My Two Right Feet

You know those super-duper, high-tech socks that are made specifically for running? They cost a whopping $12-$15 per pair and, if you believe what you read, they apparently are about as technologically advanced as the space shuttle (minus the random explosions, of course.) They've got all sorts of padding shenanigans in the high impact areas and stretchy malarkey in the flexing zones. If that's not enough, the socks are anatomically correct - one for the left foot and one for the right.

You just can't pay enough for that type of technology.

I remember back in my pre-teen years when I was the worst player on my basketball team. That was before I dropped team sports to become the worst runner on my track team. Which led me to becoming the worst racer at my first 10k. Which brought me to where I am today. Wherever the hell that is.

But I was talking about socks. Let's get back to socks.

Back in those horrendously painful basketball days, I tried my best to sport all the latest and greatest in pre-teen basketball wear. After all, I knew I sucked at the sport, the least I could do was look cool so I wasn't the butt of every joke.

To compliment my uber-hip Converse All-Stars, I'd strap on a pair of double-ringed knee-high basketball socks; the same ones that Larry Bird used to wear. The truth was, back then you really didn't get much more high tech than those double-ring knee highs. Besides, Sir Bird was a pretty good basketball player (butt ugly, but a good player) so, by the power of association, I wasn't as much of a fool, right?

As the years went by and my sports accomplishments leaned more towards sucking at individual activities rather than sucking in a team environment, my sock length started shrinking away from the knee and closer to the ankle. As if even my socks were embarrassed to be a part of me.

As I aged and foot technology advanced, so my socks became thinner as well. Shorter and thinner. As you age, apparently men's socks take a page out of the book of men's hairlines.

When I stumbled upon the now popular Wigwam running sock, I thought I'd died and gone to the great Sock warehouse in the sky. Thin, stretchable, cool looking... what more could a guy want in life?

You can probably imagine my surprise when, shortly after, I discovered the lovely folks at Wigwam made a triathlon-specific sock. I bought a whole truckload of them on the spot.

As for the difference between the running sock and the tri- sock? Beats the hell outta me but one of them had the Ironman logo on it and that was about all the convincing I needed.

So now here we are in 2007 and we've got these new, super expensive, anatomically correct, over-teched socks that are supposed to make me run extra fast. Apparently the new socks are to Wigwam's basic sock like Wigwam's are to my old double-ringed knee highs.

Catherine swears by this new expensive running sock style. She says they're the most comfortable sock she's ever worn. She says it's like walking on pillows.

But it's fifteen dollars?! I say in my most miserly tone. It's just a friggin sock!

About a month ago I found myself the recipient of some major discounts on some great athletic clothing. As I was carrying my double-armload full of clothing to the cash register, I noticed some socks hanging on the wall. Not only socks, but they were the super-charged running socks with all the padding and flexing and everything else you'd need to break land-speed records. I did a quick calculation and realized they'd only cost me about $6 per pair with my discount. I couldn't resist. I picked up a few pairs for both Catherine and me. After all, I trust my girlfriend's opinion, I might as well give it a shot.

Fast forward a few weeks later and we'll see the protagonist waking up at the usual early morning hour to get in the day's run. I put on my super-light sweat resistant shorts, slipped on my dry-fit wickable shirt, grabbed my extra light perspiration reducing visor and reached in the drawer for a pair of socks. As I lifted my hand out, I noticed myself holding one of these new pairs of anatomically correct tech-socks.

High-tech socks, I thought with a chuckle. Like you could actually make clothing that will improve performance.

With a large amount of doubt, I threw on the socks, put on my shoes and headed out into the morning.

I expected my world to change from the first step, as if I were running on pillows. It didn't. I was running on the sidewalk and it pretty much felt that way.

A mile later I did another foot check. The feet were comfortable, but there was no major pedi-breakthrough. In all honestly, I was looking for any excuse to take this technology down. Fortunately, that happened three miles into the run.

About the time I started heading up the mile long incline, my left foot started feeling funny. As if the sock was slipping off. Within another minute my foot started hurting. And then it went numb. And that, as we all know, led quickly to calf pain. Which stopped me in my tracks.

Goddam socks! I screamed.

I pulled the sock tight to make sure it wasn't bunching in my left foot. I stretched my calf. Walked. Let the blood come back to my foot. Then I started jogging again, super slowly. And somehow managed to waddle my way home without any major injuries.

I was cursing the socks as I struggled home. I was wishing ill will upon them as I walked inside. I was screaming profanity as I removed my left shoe. And just as I was about to peel off my left sock I noticed a big black "R" on the top.

I stopped.

I ripped off my right shoe and looked at my right sock. There was the same big black "R" on the top of that one too.

I slid over to my clothing drawer, ruffled through the mess, took out my other pair of high-tech socks and pulled them apart. Big fat "L" on the top of each one.

SHIT!

The entire time I was running with two right socks. Which explains why it felt like the left sock was bunching up, which explains why my left foot fell asleep, which explains why I got so gosh darn hostile at this piece of clothing.

I suppose this means I need to go for another run.
Maybe I'll just go back to those wonderful knee-highs. Life was so much simpler then.

What About Bob?

It wasn't the fact that we got up at 5:15 this morning to go for a bike ride. Nor the fact that it was pitch black when we started rolling down the road. It wasn't even the 15 minutes that I spent sitting on the sidewalk, in the dark, trying to adjust Catherine's maladjusted dérailleur. No, none of those got me flustered. What really did me in was much more simple. Actually it wasn't even a "what," more of a "who". More specificially, Bob.

Here's the story. Catherine's bike went all gobbledy-gook within 15 minutes of us hitting the road. I tried to fix it, but we all knew that I had no clue what I was doing. Surprisingly, Catherine let me play around in complete ignorance with all of the levers and screws on her bike as she stood there patiently watching me, with a blinding trust that warms my heart just thinking about it. When all was said and dirty, her bike was worse off than before I began to mangle it.

After I could do no more damage, she clanked her way back home, leaving me all alone for the remaining 2 hours of the morