that Coach Jennifer has added a 2.5 hour run for me on Wednesday, then another 5 brick over the weekend. The Longest Weekend just might be the start of the Longest Week. My only hope is that Kona is 5 weeks away, so there is an end in sight.
BTW, on Tuesday, the newspapers stated that Monday had been the hottest day in Chicago for the past year. No wonder.
After Day 1’s miserable journey across state lines, I simply opted to stay super local and just do several loops around Fermi-Lab. Loaded up the Ghetto Honda with water bottles, shoes, and bike, then parked at the local forest preserve/running path, which happened to be only minutes away. It felt so relieving to know that if I had another attack of the Zombie Syndrome today; I could simply be home in less than five minutes.
Fermi Lab is good for a loop or two during weekdays as its pretty much closed to car traffic and only has six stop signs on its 10 mile loop, most of which can be labeled as “optional”. The security force does frown on bicycle riders blowing the stop signs, and I do try mostly to be the law abiding citizen, recognizing that riding there is a privilege. Today Fermi Lab was absolutely vacant. Usually Fermi Lab is buzzing with cyclists on the weekend/holidays, but today I saw no one, not even the errant security personnel. It was hot as the sun out there today. Coach Jennifer would have said that this would be perfect Kona training, riding in full on heat and on a course that can be described as nothing but monotonous. It’s a great mental game, but I’ve already witnessed the torment that the fields of the “Lab” have given me before.
Several years ago, upon going down this particular stretch of road for the 8th time that day, hitting the same bump for the 8th time, and loosing the same rear mounted water bottle for the second time, I in a fit of fury, hammer threw my bike into the fields. Unfortunately, those fancy carbon fiber handle bars DO NOT LIKE to be thrown, nor do they like to land abruptly in the grass either. They snapped into two, with the wounded side remaining attached to the bike only by the shift and brake cables. It was a long 40 minute ride home, supporting myself with one arm, while the other carried the STI shifter, shifting only as necessary so that I may at least have some sort cadence on the way back.
After a rather hot, thirsty, uneventful bike in the Lab, I made my way back to the forest preserve to change into my run gear. I opened up the rear hatch of the Honda and was greeted by what can only be described as a blast furnace. The Honda has no tinted windows and will turn into the “Green House of Hell” if left in the sun. It had gotten so hot while I was gone, water bottles which can normally be described as “firm”, were so soft I could collapse them vertically in my hands. It was pretty bizarre. Even the duffle bags were too hot to touch. I was breaking into a full sweat just trying to find my shoes, and I had not even begun running yet.
After what seemed an eternal 8 minutes to get my bike off/shoes on, I hit the running path. Keeping in mind that I should be trying to pace everything for Ironman, I broke into a comfortable gait for the 6.5 mile loop. Compared to the transition by the Honda, running wasn’t too much more uncomfortable, and even seemed cooler. My HR was not in zone 1 as I had hoped. It quickly went into zone 2, then climbed into zone 3, and then threatened to enter zone 4. I tried to slow down, but anything else was not enough air flow, resulting in an immediate blanket of heat, and it felt better keeping the original gait. I did my simple loop of trails, knowing with every landmark I passed, that I would just be that much closer to getting this day, and this weekend done. It came quick enough, playing the game right, having the home field advantage. The only problem is that I came in at just over 42 minutes. It would be a death knell for any hope of a good marathon time if I were to do this in October.
I got back to the Honda, opened it up, and felt immediately as if I were to pass out. I remembered there was a water pump nearby, so I went over to it to see if I could get some cool water on myself. Except when I put my head near the water, it was too cold. Actually, I really didn’t feel that anymore. I went back to the Honda, and immediately got that heat stroke feeling again. Walked back to the pump, and it was cool. It was that damn Honda. I approached it carefully this time, feeling the heat absolutely radiating from it. I promise myself that I will get some window tinting, Limo Black, if they let me, and I take the hottest 5 minute drive back home.
I get back home only to see that Coach Jennifer has added a 2.5 hour run for me on Wednesday, then another 5 brick over the weekend. The Longest Weekend just might be the start of the Longest Week. My only hope is that Kona is 5 weeks away, so there is an end in sight.
BTW, on Tuesday, the newspapers stated that Monday had been the hottest day in Chicago for the past year. No wonder.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Day 2 of The Longest Weekend
Woke up at 10am. I had gone to bed at 9pm the night before in a fit of exhaustion, and slept all the way through for 13hrs. Felt tons better than yesterday, and even though I had gorged on an insane amount of pizza just the night before, the belly was now demanding blueberry pancakes, which I could not resist making.
Today was an open-water swim and a make-up run from yesterday. Liz planned on going downtown to the Nike Human 10K Race taking place at 7pm tonight, so my plan was to go down with her, swim at the lake, run at the lakefront, and then bike down to Soldier’s Field to catch her finish. With all the training, almost nothing around the house that fell into my department had been taken care of for almost a month now. Bike tires needed changing, tools put away, shift cables restrung, etc. I did as much as I could before our 3pm departure time for heading to Chicago. As a note: Even though we live in Chicagoland area, I compare going downtown to like crossing a state line. It’s not that easy to get down to and it is a completely different way of life.
The trip downtown was not grid-locked with traffic, meaning we covered the 30 miles of expressway driving in just over an hour. We made good time. Liz and I both brought our commuter bikes and I headed out north from Soldier Field to swim at Ohio Street Beach, about 4 miles away. This is when I experience my first ever, Urban Assault Paceline. It was amazing. The Lakefront Path was just packed with people, and I just so happened to be behind 3 riders, all on Huffy type bikes, all of who in a hurry, and just so happened to be the same direction I was going. Except, they need to get there NOW. I would have never expected these people to be as aggressive as they were, as usually that’s reserved for some dork wearing a TT helmet and in the aerobars on a multi-user path that’s only 6 feet wide. These were folks wearing fanny packs and gym shoes. The ride was a cacophony of them shouting “On your damn LEFT”, “Move it you stupid tourist”, and “Out of my Way”. They hammered through crowds, splintering families, breaking apart couples, and separating babies from their mothers. I sort of sat behind the UAP, just trying to look as casual as possible, but taking advantage of the blasted holes they made through the crowds. I do have to admit, I was a bit shaken at the carnage when I looked behind me.
The swim was a bit choppy, but since everyone had finished their training for the Chicago Triathlon, I pretty much had the entire stretch of Ohio beach for myself. Once the swim was over, I headed over to get my run gear on. I had failed to notice earlier that the bike racks were surrounded by sand, probably from wind/high tides earlier in the week. There was not one area not covered by sand for me to change without getting covered in sand, which would stick to me because I was still wet from the lake. I did a very sand-infused change into running gear and headed out for my run, with sand and grit everywhere.
Training for the Chicago Marathon is in full swing now, so there were lots runners out there. There was quite the variety of runners out there. Guys decked out in full UnderArmor outfits, beautiful bouncy girls in pink things, people wearing the tell-tale red shirt of the Nike Human Race as they jogged down to the start, and some guy who ran as far as I did in denim shorts, a white T shirt and Chuck Taylors. There was even a time where some guy blew past me at a 5min/mile clip, wearing headphones, and giving a drum solo with imaginary drum sticks.
With swim/run completed, I headed back to Liz just in time to see her come across the finish line. The Human Race had been 14,000 runners, and it was a pretty cool site to see a stream of red shirted athletes snake around the Soldier Field. Liz and I contemplated either going to the free Fall Out Boy concert taking place after the race at Soldier Field, or heading up to the Jazz Fest at Grant Park. Liz decided she wanted to check out the Jazz Fest first, as there was some time before the Fall Out Boy concert started. We took a very non-UAP ride up the Grant Park area, hit the vendors for Chicago style soul food, and walked around the Jazz Fest for a while. It was then decided that we should either stay, head to Fall Out Boy, or do something else. Liz looked over to Navy Pier, saw the lit ferris wheel on the horizon, and asked “Is that open?”
The ferris wheel at Navy Pier is a huge landmark that is hard to miss. It’s 150ft high and is basically the tallest thing on the waterfront. We bought our tickets, waiting in a fast line, and was immediately on our way up to a 150ft view of Chicago. It’s smooth like a slow moving elevator, so you don’t really realize you are moving, except everything on the ground gets smaller and smaller. You then realize that the only thing holding you from a 15 story plunge from your gondola is a thin plexiglass shield with “Romy Rulz” scrawled on it and a $5 handle holding closed. Once Liz had enough vertigo tainted joy, she decided we needed a drink to calm down. Thankfully Navy Pier has a cantina at almost every nook, and I got us a couple drinks that seem to be entirely composed of rum.
Then the fireworks show started. I’m not sure if it’s a weekend thing or a Labor Day only event, but there was a pretty good pyrotechnics display, worthy of our tourism dollars being spent there. It was a bigger show than what we have in Lisle on the 4th of July, and I just LOVE fireworks. So Liz and I sat there, drinking our cantina drinks, watching the show. I was starting to finally enjoy myself, having been soaked in lake water, coated in sand, sweat caked from a run, and now reeking of cheap rum. I also realized that I hadn’t had a bath since yesterday. I grabbed Liz and gave her a big hug.
Today was an open-water swim and a make-up run from yesterday. Liz planned on going downtown to the Nike Human 10K Race taking place at 7pm tonight, so my plan was to go down with her, swim at the lake, run at the lakefront, and then bike down to Soldier’s Field to catch her finish. With all the training, almost nothing around the house that fell into my department had been taken care of for almost a month now. Bike tires needed changing, tools put away, shift cables restrung, etc. I did as much as I could before our 3pm departure time for heading to Chicago. As a note: Even though we live in Chicagoland area, I compare going downtown to like crossing a state line. It’s not that easy to get down to and it is a completely different way of life.
The trip downtown was not grid-locked with traffic, meaning we covered the 30 miles of expressway driving in just over an hour. We made good time. Liz and I both brought our commuter bikes and I headed out north from Soldier Field to swim at Ohio Street Beach, about 4 miles away. This is when I experience my first ever, Urban Assault Paceline. It was amazing. The Lakefront Path was just packed with people, and I just so happened to be behind 3 riders, all on Huffy type bikes, all of who in a hurry, and just so happened to be the same direction I was going. Except, they need to get there NOW. I would have never expected these people to be as aggressive as they were, as usually that’s reserved for some dork wearing a TT helmet and in the aerobars on a multi-user path that’s only 6 feet wide. These were folks wearing fanny packs and gym shoes. The ride was a cacophony of them shouting “On your damn LEFT”, “Move it you stupid tourist”, and “Out of my Way”. They hammered through crowds, splintering families, breaking apart couples, and separating babies from their mothers. I sort of sat behind the UAP, just trying to look as casual as possible, but taking advantage of the blasted holes they made through the crowds. I do have to admit, I was a bit shaken at the carnage when I looked behind me.
The swim was a bit choppy, but since everyone had finished their training for the Chicago Triathlon, I pretty much had the entire stretch of Ohio beach for myself. Once the swim was over, I headed over to get my run gear on. I had failed to notice earlier that the bike racks were surrounded by sand, probably from wind/high tides earlier in the week. There was not one area not covered by sand for me to change without getting covered in sand, which would stick to me because I was still wet from the lake. I did a very sand-infused change into running gear and headed out for my run, with sand and grit everywhere.
Training for the Chicago Marathon is in full swing now, so there were lots runners out there. There was quite the variety of runners out there. Guys decked out in full UnderArmor outfits, beautiful bouncy girls in pink things, people wearing the tell-tale red shirt of the Nike Human Race as they jogged down to the start, and some guy who ran as far as I did in denim shorts, a white T shirt and Chuck Taylors. There was even a time where some guy blew past me at a 5min/mile clip, wearing headphones, and giving a drum solo with imaginary drum sticks.
With swim/run completed, I headed back to Liz just in time to see her come across the finish line. The Human Race had been 14,000 runners, and it was a pretty cool site to see a stream of red shirted athletes snake around the Soldier Field. Liz and I contemplated either going to the free Fall Out Boy concert taking place after the race at Soldier Field, or heading up to the Jazz Fest at Grant Park. Liz decided she wanted to check out the Jazz Fest first, as there was some time before the Fall Out Boy concert started. We took a very non-UAP ride up the Grant Park area, hit the vendors for Chicago style soul food, and walked around the Jazz Fest for a while. It was then decided that we should either stay, head to Fall Out Boy, or do something else. Liz looked over to Navy Pier, saw the lit ferris wheel on the horizon, and asked “Is that open?”
The ferris wheel at Navy Pier is a huge landmark that is hard to miss. It’s 150ft high and is basically the tallest thing on the waterfront. We bought our tickets, waiting in a fast line, and was immediately on our way up to a 150ft view of Chicago. It’s smooth like a slow moving elevator, so you don’t really realize you are moving, except everything on the ground gets smaller and smaller. You then realize that the only thing holding you from a 15 story plunge from your gondola is a thin plexiglass shield with “Romy Rulz” scrawled on it and a $5 handle holding closed. Once Liz had enough vertigo tainted joy, she decided we needed a drink to calm down. Thankfully Navy Pier has a cantina at almost every nook, and I got us a couple drinks that seem to be entirely composed of rum.
Then the fireworks show started. I’m not sure if it’s a weekend thing or a Labor Day only event, but there was a pretty good pyrotechnics display, worthy of our tourism dollars being spent there. It was a bigger show than what we have in Lisle on the 4th of July, and I just LOVE fireworks. So Liz and I sat there, drinking our cantina drinks, watching the show. I was starting to finally enjoy myself, having been soaked in lake water, coated in sand, sweat caked from a run, and now reeking of cheap rum. I also realized that I hadn’t had a bath since yesterday. I grabbed Liz and gave her a big hug.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Day 1
Day 1 of 3. There is also a preface to this.
The caption under the day’s workout said “Hills today. Ride the IM Wisconsin course”. All I had seen of it was the part from Verona to Mt. Horeb, and I had never seen the second part of the loop back. I trusted in the rumors that the course would be marked with arrows on the ground, but I also did bring a map for insurance. Was on the road by 6am, but woke up with a splitting headache that I figured would go away once I started riding. I had also forgotten how far the course was, almost 2.5 hours away. It was going to be a long day as my schedule called for 5hrs of riding, 1 hr of running. That meant a 11 hour day for me.
With Wisconsin coming next week, a surprising amount of people were still riding the course. I can’t remember what a proper IM taper was, but I remember sitting on my ass a lot the week before the race. Things started off going well enough, passing a rider here and there, stopping to double check the map for turns, etc. I started getting out into the country and needed to take a break naturale, so I pulled over to the side of road to take care of business. A cyclist goes by, so I tuck it back in and wait. Whip it out again, and I hear the sound of another cyclist approaching. I wait. I try to start it up again and once again, I hear another cyclist coming again. I stop. This is the countryside. This is supposed to be easy! Once the rider goes by, I check both directions again (I was at a corner) and try to finally relieve myself. Almost on cue, another rider starts whizzing buy. F* it. I’m peeing now, and I don’t care who sees me. Thankfully it was not a family toting their Burley (this will come into play later). But it was hands down, the most difficult pee in a secluded spot, ever.
The arrows marking the course were painted at the start of the season, before the real training for the IM Wisconsin began. By this time of the year, anyone doing the IM Wisconsin knew the course by heart and no one really needed the arrows anymore. So by the time I did my first attempt at the course, the arrows were very worn out, and only parts of them, like the tail or parts of the head, remained. I had been sort of relying on people ahead of me to give me a clue where the course went, until somewhere I ended up not on the course. I knew this because I passed a family toting a Burley with kids. I thought that kind of odd. I blow by and ride out for a while. Road ends, and there’s no arrows. Map is useless. I turn around and pass the family with the Burley. I get back to my last turn, and the arrows point me back. Where are those damn riders now? Won’t let me take a piss in peace, but where are they now when I need them? Maybe I need to turn somewhere before where I turned around. Ride back out, passing the Burley, find a road and go down it. Ends abruptly. Not it. Maybe I should really take a turn at where I was last time. I turn around again, pass the Burley once more. I get to the original dead end, pick a direction, and it looks like I’m going nowhere. I break out into a tirade of F-bombs, S-words, and curses of Wisconsinites in general. As I’m doing this, the Burley riders go by, trying to avert their eyes from a very angry man cursing, waving his $6000 dollar bicycle in the air, and shouting epitaphs into the wind.
I eventually back track enough to find out that some other organized ride had put arrows on the IM course directing their riders to make a turn, when in reality I should have gone straight. I get back to the car, reload on water, gels, sunscreen, and head back out. My headache still was with me, but I figured I would just have to put up with it.
Things were going well on the second loop. I knew the course now and I knew that I should avoid the Burley people at all costs. Then a yawn. Kept riding, got another yawn, along with a flash of a bigger headache than I had before. Things started not going well. I was fine from a physical standpoint, ie my legs were not done, but I just wanted to sleep and that headache had become pain number 1, surpassing Mr Swollen Toe and Crabby Butt. Might as well quit complaining and hurry back to the car.
Every year I suffer at least one bee sting. It’s sometimes under the helmet (I did destroy a pair of Rudy Projects trying to get the helmet off while I was still moving, dropping the glasses right between the rear wheel and the frame and watch them get ground to pieces), but most of the time it’s when the little booger gets into my open jersey and gets trapped, stinging me. As I’m riding, trying to nurse the increasing headache and fighting off the now ever present yawn, I see this yellow missile spiral directly into my chest. It got me right in that small opening at the collar, which was only open an inch. It was a bee. Of all the places to hit me, the bee hits me in the only place that’s 1x1 inch that it can get trapped in. I can feel it crawling around inside my jersey.
Knowing better (I seriously have had about a dozen stings so far, and thankfully I’m not allergic), I just gently slow down and get off the bike (no freaking out). I slowly unzip my jersey and take it off, shaking it before dropping it on the ground. I then see the bee go under my bib strap. I unbuckle the heart rate monitor strap and gently ease off the bib straps off my shoulders, only to see the bee travel under the line of the straps to my butt crack. OK. Definitely not going to let a bee sting me between the ass cheeks, so I slowly start unrolling off the backside of my shorts, trying give the bee every chance to escape. Just then, another crowd of cyclists go whizzing by. I had just given them a strip show. Fantastic.
Once I figure the bee is definitely not in my shorts, I kit up everything I had tossed onto the ground and start staggering back to the car. I get about 10 miles away from the end and I just can’t take it anymore. I’m weaving like a drunk cyclist because I’m yawning so much. I just need a minute to close my eyes. I find a farm with an orchard by the side of the road whose trees have a lot of shade. I purposely lean my bike against a tree (so other people don’t think I crashed and lying there injured. I DO NOT want them to disturb me) flop down, and pass out. Wasn’t there for too long because whizzing bicycle tires kept on going by. Plus the ants whose hill I chose to sleep on were not too pleased. I figure that some rest is better than none, and finish my Zombie Ride back to the car.
I somehow get back to the car, and I was in poor shape. Time for that run. But first, I needed (which is more than just wanted) a cool drink of water. Unfortunately, the ghetto Honda is a sun house in the summer and all the water bottles in the car contained water hot enough for making tea. Scalding hot. This was not going to cure any headache or zombie-like exhaustion I was having right now. I threw the bike against the car and found that the pavement under the car was actually quite cool. I crawled under the car and I let myself pass out once again. I was definitely out for a while. It was bad enough where I was woken by own snoring and discovered I had drooled all over my helmet. Thirsty. I went back into the car, looking to get a cool drink. Only scalding hot water in the bottles. Oh, yeah. Forgot about that.
I was now in the proverbial hurt bag. I could run, which would be nothing more than a stumble for one really long, hot, thirsty, hour or I could be a quitter and not do what it takes. I made the phone call to Liz, I quit. I so F*’in quit. Screw this Ironman stuff. I’m so quitting Ironman today.
I don’t really know why I called. Maybe I think it’s because I needed permission from someone to fail. I probably would have gone down the phone list calling people to find someone else to tell to quit if Liz hadn’t done so. Plus, I truly think that if I had gone further today, I would have had to find a Motel 6 to spend the night at. I left the parking lot, believing that I should have sucked it up and done the run, but I knew that I physically couldn’t do it today. I just had done too much for the past few weeks and not enough sleep. Jennifer called me up with some direction from Liz and she told me to go eat a big cheesy deep dish pizza. I had for almost the entire year, been eating very healthy with salads, oatmeal, fruits, and fish. No wonder I had started shutting down. I had been eating like a normal person and not like someone who’s burning through 7000 calories a day.
In a strange reversal of fortune upon me getting home, Liz was there waiting for me, willing to go out for pizza on my behalf. She was taking one for the team, as she is not a fan of pizza (or many of the culinary fare I enjoy such as sushi, burgers, brats, pork). I ordered the biggest pizza they made and ate half of it. It never felt so good and I haven’t felt so much better after one sitting of something, and I’m no longer feeling like a zombie. I can dare say that pizza saved my life.
The caption under the day’s workout said “Hills today. Ride the IM Wisconsin course”. All I had seen of it was the part from Verona to Mt. Horeb, and I had never seen the second part of the loop back. I trusted in the rumors that the course would be marked with arrows on the ground, but I also did bring a map for insurance. Was on the road by 6am, but woke up with a splitting headache that I figured would go away once I started riding. I had also forgotten how far the course was, almost 2.5 hours away. It was going to be a long day as my schedule called for 5hrs of riding, 1 hr of running. That meant a 11 hour day for me.
With Wisconsin coming next week, a surprising amount of people were still riding the course. I can’t remember what a proper IM taper was, but I remember sitting on my ass a lot the week before the race. Things started off going well enough, passing a rider here and there, stopping to double check the map for turns, etc. I started getting out into the country and needed to take a break naturale, so I pulled over to the side of road to take care of business. A cyclist goes by, so I tuck it back in and wait. Whip it out again, and I hear the sound of another cyclist approaching. I wait. I try to start it up again and once again, I hear another cyclist coming again. I stop. This is the countryside. This is supposed to be easy! Once the rider goes by, I check both directions again (I was at a corner) and try to finally relieve myself. Almost on cue, another rider starts whizzing buy. F* it. I’m peeing now, and I don’t care who sees me. Thankfully it was not a family toting their Burley (this will come into play later). But it was hands down, the most difficult pee in a secluded spot, ever.
The arrows marking the course were painted at the start of the season, before the real training for the IM Wisconsin began. By this time of the year, anyone doing the IM Wisconsin knew the course by heart and no one really needed the arrows anymore. So by the time I did my first attempt at the course, the arrows were very worn out, and only parts of them, like the tail or parts of the head, remained. I had been sort of relying on people ahead of me to give me a clue where the course went, until somewhere I ended up not on the course. I knew this because I passed a family toting a Burley with kids. I thought that kind of odd. I blow by and ride out for a while. Road ends, and there’s no arrows. Map is useless. I turn around and pass the family with the Burley. I get back to my last turn, and the arrows point me back. Where are those damn riders now? Won’t let me take a piss in peace, but where are they now when I need them? Maybe I need to turn somewhere before where I turned around. Ride back out, passing the Burley, find a road and go down it. Ends abruptly. Not it. Maybe I should really take a turn at where I was last time. I turn around again, pass the Burley once more. I get to the original dead end, pick a direction, and it looks like I’m going nowhere. I break out into a tirade of F-bombs, S-words, and curses of Wisconsinites in general. As I’m doing this, the Burley riders go by, trying to avert their eyes from a very angry man cursing, waving his $6000 dollar bicycle in the air, and shouting epitaphs into the wind.
I eventually back track enough to find out that some other organized ride had put arrows on the IM course directing their riders to make a turn, when in reality I should have gone straight. I get back to the car, reload on water, gels, sunscreen, and head back out. My headache still was with me, but I figured I would just have to put up with it.
Things were going well on the second loop. I knew the course now and I knew that I should avoid the Burley people at all costs. Then a yawn. Kept riding, got another yawn, along with a flash of a bigger headache than I had before. Things started not going well. I was fine from a physical standpoint, ie my legs were not done, but I just wanted to sleep and that headache had become pain number 1, surpassing Mr Swollen Toe and Crabby Butt. Might as well quit complaining and hurry back to the car.
Every year I suffer at least one bee sting. It’s sometimes under the helmet (I did destroy a pair of Rudy Projects trying to get the helmet off while I was still moving, dropping the glasses right between the rear wheel and the frame and watch them get ground to pieces), but most of the time it’s when the little booger gets into my open jersey and gets trapped, stinging me. As I’m riding, trying to nurse the increasing headache and fighting off the now ever present yawn, I see this yellow missile spiral directly into my chest. It got me right in that small opening at the collar, which was only open an inch. It was a bee. Of all the places to hit me, the bee hits me in the only place that’s 1x1 inch that it can get trapped in. I can feel it crawling around inside my jersey.
Knowing better (I seriously have had about a dozen stings so far, and thankfully I’m not allergic), I just gently slow down and get off the bike (no freaking out). I slowly unzip my jersey and take it off, shaking it before dropping it on the ground. I then see the bee go under my bib strap. I unbuckle the heart rate monitor strap and gently ease off the bib straps off my shoulders, only to see the bee travel under the line of the straps to my butt crack. OK. Definitely not going to let a bee sting me between the ass cheeks, so I slowly start unrolling off the backside of my shorts, trying give the bee every chance to escape. Just then, another crowd of cyclists go whizzing by. I had just given them a strip show. Fantastic.
Once I figure the bee is definitely not in my shorts, I kit up everything I had tossed onto the ground and start staggering back to the car. I get about 10 miles away from the end and I just can’t take it anymore. I’m weaving like a drunk cyclist because I’m yawning so much. I just need a minute to close my eyes. I find a farm with an orchard by the side of the road whose trees have a lot of shade. I purposely lean my bike against a tree (so other people don’t think I crashed and lying there injured. I DO NOT want them to disturb me) flop down, and pass out. Wasn’t there for too long because whizzing bicycle tires kept on going by. Plus the ants whose hill I chose to sleep on were not too pleased. I figure that some rest is better than none, and finish my Zombie Ride back to the car.
I somehow get back to the car, and I was in poor shape. Time for that run. But first, I needed (which is more than just wanted) a cool drink of water. Unfortunately, the ghetto Honda is a sun house in the summer and all the water bottles in the car contained water hot enough for making tea. Scalding hot. This was not going to cure any headache or zombie-like exhaustion I was having right now. I threw the bike against the car and found that the pavement under the car was actually quite cool. I crawled under the car and I let myself pass out once again. I was definitely out for a while. It was bad enough where I was woken by own snoring and discovered I had drooled all over my helmet. Thirsty. I went back into the car, looking to get a cool drink. Only scalding hot water in the bottles. Oh, yeah. Forgot about that.
I was now in the proverbial hurt bag. I could run, which would be nothing more than a stumble for one really long, hot, thirsty, hour or I could be a quitter and not do what it takes. I made the phone call to Liz, I quit. I so F*’in quit. Screw this Ironman stuff. I’m so quitting Ironman today.
I don’t really know why I called. Maybe I think it’s because I needed permission from someone to fail. I probably would have gone down the phone list calling people to find someone else to tell to quit if Liz hadn’t done so. Plus, I truly think that if I had gone further today, I would have had to find a Motel 6 to spend the night at. I left the parking lot, believing that I should have sucked it up and done the run, but I knew that I physically couldn’t do it today. I just had done too much for the past few weeks and not enough sleep. Jennifer called me up with some direction from Liz and she told me to go eat a big cheesy deep dish pizza. I had for almost the entire year, been eating very healthy with salads, oatmeal, fruits, and fish. No wonder I had started shutting down. I had been eating like a normal person and not like someone who’s burning through 7000 calories a day.
In a strange reversal of fortune upon me getting home, Liz was there waiting for me, willing to go out for pizza on my behalf. She was taking one for the team, as she is not a fan of pizza (or many of the culinary fare I enjoy such as sushi, burgers, brats, pork). I ordered the biggest pizza they made and ate half of it. It never felt so good and I haven’t felt so much better after one sitting of something, and I’m no longer feeling like a zombie. I can dare say that pizza saved my life.
The Longest Weekend
As the Labor Day weekend approached, my coach Jennifer, asked if I was excited about all the hard work I had to do. Yes, there is sort of a sordid pleasure with the idea of doing a crazy amount of mileage in a sport that you love doing. To a point. It’s like taking a sexual fetish a little too far, or a little too rough, too hard; and you end up with a permanent scar or a visit to the ER with a crazy excuse why the zucchini is where it is.
Training for the Ironman the second time has not been all gravy and potatoes. It’s been a lot of work. Now that I know what to expect, especially knowing the weaknesses that come out at the limits, I tend to push a little harder at the workouts. It’s not fun. Last year, I trained with Liz who gave me company through everything. The effort back then was to “survive” the 7hr ride or the 3hr run, and whatever pace at the end was secondary. The plan for me this year is to set a realistic goal pace and then do all the work to ensure that I will arrive in Kona with the proper training for that pace. Holding my goal paces has just been more of monitoring the computers than by just “pushing”, but in the end, it is still solid work.
The hard part of all this is the wear and tear of everything. And by this, I mean EVERYTHING you can imagine. The toes are constantly in a state of blister/calluses. I’ve already lost one toenail, pretty sure I’m going to lose another one and the both big toes are threatening to go on strike if I shove them into my bike shoes for another 5hr ride (which is coming up next weekend). I’ve got chafe marks/scabs on my neck, arms and back from wearing wetsuits/speed suits in long open water swims. I even have little scars on my rib cage from wearing the heart rate monitor so much. Don’t even talk about saddle sores. All that’s saving me right now are life saving applications of Body Glide and Assos chamois cream. My left hamstring might have developed tendoniopathy or maybe it’s just gotten lazy and doesn’t like to work hard.
I’ve gotten to the point where I just keep all my gear in my car. Instead of taking my clothes, socks and towels to put away in my closet, I just directly deposit them into the back of my car. I’ve got everything sorted into three bags, swim, bike, run. All are stocked with the necessary tools of the trade. I just found it was just easier to dump everything there instead of running back and forth from the house each day, fighting Boss’s attempt at a jail break every time I open the door. Plus, everything smells awful. Imagine all the funk that builds up accessories like the hats, heart rate monitor straps, Fuel Belts and then combine that funk with more funk that transfered from tossing sweaty lycra into duffel bags on the way from the gym/swim/bike/run. Toss in some nice warm days in the sun, and all this turns into an odor that permeates anything and everything.
This weekend has been the longest so far. My life has been pretty busy, leaving the house at 6:30am and often not getting back until 9pm, sometimes later. This has been going on for a couple weeks now. I’ve basically been living on PowerBars and coffee. Everything had been manageable until I found myself stuck in the Longest Weekend.
I decided to break up the weekend into three separate sections.
Training for the Ironman the second time has not been all gravy and potatoes. It’s been a lot of work. Now that I know what to expect, especially knowing the weaknesses that come out at the limits, I tend to push a little harder at the workouts. It’s not fun. Last year, I trained with Liz who gave me company through everything. The effort back then was to “survive” the 7hr ride or the 3hr run, and whatever pace at the end was secondary. The plan for me this year is to set a realistic goal pace and then do all the work to ensure that I will arrive in Kona with the proper training for that pace. Holding my goal paces has just been more of monitoring the computers than by just “pushing”, but in the end, it is still solid work.
The hard part of all this is the wear and tear of everything. And by this, I mean EVERYTHING you can imagine. The toes are constantly in a state of blister/calluses. I’ve already lost one toenail, pretty sure I’m going to lose another one and the both big toes are threatening to go on strike if I shove them into my bike shoes for another 5hr ride (which is coming up next weekend). I’ve got chafe marks/scabs on my neck, arms and back from wearing wetsuits/speed suits in long open water swims. I even have little scars on my rib cage from wearing the heart rate monitor so much. Don’t even talk about saddle sores. All that’s saving me right now are life saving applications of Body Glide and Assos chamois cream. My left hamstring might have developed tendoniopathy or maybe it’s just gotten lazy and doesn’t like to work hard.
I’ve gotten to the point where I just keep all my gear in my car. Instead of taking my clothes, socks and towels to put away in my closet, I just directly deposit them into the back of my car. I’ve got everything sorted into three bags, swim, bike, run. All are stocked with the necessary tools of the trade. I just found it was just easier to dump everything there instead of running back and forth from the house each day, fighting Boss’s attempt at a jail break every time I open the door. Plus, everything smells awful. Imagine all the funk that builds up accessories like the hats, heart rate monitor straps, Fuel Belts and then combine that funk with more funk that transfered from tossing sweaty lycra into duffel bags on the way from the gym/swim/bike/run. Toss in some nice warm days in the sun, and all this turns into an odor that permeates anything and everything.
This weekend has been the longest so far. My life has been pretty busy, leaving the house at 6:30am and often not getting back until 9pm, sometimes later. This has been going on for a couple weeks now. I’ve basically been living on PowerBars and coffee. Everything had been manageable until I found myself stuck in the Longest Weekend.
I decided to break up the weekend into three separate sections.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
For the Love of Phelps Sake!
Every four years, I find myself spending way too much time in front of the television for two weeks, watching it for hours way past my bedtime and wrecking my sleep schedule. It's the Olympics!! As an athlete, I find watching the best in the world in all out competition for the same olive wreaths that made the Persian Empire quake in their leather sandals at The Battle of Thermopylae. [Xerxes was curious as to what the Greeks were trying to do (presumably because there were so few numbers) and had some Arcadian deserters interrogated in his presence. The answer was that all the other men were participating in the Olympic Games. When Xerxes asked what the prize for the winner was, "an olive-wreath" was the answer. Upon hearing this, Tigranes, a Persian general, said: "Good heavens, what kind of men are these that you have pitted against us? It is not for money that they contend but for glory of achievement!" ].
Of course now in today's world, there is a significant amount of monetary value associated with earning a medal in the Olympics in terms reaping advertisement deals, as we will all be subjected to endless commercials involving various medal winners for the upcoming months. I could not wait to for those commercials involving that snowboarding "Carrot Top" doppelganger to get over with from the Winter Games.
The buzz of the games this year is Michael Phelps. As always, the Summer Games are dominated by two sports, Swimming and Gymnastics. Everything else gets second billing, and unfortunately for me, the sport I really love doing, cycling and triathlon, gets no billing. Michael Phelps is the top dog in the top viewed sport. It's hard not to know who Michael Phelps is, as he has broken the "household name" boundary like Lance Armstrong did for cycling and Tiger Woods for golf. Michael Phelps is truly a phenomenal athlete and is the dominating sports star of our generation for swimming.
I'm pretty sure Phelps, is down to earth, friendly, team playing, or whatever adjective that can be applied positively. My complaint is going to be about the media. In the earlier years of the Olympics, the most annoying thing about it was the "personal stories of overcoming great odds" stories that every athlete had. It seemed at one point, based on the impression I got from the media, that you could not qualify for the Olympics unless you had a parent who miraculously overcame a terminal disease, a sibling that got paralyzed from the neck up in a drinking game accident, and a family pet that died - all within the past year. Thankfully, they got the hint that people really hated those stories and they just wanted to see action. No one really cares that Scruffy bit it the week before.
So came in more sports, and way cool mobile cameras that tracked the entire event, giving you a way better view than you would have gotten if you were actually there. The coverage had gotten way better, offering more sports like beach volleyball, where girls jump up and down in bikini's (it took them this long for the media to figure out that this might be a good sport to televise?) .
For me, the scourge of the Olympic coverage this year has been Michael Phelps. Again, I'm not knocking the guy and you bet I'm rooting for him to dust the French every time he jumps into the water, but the media is way too much into him. It's like sugar. Sugar tastes good, it makes bad things taste better, and you can easily eat alot of it. But if I were to plop down a 5lb bag of sugar in front of you and tell you to eat nothing but sugar for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, that wouldn't work. I like watching Michael Phelps, but I don't want to hear and watch 2 weeks of nothing but Michael Phelps. I don't want to know that he eats 12,000 calories a day worth of pizza, wears size 14 shoes, or whatever useless tidbit of information that the media plasters everywhere like it's a revelation. I'm sure even his team mates are getting sick of "Everything Phelps".
I thought the media had hit it's pinnacle of tackiness when they started putting "Phelps in 5 minutes" bullets on the top of the screen during the gymnastics coverage and every news discussion involved Phelps, until yesterday, when it sunk to a new level. Jason Lezak, they guy who did a phenomenal job of anchoring the 4x100 relay to beat the French, was up for his individual 100m finals. A reporter goes up to Lezak for an interview and asks the stupidest Phelps related questing/comment to date. "So, did the prospect of you helping Michael Phelps on his path to 8 Olympic gold medals motivate you to produce a record breaking effort to beat the French in the 4x100 relay?" Lezak was pretty dumbfounded by the question. Seriously, Lezak is a professional competitor that smelled French blood in the water. These athletes aspire and are driven to win. Lezak's response was pretty much like "Phelps is a great competitor, team mate, and all, but I saw Bernard slowing down and I felt strong. I wanted to win and I did it for myself. Phelps was not in my mind at the time." Even the other announcers knew how stupid that question was.
There's still 10 more days of Olympics left. I may have to create a "Michael Phelps Free-Zone" if I'm going to survive.
Of course now in today's world, there is a significant amount of monetary value associated with earning a medal in the Olympics in terms reaping advertisement deals, as we will all be subjected to endless commercials involving various medal winners for the upcoming months. I could not wait to for those commercials involving that snowboarding "Carrot Top" doppelganger to get over with from the Winter Games.
The buzz of the games this year is Michael Phelps. As always, the Summer Games are dominated by two sports, Swimming and Gymnastics. Everything else gets second billing, and unfortunately for me, the sport I really love doing, cycling and triathlon, gets no billing. Michael Phelps is the top dog in the top viewed sport. It's hard not to know who Michael Phelps is, as he has broken the "household name" boundary like Lance Armstrong did for cycling and Tiger Woods for golf. Michael Phelps is truly a phenomenal athlete and is the dominating sports star of our generation for swimming.
I'm pretty sure Phelps, is down to earth, friendly, team playing, or whatever adjective that can be applied positively. My complaint is going to be about the media. In the earlier years of the Olympics, the most annoying thing about it was the "personal stories of overcoming great odds" stories that every athlete had. It seemed at one point, based on the impression I got from the media, that you could not qualify for the Olympics unless you had a parent who miraculously overcame a terminal disease, a sibling that got paralyzed from the neck up in a drinking game accident, and a family pet that died - all within the past year. Thankfully, they got the hint that people really hated those stories and they just wanted to see action. No one really cares that Scruffy bit it the week before.
So came in more sports, and way cool mobile cameras that tracked the entire event, giving you a way better view than you would have gotten if you were actually there. The coverage had gotten way better, offering more sports like beach volleyball, where girls jump up and down in bikini's (it took them this long for the media to figure out that this might be a good sport to televise?) .
For me, the scourge of the Olympic coverage this year has been Michael Phelps. Again, I'm not knocking the guy and you bet I'm rooting for him to dust the French every time he jumps into the water, but the media is way too much into him. It's like sugar. Sugar tastes good, it makes bad things taste better, and you can easily eat alot of it. But if I were to plop down a 5lb bag of sugar in front of you and tell you to eat nothing but sugar for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, that wouldn't work. I like watching Michael Phelps, but I don't want to hear and watch 2 weeks of nothing but Michael Phelps. I don't want to know that he eats 12,000 calories a day worth of pizza, wears size 14 shoes, or whatever useless tidbit of information that the media plasters everywhere like it's a revelation. I'm sure even his team mates are getting sick of "Everything Phelps".
I thought the media had hit it's pinnacle of tackiness when they started putting "Phelps in 5 minutes" bullets on the top of the screen during the gymnastics coverage and every news discussion involved Phelps, until yesterday, when it sunk to a new level. Jason Lezak, they guy who did a phenomenal job of anchoring the 4x100 relay to beat the French, was up for his individual 100m finals. A reporter goes up to Lezak for an interview and asks the stupidest Phelps related questing/comment to date. "So, did the prospect of you helping Michael Phelps on his path to 8 Olympic gold medals motivate you to produce a record breaking effort to beat the French in the 4x100 relay?" Lezak was pretty dumbfounded by the question. Seriously, Lezak is a professional competitor that smelled French blood in the water. These athletes aspire and are driven to win. Lezak's response was pretty much like "Phelps is a great competitor, team mate, and all, but I saw Bernard slowing down and I felt strong. I wanted to win and I did it for myself. Phelps was not in my mind at the time." Even the other announcers knew how stupid that question was.
There's still 10 more days of Olympics left. I may have to create a "Michael Phelps Free-Zone" if I'm going to survive.
Monday, August 11, 2008
It's Like I Picked The Wrong Week To Quit Sniffing Glue
Liz and I headed to downtown Chicago on Sunday, thinking that it would be good way to get our long run and open water swim in. In retrospect, I kept on thinking about that one line Lloyd Bridges kept on saying in the move "Airplane". Looks like I picked the wrong weekend.
Getting downtown was moderately OK. We hit a little traffic at the "Hillside Strangler" which has been the scourge of I-290. I believe that this part of the highway where I-88, I-53, and I-290 merges is ranked in one of the top ten traffic headaches in the United States. Chicago spent enormous amounts of money to reconstruct the area about 5 years ago, but you still can't change the fact you have 8 lanes going down to 3. The rest of the way downtown was more traffic once we got within 2 miles of our destination, which can be really of bummer, because you are JUST SO CLOSE!!
We parked the car in my sister's condo and then proceeded by bicycle to the Ohio Street beach. As we crossed Michigan avenue, Liz was ahead of me and as she went through, the light turned yellow. I knew that crossing a 6 lane intersection would take more than 4 seconds (DOT mandated length of yellow), so I picked it up not to get caught too far out when the light turned red. Unfortunately, some kid who was waiting for the precise moment of that red light to step out into the intersection, did so. I had been going pretty fast to get through the intersection, and now a kid was about to blindly step in front of me. His father instinctively grabbed him and pulled him back, but I'm pretty sure that I was now "another dangerous cyclists" in their eyes. Great. Looks like I picked the wrong weekend to ride downtown.
Once at the beach, Liz and I racked the bikes, and ended up having a conversation with a stranger about swimming in what looked like a pretty choppy lake, and triathlons in general. The bike rack at Ohio Street Beach is usually a hub for triathletes as it's a good open water swim location, is next to the running path, and has solid bike racks that's in an area that's pretty safe theft-wise. Liz and I got our running gear all set up and talked about our plans. Either head North on the path which can be more scenic, but crowded, to North Avenue Beach; or take the less crowded, but boring, South route to McCormick Place. We chose the South route because of wind direction (we would be coming back into a nice, cool, headwind), and as a bonus, we could follow the Accenture Chicago Triathlon race course.
We set off on our run and I ducked off early into an outhouse, causing a separation between Liz and I. Running was going good until I got to the Shedd Aquarium where construction barricades were blocking the path I knew. I jumped down to the break wall and ran around the Shedd there. When I got towards the Planetarium, more construction barricades greeted me there. After some cross country short cuts, I was back on what I assumed was the path I knew from Accenture.
All of a sudden, I found myself alone running through green fields with the sun on my face. Where was I? I definitely didn't remember this at all and I was confused. All I kept thinking about was the Russell Crowe line from Gladiator that my friends keep quoting when they're dropped and riding alone in the corn fields of Ragbrai. "If you find yourself alone, riding in the green fields with the sun on your face, do not be troubled. For you are in Elysium, and you're already dead!" Turns out I had made some bad shortcuts and ended up in what was Meigs Field, which was at one time a small lake-front airport for the rich and famous, not Elysium as I had feared.
After I got myself backtracked enough to figure out where I should have zigged instead of zagged, I got back to the course. Unfortunately, once I got there, I was greeted by more construction barricades, and in addition to that, I now had a huge crowd of at least a thousand women; all wearing pink, walking and chatting down the path on a charity walk-a-thon, replete with banners, balloons, and bubbles. After all that, I got to my guess-timated turnaround that compensated for my earlier Meigs Field foray, and turned into that "cool-breeze" I had anticipated earlier. Except now it was significantly stronger.
The Lake Front path is multi-user, so now all the cyclists that were simply zipping by me on the way out, were no longer able to do that into a stiff headwind. I actually ended up being able to out run them, which is actually a not fun on the path. The path is tight as it is, and if you have to overtake a cyclist, there's a lot of maneuvering and effort required. As a rule, people on bikes don't like being passed by someone who's running because it's just simply a reminder to them that they really should be going faster. So, you just don't overtake a cyclist, you have to make an "attack" on them, lest you end up playing some cat and mouse game with them for the next 5 minutes. I finished up my last 35 minutes this way, got back to beach, and pretty much concluded that this was not the lake front run I was looking for. Looks like I picked the wrong weekend to run downtown.
Liz came in a minute or two later, we got kitted up for our swim, and looked at the daunting chop on the lake the increasing winds had created. Lake Michigan really does not get "waves". It more or less gets varying degrees of "chop" or "big chop". The ocean gets these big waves that curl in and crash onto the shore with a beautifully rhythm of "slam-rip-hiss". Michigan's "waves" are like something you would get if you tried running with a bucket full of water. The water sloshes back and forth on the sides, having no "wave-like" motion to it. Just sloshing, slapping, and spilling.
Were not the only ones getting in. There had been other people who had been standing there on the beach in their wetsuits, getting psyched up to go, since we got back from our run. You could tell they were apprehensive about entering the "washing machine" the lake had become. I had experience in this before, so I knew what to expect. Liz really didn't like the idea, but since other people were going in, she followed. We got about 100 yards in and I was literally finding myself suspended in the air at times as the chop would toss me up and I would come crashing down a foot or two. It really wasn't swimming. It was just churning the arms when you could grab water. I had learned a while ago that it's better to just slow down the stroke when swimming in chop and take your pulls when you can. It was definitely slow going and at times I was taking in water faster than the Titanic. Liz didn't like the idea of swimming far out to the buoys, so we just swam back and forth, staying close to the shore.
We saw swimmer after swimmer go in and then go right back out. I think that motivated Liz to stay in there longer, knowing that she was out-braving other grown adults. But this really wasn't swimming. It was just survival of the chop. Once you do this, any other rough swim you encounter in a race is nothing. Challenging as this was, it was not something I really wanted to do after a 90 minute run. Looks like I picked the wrong weekend to swim downtown.
Got packed up, rode back to the car, and discussed our options. Eat here, eat there, go back this way, go back that way, etc. I couldn't make a decision in any case and simply headed straight into a traffic jam of everyone fleeing Chicago. Great. I usually take the train downtown to avoid these headaches, but we had driven today because Sunday's train schedule is really spaced out. Looks like I picked the wrong weekend to drive downtown, too.
PS. Congrats to Eric and Liz Ott who came in 1st and 1st on their 1st wedding anniversary at the Naperville Triathlon yesterday.
Getting downtown was moderately OK. We hit a little traffic at the "Hillside Strangler" which has been the scourge of I-290. I believe that this part of the highway where I-88, I-53, and I-290 merges is ranked in one of the top ten traffic headaches in the United States. Chicago spent enormous amounts of money to reconstruct the area about 5 years ago, but you still can't change the fact you have 8 lanes going down to 3. The rest of the way downtown was more traffic once we got within 2 miles of our destination, which can be really of bummer, because you are JUST SO CLOSE!!
We parked the car in my sister's condo and then proceeded by bicycle to the Ohio Street beach. As we crossed Michigan avenue, Liz was ahead of me and as she went through, the light turned yellow. I knew that crossing a 6 lane intersection would take more than 4 seconds (DOT mandated length of yellow), so I picked it up not to get caught too far out when the light turned red. Unfortunately, some kid who was waiting for the precise moment of that red light to step out into the intersection, did so. I had been going pretty fast to get through the intersection, and now a kid was about to blindly step in front of me. His father instinctively grabbed him and pulled him back, but I'm pretty sure that I was now "another dangerous cyclists" in their eyes. Great. Looks like I picked the wrong weekend to ride downtown.
Once at the beach, Liz and I racked the bikes, and ended up having a conversation with a stranger about swimming in what looked like a pretty choppy lake, and triathlons in general. The bike rack at Ohio Street Beach is usually a hub for triathletes as it's a good open water swim location, is next to the running path, and has solid bike racks that's in an area that's pretty safe theft-wise. Liz and I got our running gear all set up and talked about our plans. Either head North on the path which can be more scenic, but crowded, to North Avenue Beach; or take the less crowded, but boring, South route to McCormick Place. We chose the South route because of wind direction (we would be coming back into a nice, cool, headwind), and as a bonus, we could follow the Accenture Chicago Triathlon race course.
We set off on our run and I ducked off early into an outhouse, causing a separation between Liz and I. Running was going good until I got to the Shedd Aquarium where construction barricades were blocking the path I knew. I jumped down to the break wall and ran around the Shedd there. When I got towards the Planetarium, more construction barricades greeted me there. After some cross country short cuts, I was back on what I assumed was the path I knew from Accenture.
All of a sudden, I found myself alone running through green fields with the sun on my face. Where was I? I definitely didn't remember this at all and I was confused. All I kept thinking about was the Russell Crowe line from Gladiator that my friends keep quoting when they're dropped and riding alone in the corn fields of Ragbrai. "If you find yourself alone, riding in the green fields with the sun on your face, do not be troubled. For you are in Elysium, and you're already dead!" Turns out I had made some bad shortcuts and ended up in what was Meigs Field, which was at one time a small lake-front airport for the rich and famous, not Elysium as I had feared.
After I got myself backtracked enough to figure out where I should have zigged instead of zagged, I got back to the course. Unfortunately, once I got there, I was greeted by more construction barricades, and in addition to that, I now had a huge crowd of at least a thousand women; all wearing pink, walking and chatting down the path on a charity walk-a-thon, replete with banners, balloons, and bubbles. After all that, I got to my guess-timated turnaround that compensated for my earlier Meigs Field foray, and turned into that "cool-breeze" I had anticipated earlier. Except now it was significantly stronger.
The Lake Front path is multi-user, so now all the cyclists that were simply zipping by me on the way out, were no longer able to do that into a stiff headwind. I actually ended up being able to out run them, which is actually a not fun on the path. The path is tight as it is, and if you have to overtake a cyclist, there's a lot of maneuvering and effort required. As a rule, people on bikes don't like being passed by someone who's running because it's just simply a reminder to them that they really should be going faster. So, you just don't overtake a cyclist, you have to make an "attack" on them, lest you end up playing some cat and mouse game with them for the next 5 minutes. I finished up my last 35 minutes this way, got back to beach, and pretty much concluded that this was not the lake front run I was looking for. Looks like I picked the wrong weekend to run downtown.
Liz came in a minute or two later, we got kitted up for our swim, and looked at the daunting chop on the lake the increasing winds had created. Lake Michigan really does not get "waves". It more or less gets varying degrees of "chop" or "big chop". The ocean gets these big waves that curl in and crash onto the shore with a beautifully rhythm of "slam-rip-hiss". Michigan's "waves" are like something you would get if you tried running with a bucket full of water. The water sloshes back and forth on the sides, having no "wave-like" motion to it. Just sloshing, slapping, and spilling.
Were not the only ones getting in. There had been other people who had been standing there on the beach in their wetsuits, getting psyched up to go, since we got back from our run. You could tell they were apprehensive about entering the "washing machine" the lake had become. I had experience in this before, so I knew what to expect. Liz really didn't like the idea, but since other people were going in, she followed. We got about 100 yards in and I was literally finding myself suspended in the air at times as the chop would toss me up and I would come crashing down a foot or two. It really wasn't swimming. It was just churning the arms when you could grab water. I had learned a while ago that it's better to just slow down the stroke when swimming in chop and take your pulls when you can. It was definitely slow going and at times I was taking in water faster than the Titanic. Liz didn't like the idea of swimming far out to the buoys, so we just swam back and forth, staying close to the shore.
We saw swimmer after swimmer go in and then go right back out. I think that motivated Liz to stay in there longer, knowing that she was out-braving other grown adults. But this really wasn't swimming. It was just survival of the chop. Once you do this, any other rough swim you encounter in a race is nothing. Challenging as this was, it was not something I really wanted to do after a 90 minute run. Looks like I picked the wrong weekend to swim downtown.
Got packed up, rode back to the car, and discussed our options. Eat here, eat there, go back this way, go back that way, etc. I couldn't make a decision in any case and simply headed straight into a traffic jam of everyone fleeing Chicago. Great. I usually take the train downtown to avoid these headaches, but we had driven today because Sunday's train schedule is really spaced out. Looks like I picked the wrong weekend to drive downtown, too.
PS. Congrats to Eric and Liz Ott who came in 1st and 1st on their 1st wedding anniversary at the Naperville Triathlon yesterday.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Classic Ragbrai
I’ve been missing on the past two years of Ragbrai. It got to the point where the only other Asian guy on the ride started going around claiming to be me (the statistical rider is a white male 40-45 from Iowa). I had been worried that I would have a rough time adjusting to the stresses of Ragbrai, as they can be tough, but fortunately this year was everything I remembered it being and I left the ride waiting for next year.
By “Classic”, I mean it in the way that there is “Classic” Coke and then there the other varieties of Coke, which sometimes make it big or fail miserably. The Ragbrai this year was everything you wanted and expected it to be, just like a regular can of Coke: just plain good. No crazy aftertaste or startling mix of unexpected flavors.
Our team is named Trousermouse, which was the end result of collaborative decision of a bunch of 14 year old boys on their first Ragbrai 17 years ago. Some people are not always so quick as to what “Trousermouse” means, and we sometimes get asked that question. It’s really one of those “If you gotta ask…” type scenarios. We wear what I think is an awful misuse of custom made jerseys as our outfit is simply cyan blue with white hibiscus flowers spattered across it. Eye catching, but it confuses everybody into thinking we are from Hawaii.
We ride Ragbrai as if we were professionals of Ragbrai. We are on the average 15 riders big (other teams are 100+), but we have seemly gained a lot of notoriety for ourselves , which is impressive for how small we are: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ragbrai#RAGBRAI_teams_and_charters
The team knows all of the quirks and foibles of the ride. Even though the route, like the Tour de France, changes every year, there are a lot of things that don’t change. It’s gotten to the point where Trousemouse has a list of “Ism’s”, or things to expect on Ragbrai: Expect at least one big storm to scare the crap out of you. The van will become a scattered mess on the inside and anything carefully packed will disappear after day 2 (also known as “Ragbrai’d”). Another one is we will have picked up a drafter and they will go down with no fault of our own (we also don’t stop for these instances).
With Ironman training just beginning for me, my spin on things were a little different this ride. If Ragbrai could be described as an “All-U-Can Eat Buffet of Meat”, I was the guy ordering the salad. I sort of stuck out from the rest of the group in that same way. I knew I had 8 week smorgasbord of workouts ahead of me to gorge on and I better not waste room eating the bread sticks. For the first time in my history of doing Ragbrai, I actually left the ride feeling better than I had gone into it. (I did Rhode Island the weekend prior, was still trashed going in, but then miraculously recovered by riding 500 miles).
I have to give a big thanks to the team. The way the ride works for Trousermouse, is that someone has to drive the van out every morning with our equipment to the next town and set up camp. This usually involves one of the riders having to sacrifice their day of riding to do this required task of sagging the van. Some days there are plenty of volunteers to drive (eg. “How do you turn a hot headwind into a cool breeze”? “You sag!” or “What’s the best way to sleep off a hangover on Ragbrai?” “You sag!”). Other times it can be a mean game of shotgun or short straw if it’s a nice day and everyone feels good. To actually ride an entire Ragbrai without taking a turn sagging is very rare. This year, out of the 17 of us on this trip, only two of us covered the entire route. I was one of them, and this was my first completion in 10 years. It felt good to come back from being 2 years MIA and being given the opportunity to ride the entire course.
A "If you gotta ask" Q/A:
What is "Poo Dollar?"
Poo Dollar is a disgusting game developed and patented this year by the "team" where someone wipes their butt with a dollar bill as if it were a sheet of toilet paper. This “tainted” dollar is then placed in an obvious location, like the middle of the street or on the sidewalk. It’s really a spectator game, where everyone watches to see which unsuspecting “tourist” is going to stop and pick it up (children are barred from playing the game). It’s really an obvious game (the crowd watching usually grows to 30-50 people), because as soon as someone starts to pick up the dollar, the crowd can’t help but get rowdy with “Oh’s” and “Yay’s”. Most people quickly access that there’s a gig going on with that dollar and don’t touch it. Very few people are left clueless with the crowd gathered, but most of the time the game ends by a person who just really wants that dollar.
By “Classic”, I mean it in the way that there is “Classic” Coke and then there the other varieties of Coke, which sometimes make it big or fail miserably. The Ragbrai this year was everything you wanted and expected it to be, just like a regular can of Coke: just plain good. No crazy aftertaste or startling mix of unexpected flavors.
Our team is named Trousermouse, which was the end result of collaborative decision of a bunch of 14 year old boys on their first Ragbrai 17 years ago. Some people are not always so quick as to what “Trousermouse” means, and we sometimes get asked that question. It’s really one of those “If you gotta ask…” type scenarios. We wear what I think is an awful misuse of custom made jerseys as our outfit is simply cyan blue with white hibiscus flowers spattered across it. Eye catching, but it confuses everybody into thinking we are from Hawaii.
We ride Ragbrai as if we were professionals of Ragbrai. We are on the average 15 riders big (other teams are 100+), but we have seemly gained a lot of notoriety for ourselves , which is impressive for how small we are: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ragbrai#RAGBRAI_teams_and_charters
The team knows all of the quirks and foibles of the ride. Even though the route, like the Tour de France, changes every year, there are a lot of things that don’t change. It’s gotten to the point where Trousemouse has a list of “Ism’s”, or things to expect on Ragbrai: Expect at least one big storm to scare the crap out of you. The van will become a scattered mess on the inside and anything carefully packed will disappear after day 2 (also known as “Ragbrai’d”). Another one is we will have picked up a drafter and they will go down with no fault of our own (we also don’t stop for these instances).
With Ironman training just beginning for me, my spin on things were a little different this ride. If Ragbrai could be described as an “All-U-Can Eat Buffet of Meat”, I was the guy ordering the salad. I sort of stuck out from the rest of the group in that same way. I knew I had 8 week smorgasbord of workouts ahead of me to gorge on and I better not waste room eating the bread sticks. For the first time in my history of doing Ragbrai, I actually left the ride feeling better than I had gone into it. (I did Rhode Island the weekend prior, was still trashed going in, but then miraculously recovered by riding 500 miles).
I have to give a big thanks to the team. The way the ride works for Trousermouse, is that someone has to drive the van out every morning with our equipment to the next town and set up camp. This usually involves one of the riders having to sacrifice their day of riding to do this required task of sagging the van. Some days there are plenty of volunteers to drive (eg. “How do you turn a hot headwind into a cool breeze”? “You sag!” or “What’s the best way to sleep off a hangover on Ragbrai?” “You sag!”). Other times it can be a mean game of shotgun or short straw if it’s a nice day and everyone feels good. To actually ride an entire Ragbrai without taking a turn sagging is very rare. This year, out of the 17 of us on this trip, only two of us covered the entire route. I was one of them, and this was my first completion in 10 years. It felt good to come back from being 2 years MIA and being given the opportunity to ride the entire course.
A "If you gotta ask" Q/A:
What is "Poo Dollar?"
Poo Dollar is a disgusting game developed and patented this year by the "team" where someone wipes their butt with a dollar bill as if it were a sheet of toilet paper. This “tainted” dollar is then placed in an obvious location, like the middle of the street or on the sidewalk. It’s really a spectator game, where everyone watches to see which unsuspecting “tourist” is going to stop and pick it up (children are barred from playing the game). It’s really an obvious game (the crowd watching usually grows to 30-50 people), because as soon as someone starts to pick up the dollar, the crowd can’t help but get rowdy with “Oh’s” and “Yay’s”. Most people quickly access that there’s a gig going on with that dollar and don’t touch it. Very few people are left clueless with the crowd gathered, but most of the time the game ends by a person who just really wants that dollar.
Monday, August 4, 2008
The Office
Things have been hectic lately. My decidedly “retro and ghetto” office I have known for the past 14 years in Schaumburg has moved. I started out doing summer internships there during my college summer breaks staring in 1994, took a few years away at other careers, and then I’ve been back there for the past 6 years. (This will be the officially the longest time I have ever been employed by one company). The company, founded 30+ years ago, moved into the Schaumburg location 25 years ago. 10 years later, the management of the building decided that the décor back then was too run down and did a “refresh” in 1983. It has not been retouched since. The office became a collage of decidedly 80’s styling, donated pieces 70’s era furniture from everyone’s houses, and late 90’s office jetsam from failed companies of the internet boom that fled once the creditors came looking for assets to seize. (Most of the stuff was dumpster dived and much of it had questionable stains on it.)
We sort of made do with what we had, duct taping our desks together as this move had been in the works for years, and since with the move always in the plans, this always served as the excuse not to update or fix anything. Besides, the management’s philosophy was mainly “We spent good money on that ‘XXX’ 20 years ago.” The office building was purchased a few years ago by a savvy entrepreneur who was pretty successful in leasing to companies that were actually successful. Our source of furniture and office supplies from the fly-by-night companies that failed regularly had dried up.
It didn’t take long for the new office building to rise above the decades of decay left behind by the old building management and create what was becoming a pretty nice location. Except us. We had now become the decaying, crooked, black tooth in an otherwise perfect set of pearly whites. After several months of dogging the company to commit to signing an annual lease and refurnish the office, the building manager simply came to us on July 1st and said “A dental office is going to rent this space. The construction crews are going to tear down the walls on August 1st.” That was pretty much as good as an eviction that can be done without getting the cops involved. Of course, that threw our office into a loop. The new office was in “near completion”, which probably meant in real speak (BS removed) that it would be ready in another 2 years.
The actual move came as a surprise. We knew that we were being moved at some time, but no one ever told us when, exactly. Then one day, moving trucks showed up, a bunch of big, burly, but polite guys came in, helped us put our belongings onto big pallets, ripped out all the equipment, and transported us to the new office. Just like that.
Of course, there were some minor issues, like why did the installer not put labels on the internet cables, or more importantly, does anyone know how to re-start the server once it’s been torn out of its moorings?
(No server = no internet access for two weeks. BTW, no contact with clients for two weeks either, not like that's important or anything.)The major concern for the management was the location of the microwave and does Chris really have to have an expensive drying rack in the kitchenette, because it really doesn’t tie the room together. Plus, much to my chagrin, they insisted on keeping the rotting coffee maker of 18 years and it kept on being retrieved from the trash every time I threw it into there.
Don’t get me wrong. The office is nicer than what we had before. Everything is newer and having an actual kitchenette is nice, no more relying on a zoo-smelling bathroom to wash coffee mugs in. But there is a little issue about space and privacy. I got downgraded from a windowed office to the cubicle farm without any real walls. If I look behind me, I can see them looking back at me. ALL DAY LONG.
ps. They can hear me ripping one, and vice versa.This is Raj, my former office mate, now once removed. He talks a lot about “7 Glacier Circle” a lot, which is his brand new house with heaps of trouble he had bought 5 minutes away from the old office (now he’s 30 minutes). The glass partition is the only thing we have that’s close a wall between anyone, but it’s still like building your new McMansion that’s pushing the easement boundaries and discovering that you can peer right into your neighbors bathroom from your dining room window.
The office is a 10 minute drive from home, and that’s pretty kick ass. Its right by Oak Brook Mall, so there’s lots of shopping around, but I’m still unfamiliar with the location of everything. I did find Dominick’s Supermarket, and it’s a grocer wonder. Meredith and I decided to carpool more, so instead of dropping $100 a week to pollute our air, it’s now down about $10, which will mean more to spend on bike parts. :)
My very own piece of land on the cubicle farm. Yes, that is a post 108 miler donut next to the Power Tap computer.
View of the lobby below. A great vantage point to play "Poo Dollar" from.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Rhode Island 70.3
My pre-race bitching:
I first signed up for Rhode Island 70.3 because the timing was good for being after Eagleman and before Ragbrai. Thought it would be nice to get a big race in, and then relax into corn and porn in Iowa. Then details poured in, the race would be point to point, and then surprisingly, there was no information. It was odd as there was nothing more really posted than a couple maps of the swim, bike, and run courses and the possible need for purchasing tickets for a shuttle bus. A shuttle bus is never a good sign for a race.
Before I give too many negative points about the logistics of this race, let me say that the race itself was very challenging and the amount of spectators was unbelievable. It was pretty damn huge. I was impressed. I guess half of Providence came out to spectate. I do have to give some skid marks to some Brown students though. Those kids may be smart, but based on the ineptitude I saw of two different cars with Brown stickers on driving around, they might be book smart, but definitely street dumb.
What I can say about Rhode Island 70.3 is that they were really attempting on providing a top tier race, but they were so stuck in the details that they missed the bigger picture. Checking in took over an hour and a half. They might have underestimated that all 1700 athletes might want to check in on Saturday and they bottle-necked everything to two kids in a booth horsing around. I heard the line grew to 2 hours at one point in the day. They also went way overboard with the check in procedure, including a weigh in and a median income survey.
Then it got worse. Everyone had to pick up their packet, then drop off their bike at the swim start 56 miles away (meaning a 112 mile round trip). I'm sure everyone was planning on the typical 15 minute packet pickup, 15 minutes in the expo, and then an hour drive to the beach, and hour back, then kicking it for the evening. The two hour delay in packet pickup turned into a two hour drive to the beach because of traffic, then a two hour drive back to the race finish to drop off the running shoes for T2 (the T2 didnt open until late in the day, so you could'nt drop it off after packet pick up).
Liz and I had started our day at 9am and didnt get done until 6pm. We were the lucky ones. As we were wrapping up our day, other people were still heading down to T1 to drop off their bikes as they got really delayed by everything. I think the best solution to everything was just to have everyone drop their bike/run bags at the expo and then have a tractor trailer haul all the bikes that you would check in at the expo to the T1. All the racks are assigned anyways, so just throw the bikes down in the proper spot and drop the bag. It would have required alot less resources. Imagine 1700 people driving their cars 112 miles just to drop off their bikes. Even lets say that on the average two racers carpooled on the way down (some people had 3-4 people, some were singles, most were doubles, but lets say it all averaged out to 2). That would mean that a total of 95,200 miles were driven for this race. That's alot.
The morning off required a bus trip down to the race start. They were really inefficient in loading the buses. They would load one bus at a time and check tickets individually before getting on the bus. It took over a half hour at 3:30 in the morning, which is not a recipe for happy times. I think the best way would have just printed out Bus #6 on each ticket at it leaves at 4am. Find Bus #6, get on, hand in the ticket. Done. No huge line required. In the end it did work out and we arrived at the start with plenty of time, but it did create some uneeded worries.
The Race itself:
The swim was in a protected cove, so in theory it shouldnt have been bad. Today it was really windy and there were good 3 foot waves. The swim was the most difficult and challenging swim I had ever been in. There was chop, wind, and waves all at once. I had alot of practice in the chop of Lake Michigan, and this was a challenge, especially with salt water that gave you a bitter punishment every time you did something wrong when trying to breathe. I was lucking out on the swim because I was nailing the buoy line as the lead zig zagged the course for some reason. I actually ended up not too far off the lead at the end. What was really awesome though, was I caught a couple waves and surfed them in, totally dropping a couple guys I was with.
The bike started out with a little tailwind that pushed the average speed up to 26.1mph, but then it started going uphill and into the wind. The bike course was alot of rolling hills, a few climbs, and alot of turning. People were everywhere on the course camped out on their lawn chairs cheering. It was sketchy at times because there was traffic going in and out of parking lots, so I was always afraid of T-boning or getting T-boned myself. I did find myself amazed at how many traffic cones the state of Rhode Island had, as it seemed there was at least 20+ miles of coned off lanes. The last part into Providence was sketchy. There was high winds blowing me around everywhere, really bad roads full of potholes, and a crazy amount of turns. I seriously think I did irreparable damage to my bike on that last part of the course as I hit a ton of potholes and at one point knocked my chain off, which then got sucked into the frame and left a huge divet in the chainstay. (After the race, they guy next to me had his handle bars pointed straight down. I joked with him that he was in a REALLY aggressive position. He admitted that he hit a pothole so hard it knocked the bars down.)
The run was tough. I'm not sure I gave my all, as my legs feel pretty not trashed right now. There was huge climb 1 mile into the run that also came back at mile 7 on the two loop course. It was like running up a ski hill. The rest of the course consisted of long gradual ups and downs. My first loop was with Oscar Galindez (the men's pro winner) who was on his second lap. He gained two minutes on my within 4 miles. He was moving steady, but he seemed to only be slowly pulling away from me. I had been the 3rd amateur to come in from the bike, worked my way to 2nd amateur and was holding it. The second loop was rough. I felt sluggish and I kept on having to hold back mini-pukes (the "mukes"). At mile 10 I got zipped by a couple guys. One was 28, the other 31. Since the 30-34 had two waves, I could not tell if it was the earlier wave or mine. It didnt matter anyways, as I didnt have it in my to go with him. I tried, but there was nothing left. The finish was on the Rhode Island Capital steps and it was a very exciting finish. I ended up being close enough to the first amateur off the bike to be ahead of him due to the wave stagger, but the guys who had gotten ahead of me at mile 10 had taken me. I ended up 5th overall and 2nd in the AG. I felt I should have run faster, but again, it was a tough run course.
Overall, I felt the event has the potential to be a good event. I think there were growing pains to be worked out, but there definitely is support for it from the city of Providence and the state of Rhode Island. I personally feel that I probably won't put it on the race calendar for 2009 as the logistics were way too much for me. I prefer races where the race is the challenge, not getting to it. The good thing out of all this is Liz got a spot to Clearwater World Championships as a pro, which was a major goal of hers for this year. That was awesome!
ps. In case you were wondering, no, I did not poop my pants this time.
I first signed up for Rhode Island 70.3 because the timing was good for being after Eagleman and before Ragbrai. Thought it would be nice to get a big race in, and then relax into corn and porn in Iowa. Then details poured in, the race would be point to point, and then surprisingly, there was no information. It was odd as there was nothing more really posted than a couple maps of the swim, bike, and run courses and the possible need for purchasing tickets for a shuttle bus. A shuttle bus is never a good sign for a race.
Before I give too many negative points about the logistics of this race, let me say that the race itself was very challenging and the amount of spectators was unbelievable. It was pretty damn huge. I was impressed. I guess half of Providence came out to spectate. I do have to give some skid marks to some Brown students though. Those kids may be smart, but based on the ineptitude I saw of two different cars with Brown stickers on driving around, they might be book smart, but definitely street dumb.
What I can say about Rhode Island 70.3 is that they were really attempting on providing a top tier race, but they were so stuck in the details that they missed the bigger picture. Checking in took over an hour and a half. They might have underestimated that all 1700 athletes might want to check in on Saturday and they bottle-necked everything to two kids in a booth horsing around. I heard the line grew to 2 hours at one point in the day. They also went way overboard with the check in procedure, including a weigh in and a median income survey.
Then it got worse. Everyone had to pick up their packet, then drop off their bike at the swim start 56 miles away (meaning a 112 mile round trip). I'm sure everyone was planning on the typical 15 minute packet pickup, 15 minutes in the expo, and then an hour drive to the beach, and hour back, then kicking it for the evening. The two hour delay in packet pickup turned into a two hour drive to the beach because of traffic, then a two hour drive back to the race finish to drop off the running shoes for T2 (the T2 didnt open until late in the day, so you could'nt drop it off after packet pick up).
Liz and I had started our day at 9am and didnt get done until 6pm. We were the lucky ones. As we were wrapping up our day, other people were still heading down to T1 to drop off their bikes as they got really delayed by everything. I think the best solution to everything was just to have everyone drop their bike/run bags at the expo and then have a tractor trailer haul all the bikes that you would check in at the expo to the T1. All the racks are assigned anyways, so just throw the bikes down in the proper spot and drop the bag. It would have required alot less resources. Imagine 1700 people driving their cars 112 miles just to drop off their bikes. Even lets say that on the average two racers carpooled on the way down (some people had 3-4 people, some were singles, most were doubles, but lets say it all averaged out to 2). That would mean that a total of 95,200 miles were driven for this race. That's alot.
The morning off required a bus trip down to the race start. They were really inefficient in loading the buses. They would load one bus at a time and check tickets individually before getting on the bus. It took over a half hour at 3:30 in the morning, which is not a recipe for happy times. I think the best way would have just printed out Bus #6 on each ticket at it leaves at 4am. Find Bus #6, get on, hand in the ticket. Done. No huge line required. In the end it did work out and we arrived at the start with plenty of time, but it did create some uneeded worries.
The Race itself:
The swim was in a protected cove, so in theory it shouldnt have been bad. Today it was really windy and there were good 3 foot waves. The swim was the most difficult and challenging swim I had ever been in. There was chop, wind, and waves all at once. I had alot of practice in the chop of Lake Michigan, and this was a challenge, especially with salt water that gave you a bitter punishment every time you did something wrong when trying to breathe. I was lucking out on the swim because I was nailing the buoy line as the lead zig zagged the course for some reason. I actually ended up not too far off the lead at the end. What was really awesome though, was I caught a couple waves and surfed them in, totally dropping a couple guys I was with.
The bike started out with a little tailwind that pushed the average speed up to 26.1mph, but then it started going uphill and into the wind. The bike course was alot of rolling hills, a few climbs, and alot of turning. People were everywhere on the course camped out on their lawn chairs cheering. It was sketchy at times because there was traffic going in and out of parking lots, so I was always afraid of T-boning or getting T-boned myself. I did find myself amazed at how many traffic cones the state of Rhode Island had, as it seemed there was at least 20+ miles of coned off lanes. The last part into Providence was sketchy. There was high winds blowing me around everywhere, really bad roads full of potholes, and a crazy amount of turns. I seriously think I did irreparable damage to my bike on that last part of the course as I hit a ton of potholes and at one point knocked my chain off, which then got sucked into the frame and left a huge divet in the chainstay. (After the race, they guy next to me had his handle bars pointed straight down. I joked with him that he was in a REALLY aggressive position. He admitted that he hit a pothole so hard it knocked the bars down.)
The run was tough. I'm not sure I gave my all, as my legs feel pretty not trashed right now. There was huge climb 1 mile into the run that also came back at mile 7 on the two loop course. It was like running up a ski hill. The rest of the course consisted of long gradual ups and downs. My first loop was with Oscar Galindez (the men's pro winner) who was on his second lap. He gained two minutes on my within 4 miles. He was moving steady, but he seemed to only be slowly pulling away from me. I had been the 3rd amateur to come in from the bike, worked my way to 2nd amateur and was holding it. The second loop was rough. I felt sluggish and I kept on having to hold back mini-pukes (the "mukes"). At mile 10 I got zipped by a couple guys. One was 28, the other 31. Since the 30-34 had two waves, I could not tell if it was the earlier wave or mine. It didnt matter anyways, as I didnt have it in my to go with him. I tried, but there was nothing left. The finish was on the Rhode Island Capital steps and it was a very exciting finish. I ended up being close enough to the first amateur off the bike to be ahead of him due to the wave stagger, but the guys who had gotten ahead of me at mile 10 had taken me. I ended up 5th overall and 2nd in the AG. I felt I should have run faster, but again, it was a tough run course.
Overall, I felt the event has the potential to be a good event. I think there were growing pains to be worked out, but there definitely is support for it from the city of Providence and the state of Rhode Island. I personally feel that I probably won't put it on the race calendar for 2009 as the logistics were way too much for me. I prefer races where the race is the challenge, not getting to it. The good thing out of all this is Liz got a spot to Clearwater World Championships as a pro, which was a major goal of hers for this year. That was awesome!
ps. In case you were wondering, no, I did not poop my pants this time.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
For the Love of the Ghetto Honda
I'm in Rhode Island now and I finally have enough down time to sit down and type for once. The day has been kind of hectic as the logistics for the race tomorrow were downright asinine. Let's just say that it's beyond the level of complication that a full Ironman would require, and it's only a half.
We have rented this huge, hulking, monster of an SUV for our trip here. Since we need a bigger vehicle to carry the bikes and luggage with, we usually require something larger than the typical mid-size sedan. The rental agencies lately have been more than happy to discount the larger SUV's and mark up the "cross over" (euphemism for station wagon) because customers want the one that does'nt burn a half tank of gas going to the grocery store when gas is at $4 a gallon. This one was the "premium" of it's day. Leather seats, heated mirrors, adjustable pedals, electronic keys, and I counted 4 sun roofs!
Back at home I have this crappy (let's really say shitty) Honda CRV that I had bought before the turn of the millenia. It's underpowered, wobbly suspension, stick shift, and that's pretty much it. It's also been in about a half dozen "incidents", most of which were not by me (Liz). It also has for some unknown reason, about a dozen chainring marks on the ceiling. It's not a pretty car. It's the kind of car I wished I had in college. I ended up buying a new cheap car in high school which sort of meant you had to at least try and take care of it. My friends all had cars that cost less than their bikes and gave two shits about what happened to it. I liked that. I sort of like where the Ghetto Honda is right now, where it's market value falls right under the value of one of my race wheels. It's awesome when you can triple the value of your car by putting your bike inside of it.
At home, we have this game that's played on the highway called "Speed, Cut, Stomp" that every insecure asshole loves to play. Basically the way it's played is you find someone that pissed you off for creating some perceived slight, then you SPEED up to just a little ahead of them, and then you deliberately CUT into their lane and STOMP on the brakes. I really havent played the game on other people, but I've seen other people play it, and I've been on the receiving end once or twice. The beauty of the Ghetto Honda, is that it doesnt follow the rules of "Speed, Cut, Stomp". The whole premise of "Speed, Cut, Stomp" is that the person on the receiving end is supposed to step on their brakes to avoid a collision. Not Ghetto Honda. It doesnt care about things like straight metal or paint. It tells the other car to "Come on in. Old Painless is waiting!" The Ghetto Honda leaves the game with damage that no one will notice and the guy who played the game (hoping you would have followed his rules) gets a $2000 need for a new paintjob on his shiny SUV.
We have rented this huge, hulking, monster of an SUV for our trip here. Since we need a bigger vehicle to carry the bikes and luggage with, we usually require something larger than the typical mid-size sedan. The rental agencies lately have been more than happy to discount the larger SUV's and mark up the "cross over" (euphemism for station wagon) because customers want the one that does'nt burn a half tank of gas going to the grocery store when gas is at $4 a gallon. This one was the "premium" of it's day. Leather seats, heated mirrors, adjustable pedals, electronic keys, and I counted 4 sun roofs!
Back at home I have this crappy (let's really say shitty) Honda CRV that I had bought before the turn of the millenia. It's underpowered, wobbly suspension, stick shift, and that's pretty much it. It's also been in about a half dozen "incidents", most of which were not by me (Liz). It also has for some unknown reason, about a dozen chainring marks on the ceiling. It's not a pretty car. It's the kind of car I wished I had in college. I ended up buying a new cheap car in high school which sort of meant you had to at least try and take care of it. My friends all had cars that cost less than their bikes and gave two shits about what happened to it. I liked that. I sort of like where the Ghetto Honda is right now, where it's market value falls right under the value of one of my race wheels. It's awesome when you can triple the value of your car by putting your bike inside of it.
At home, we have this game that's played on the highway called "Speed, Cut, Stomp" that every insecure asshole loves to play. Basically the way it's played is you find someone that pissed you off for creating some perceived slight, then you SPEED up to just a little ahead of them, and then you deliberately CUT into their lane and STOMP on the brakes. I really havent played the game on other people, but I've seen other people play it, and I've been on the receiving end once or twice. The beauty of the Ghetto Honda, is that it doesnt follow the rules of "Speed, Cut, Stomp". The whole premise of "Speed, Cut, Stomp" is that the person on the receiving end is supposed to step on their brakes to avoid a collision. Not Ghetto Honda. It doesnt care about things like straight metal or paint. It tells the other car to "Come on in. Old Painless is waiting!" The Ghetto Honda leaves the game with damage that no one will notice and the guy who played the game (hoping you would have followed his rules) gets a $2000 need for a new paintjob on his shiny SUV.
So, the real part of the story is Liz and I are at the beach to drop off our bikes and go for a swim. I tuck the electronic key fob into my jersey and ride the coast for a good 20 minutes. We rack the bikes, grab the wetsuits and head to the beach. Maybe it was all the bikini's or thongs, or whatever, but I simply put my wetsuit on and jump in. Key fob included. Liz and I swim to a couple buoys, call it a day and head back to the car. I then realize that the key fob was still in my pocket. I fish it out and it's dripping water. Not good. I press the unlock button and nothing happens. Since this is the only way to use the car, the prospect of us getting screwed by this is pretty good.
I pop the fob open and see that it takes a normal watch battery and I quickly locate one at the bicycle mechanics tent. No luck. There was a real metal key intended for opening the doors in a "back up" situation inside the car, but since the doors won't open with the fob, we can't get to it. Furthermore, I don't even know if the car will turn on with the metal key because the only ignition socket I saw was for this key fob, that is obviously soaked and not working.
By some stroke of luck, I had left the sun roof slightly open (one of the four!) and we figure it might be possible to take a coat hanger or a stick and punch the "unlock" button, which would be just dandy at this moment. We start digging around for what we could find. Bike lock cable: no go, cardboard poster roll: no go, reaching in with our hands, hoping they would magically extend to the button: no go. Just then, one of our parking lot neighbors start giving us a hand with a 6" mobile phone antennae that is destined not to work, when he notices the car radio antennae is loose. He unscrews it and creates a good 4' stick that will reach the button. He tries it and gets close, but his hands are too big for the gap in the sunroof and the antennae is too bouncy on the button to do anything.
Enter Liz. Small hands. She creates a duct tape "finger" and wraps it around one end of the antennae, reaches in, and actually pushes the button. Twice. Nothing happens. Figures. Fancy car turned itself off. Then our parking lot neighbor comes up with an idea, use some clothes line, make a noose, tie the noose to the antennae, lasso the lock button and pull. Three attempts and he pops the lock. Great!!
As soon he opens the door, all the alarms go off. The key fob doesnt work, so it won't turn off the alarms. Pushing all the buttons relating to the car, and even putting the useless fob into the ignition doest do anything in stopping the alarm. The alarm goes off for at least ten minutes. Cops are driving by, our neighbor is calling the rental company to see if they know how to turn it off, and I'm punching the dashboard in a hopeless attempt to stop it. Then it stops. I don't know why, but it does. I hate car alarms.
I try the key fob in the ignition, and at least the car starts. Thank God. The fob still does,nt work to open doors though. What we did find out though, is if you used the metal "back up" key to open the door, the alarm starts going off. We did find out that if you started the car, the alarm stops. The problem though is the time between opening the door, inserting the fob, and turning the ignition, the alarm goes off alerting everyone that, yes, you are entering a car. The routine for the day has been doing a 1,2,3, Go! in a mad attempt to bust into the car and turn off the alarm. I'm at about 3 honks before I can turn it off, but most of the time it's alot more than that. On race morning, we have to get into the car at 3am while everyone else in the hotel is still asleep. That'll be fun.
I miss my crappy Honda.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Full House
Been rather busy lately, as the office prepares for it's big move into a new location. Tons of ambiguity, a huge lack of meaningful information, and tons of misinformation on what the moving plan is. I have my own secret plan shirking as much lifting/carrying duties as much as possible. They all assume since I work out everyday, I MUST be in great shape to lift heavy furniture and carry 45lb boxes of paper in each arm. I'm a racer, not a dump truck. Using me for moving is like using a Ferrari to carry a piano. Besides, my back is goes out on me like Paris Hilton on daddy's money.
So, this past week has been the visit of Liz's friends Beth and Ness. To be honest, I was really apprehensive about having to spend a week surrounded by women, as it brought back nightmarish flashbacks of my sisters' sleep-over parties when I was younger. The girls always took over the entire house, cackled and giggled the entire time, and did silly things like putting on make-up their face, putting on nail polish, and doing their hair, right before going to bed. I did try to talk Liz into letting move into my parents house for the week, but she pretty much convinced me that it would be just as a big nightmare for me as I would then be with my parents. Besides, Liz said that she would need someone to build bikes, and that was pretty much a clincher for me. The women arrived on Tuesday, and I found that both Ness and Beth were pretty normal people, not the nightmare I was expecting. Beth can really pound the Diet Pepsi like a champ. Ness had a pretty good sense of humor.
On Wednesday, the Elusive Red Bear called up, announcing that he was in Chicago and needed a place to briefly stay for the night. Beth and Ness woke up on Thursday, disappointed that they did not get the chance to see the Red Bear as he had left before they had awoken. They mistakenly confused Red Bear with the more easily seen Common Blonde Bear, as the Red Bear is nocturnal and extremely hard to find, hence the "Elusive" in it's title. The Red Bear is classified as endangered due to destruction of it's natural habitat, the Beerus Gardenius, and being poached for it's red pelt, as it's highly demanded on the black market. There has been unsuccessful attempts at pairing the Red Bear with the Bunnifer Bostonious, but it ended up being an incompatible species. The Red Bear was being sent to Vermont in hopes of spawning out there, and I was happy to have done my part of the conservation effort.
It was sort of funny, because on that Wednesday night, every room was occupied by someone sleeping in it, which I think is probably the first time in a few years. I admit, it was kind of fun to have people around and the first day that everyone left, it was rather quiet. Don't get me wrong, it was busy at times and I was forced to spend the nights in Liz's bed as she punched me the entire time because I was "breathing". It's always been fun to have other athletes around and I guess an athlete is an athlete, regardless of gender.
So, this past week has been the visit of Liz's friends Beth and Ness. To be honest, I was really apprehensive about having to spend a week surrounded by women, as it brought back nightmarish flashbacks of my sisters' sleep-over parties when I was younger. The girls always took over the entire house, cackled and giggled the entire time, and did silly things like putting on make-up their face, putting on nail polish, and doing their hair, right before going to bed. I did try to talk Liz into letting move into my parents house for the week, but she pretty much convinced me that it would be just as a big nightmare for me as I would then be with my parents. Besides, Liz said that she would need someone to build bikes, and that was pretty much a clincher for me. The women arrived on Tuesday, and I found that both Ness and Beth were pretty normal people, not the nightmare I was expecting. Beth can really pound the Diet Pepsi like a champ. Ness had a pretty good sense of humor.
On Wednesday, the Elusive Red Bear called up, announcing that he was in Chicago and needed a place to briefly stay for the night. Beth and Ness woke up on Thursday, disappointed that they did not get the chance to see the Red Bear as he had left before they had awoken. They mistakenly confused Red Bear with the more easily seen Common Blonde Bear, as the Red Bear is nocturnal and extremely hard to find, hence the "Elusive" in it's title. The Red Bear is classified as endangered due to destruction of it's natural habitat, the Beerus Gardenius, and being poached for it's red pelt, as it's highly demanded on the black market. There has been unsuccessful attempts at pairing the Red Bear with the Bunnifer Bostonious, but it ended up being an incompatible species. The Red Bear was being sent to Vermont in hopes of spawning out there, and I was happy to have done my part of the conservation effort.
It was sort of funny, because on that Wednesday night, every room was occupied by someone sleeping in it, which I think is probably the first time in a few years. I admit, it was kind of fun to have people around and the first day that everyone left, it was rather quiet. Don't get me wrong, it was busy at times and I was forced to spend the nights in Liz's bed as she punched me the entire time because I was "breathing". It's always been fun to have other athletes around and I guess an athlete is an athlete, regardless of gender.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Altitude Sucks
The Red Bear lives in Fort Collins, Colorado. He and I have been talking about making a weekend of bicycle riding up there for some time now. Plus, any excuse to get some time away from the wife can never be a bad thing. I had once gone up there in March for a Buckethead concert, ridden with Red Bear up Rist mountain, and then did some additional riding in the canyons.
This past weekend Fort Collins had a cycling festival which includes a couple days of racing, and today was the Rist Canyon race. The Rist race starts at 5,000ft, climbs pretty much straight up to an altitude of 8,240 ft, and then drops down through the canyons, covering a total of 64 miles.
As a cyclist living in the Midwest, I had always dreamed of doing a mountain race as all we have to work with here is maybe a 100ft climb if you are lucky. Watching the epic stages on the Tour de France was always fascinating, with the racers pitting against each other in the blatant dares against gravity as they climbed sheer walls. I woke up before the alarm Saturday morning in anticipation of my first race involving climbing over 3000ft that didn't involve doing endless loops in order to attain it.
Racing in the Midwest usually involves criteriums, which is basically sprinting circles around the block for an hour. This would be totally obnoxious and pointless if hadn't been for the other 100 people who had shown up to do the same thing with you. Racing well in a criterium requires 3 things: getting rid the instinct of hitting the brakes as you go around the corner, being able to sitting in the draft doing little work as possible without feeling guilty, and then be remorseless as you sprint around that person who worked his ass off the entire times as you cross the finish line. I figured that a race involving a mountain climb would be a little more interesting than everything else I have seen, plus it's kind of hard to crash when you are going 4mph.
The race started out gentle enough. Everyone pretty much understood there was no hope of getting the "drop" on the climb and being first to it didn't mean squat. The first few foothills leading to the mountain were tough as the pace definitely was on and it was intended to start shaking up the order of the group. I was definitely on the low end of this totem pole as I probably weighed 30lbs more than the people at the front. These guys were whippy greyhounds and I was a beefy corn-fed Midwestern guy by comparison (and I'm the skinny guy back at home.)
As we hit the mountain switchbacks, the grade was not the punishing, but the pace was solid. It was pretty much like doing a 40K time trial effort. The group started to stretch out, totally based on the riders power to weight ratio at aerobic capacity. I was really hoping it would play out like a TT and just arrive at the top with a nice solid effort. That lasted about 5 minutes. At the first increase in grade, there was a attack that was almost an all-out sprint, and then right back into TT effort. There was no place to coast/hide to recover. You either kept up with the attack or you did not.
In watching the Tour de France, I never really understood the whole teamwork thing on the mountains until now. The GC would often have one of the domestiques lead them up the mountain like they were pulling, but at 6-8mph, there is no draft benefit. I understood it now. The less "attacks" you have to cover, the less you need to dig into your anaerobic, and this means you can keep your aerobic power up. It helps alot to chase someone, and the faster someone can lead you up, the less your competitors will be able to make attacks.
Plus, mentally, it's really tough to concentrate when you're going up. Imagine doing intervals on the trainer without a fan or a breeze to cool you off. Climbing at a TT pace in the sun and getting a 4mph return in speed means you get hot. Really hot. I hadn't expected to be exploding in that much heat, covering my top tube in big drops of sweat.
As the climb went up, the attacks were getting tougher and tougher to cover, and the ability to recover from them was less and less. It was the altitude. My legs weren't burning, but it was the sensation of a slow suffocation by having your head stuffed inside a plastic bag. Going to a bigger gear to use muscle to power out of the funk wasn't going to work either. I was already at a 80rpm cadence with the 39/27 and it was sinking into the 50's as the climb approached 15% grades. Eventually I didn't make the selection. It was one of those moments where it was like a slow motion fall. They first got away by just a little bit. "You'll make it back up there once you can get those legs spinning" I told myself. At the next incline, they got a bit further. "OK, well just keep climbing the effort up when the incline gets less and get back on" and all I did was keep the gap even. Then the next incline was a drop, then the next one, and then again, until finally I just snapped in two and all I could do was pedal enough not to fall over. Cracked. Shelled. Exploded.
At this point, if you are not acclimated to altitude, there is no recovery. Red Bear had warned me about what to expect. Being a Midwest transplant himself, he knew all about what to expect when coming from the low ground. You might be able to throw down some effort, but the recovery isn't going to happen. Thankfully, I was near the top, but unfortunately the grade had now increased to 18%. I did the longest stand-up act, huffing and puffing away to get 40rpm, fearing I might have to do the "paperboy" to get up the last few switchbacks. The spectators shouted "the last turn" and I found the strength to grind around it to the summit.
The summit greeted me with an abrupt view of the canyon below with a straight 20% decent to the bottom of it. I could see my race speeding down around the bottom of the decent. Descending down a grade of 20% means you hit 60mph almost instantly. The air is so thin up there that the top speed you get is incredibly high, but it feels like you're only going 30mph at sea level. The problem is that even though it feels like 30mph, you are definitely carrying the kinetic energy of 60mph, so if you were to go down, you are going to skid for a long, long time. So yes, I was scared.
The first part of the decent was this long straight stretch down at 20%, but then it lessens out into something more gradual and switchbacks. After the first decent and into these switchbacks, I got caught by a chase group of the bigger guys who couldn't keep up on the climb. I was like "Great! People to work with!". Except these guys knew the canyon. I did not. They hit those switchbacks with insane speed and I was left slamming on the brakes so hard I could smell them burning. It was pretty much game over and I still had another 40 miles to go. I looked down at my water bottles and realized I had gone through most of what I had brought with me on the climb up. The rest of this race would be a hot, long, thirsty, ride for me.
The canyons were pretty and there were alot of shattered racers on the course in the same predicament I was in. Not in the race anymore, but needing to get back. A couple people tried to play pick-up with me and I wasn't interested. Too tired, too hot, too thirsty. I had never been in such a "just survive this" funk before, even when I had accidentally gone a 142 mile bike ride last summer. Got mixed in with a small group that I presumed was working together to get back home, but their surging and uneven pace was irritating me. I just wanted to even grind back home, not big chunks of effort and coasting, as that wasn't my style anymore since getting into triathlon.
Got back to the end and started hitting up the Gatorade coolers full of water. I think I drank most of one. I looked at my jersey and saw it was faded from all the salt left behind from all sweating I had done. Saw other people come in, desperate for water, and they hit the coolers hard too, running them dry one by one. Eventually it got funny as more riders kept coming in, expecting water to be in the coolers, and getting animated in their frustration as they found each one empty. I almost expected one them to throw them Donkey Kong style at the chips and salsa vendor at one point. I must have gorged on a half dozen pieces of pizza, then passed out.
Racing in Colorado is tough. If anything, it showed me how impressive racing in Colorado is. It's easy to get in a draft of someone faster and stay with them on level ground, but to race up a mountain is a completely different story. I'm not sure what I really learned from this other than racing up a mountain is really tough, and I basically suck at it. Maybe next time I'll smarten up and carry an oxygen tank with me.
This past weekend Fort Collins had a cycling festival which includes a couple days of racing, and today was the Rist Canyon race. The Rist race starts at 5,000ft, climbs pretty much straight up to an altitude of 8,240 ft, and then drops down through the canyons, covering a total of 64 miles.
As a cyclist living in the Midwest, I had always dreamed of doing a mountain race as all we have to work with here is maybe a 100ft climb if you are lucky. Watching the epic stages on the Tour de France was always fascinating, with the racers pitting against each other in the blatant dares against gravity as they climbed sheer walls. I woke up before the alarm Saturday morning in anticipation of my first race involving climbing over 3000ft that didn't involve doing endless loops in order to attain it.
Racing in the Midwest usually involves criteriums, which is basically sprinting circles around the block for an hour. This would be totally obnoxious and pointless if hadn't been for the other 100 people who had shown up to do the same thing with you. Racing well in a criterium requires 3 things: getting rid the instinct of hitting the brakes as you go around the corner, being able to sitting in the draft doing little work as possible without feeling guilty, and then be remorseless as you sprint around that person who worked his ass off the entire times as you cross the finish line. I figured that a race involving a mountain climb would be a little more interesting than everything else I have seen, plus it's kind of hard to crash when you are going 4mph.
The race started out gentle enough. Everyone pretty much understood there was no hope of getting the "drop" on the climb and being first to it didn't mean squat. The first few foothills leading to the mountain were tough as the pace definitely was on and it was intended to start shaking up the order of the group. I was definitely on the low end of this totem pole as I probably weighed 30lbs more than the people at the front. These guys were whippy greyhounds and I was a beefy corn-fed Midwestern guy by comparison (and I'm the skinny guy back at home.)
As we hit the mountain switchbacks, the grade was not the punishing, but the pace was solid. It was pretty much like doing a 40K time trial effort. The group started to stretch out, totally based on the riders power to weight ratio at aerobic capacity. I was really hoping it would play out like a TT and just arrive at the top with a nice solid effort. That lasted about 5 minutes. At the first increase in grade, there was a attack that was almost an all-out sprint, and then right back into TT effort. There was no place to coast/hide to recover. You either kept up with the attack or you did not.
In watching the Tour de France, I never really understood the whole teamwork thing on the mountains until now. The GC would often have one of the domestiques lead them up the mountain like they were pulling, but at 6-8mph, there is no draft benefit. I understood it now. The less "attacks" you have to cover, the less you need to dig into your anaerobic, and this means you can keep your aerobic power up. It helps alot to chase someone, and the faster someone can lead you up, the less your competitors will be able to make attacks.
Plus, mentally, it's really tough to concentrate when you're going up. Imagine doing intervals on the trainer without a fan or a breeze to cool you off. Climbing at a TT pace in the sun and getting a 4mph return in speed means you get hot. Really hot. I hadn't expected to be exploding in that much heat, covering my top tube in big drops of sweat.
As the climb went up, the attacks were getting tougher and tougher to cover, and the ability to recover from them was less and less. It was the altitude. My legs weren't burning, but it was the sensation of a slow suffocation by having your head stuffed inside a plastic bag. Going to a bigger gear to use muscle to power out of the funk wasn't going to work either. I was already at a 80rpm cadence with the 39/27 and it was sinking into the 50's as the climb approached 15% grades. Eventually I didn't make the selection. It was one of those moments where it was like a slow motion fall. They first got away by just a little bit. "You'll make it back up there once you can get those legs spinning" I told myself. At the next incline, they got a bit further. "OK, well just keep climbing the effort up when the incline gets less and get back on" and all I did was keep the gap even. Then the next incline was a drop, then the next one, and then again, until finally I just snapped in two and all I could do was pedal enough not to fall over. Cracked. Shelled. Exploded.
At this point, if you are not acclimated to altitude, there is no recovery. Red Bear had warned me about what to expect. Being a Midwest transplant himself, he knew all about what to expect when coming from the low ground. You might be able to throw down some effort, but the recovery isn't going to happen. Thankfully, I was near the top, but unfortunately the grade had now increased to 18%. I did the longest stand-up act, huffing and puffing away to get 40rpm, fearing I might have to do the "paperboy" to get up the last few switchbacks. The spectators shouted "the last turn" and I found the strength to grind around it to the summit.
The summit greeted me with an abrupt view of the canyon below with a straight 20% decent to the bottom of it. I could see my race speeding down around the bottom of the decent. Descending down a grade of 20% means you hit 60mph almost instantly. The air is so thin up there that the top speed you get is incredibly high, but it feels like you're only going 30mph at sea level. The problem is that even though it feels like 30mph, you are definitely carrying the kinetic energy of 60mph, so if you were to go down, you are going to skid for a long, long time. So yes, I was scared.
The first part of the decent was this long straight stretch down at 20%, but then it lessens out into something more gradual and switchbacks. After the first decent and into these switchbacks, I got caught by a chase group of the bigger guys who couldn't keep up on the climb. I was like "Great! People to work with!". Except these guys knew the canyon. I did not. They hit those switchbacks with insane speed and I was left slamming on the brakes so hard I could smell them burning. It was pretty much game over and I still had another 40 miles to go. I looked down at my water bottles and realized I had gone through most of what I had brought with me on the climb up. The rest of this race would be a hot, long, thirsty, ride for me.
The canyons were pretty and there were alot of shattered racers on the course in the same predicament I was in. Not in the race anymore, but needing to get back. A couple people tried to play pick-up with me and I wasn't interested. Too tired, too hot, too thirsty. I had never been in such a "just survive this" funk before, even when I had accidentally gone a 142 mile bike ride last summer. Got mixed in with a small group that I presumed was working together to get back home, but their surging and uneven pace was irritating me. I just wanted to even grind back home, not big chunks of effort and coasting, as that wasn't my style anymore since getting into triathlon.
Got back to the end and started hitting up the Gatorade coolers full of water. I think I drank most of one. I looked at my jersey and saw it was faded from all the salt left behind from all sweating I had done. Saw other people come in, desperate for water, and they hit the coolers hard too, running them dry one by one. Eventually it got funny as more riders kept coming in, expecting water to be in the coolers, and getting animated in their frustration as they found each one empty. I almost expected one them to throw them Donkey Kong style at the chips and salsa vendor at one point. I must have gorged on a half dozen pieces of pizza, then passed out.
Racing in Colorado is tough. If anything, it showed me how impressive racing in Colorado is. It's easy to get in a draft of someone faster and stay with them on level ground, but to race up a mountain is a completely different story. I'm not sure what I really learned from this other than racing up a mountain is really tough, and I basically suck at it. Maybe next time I'll smarten up and carry an oxygen tank with me.
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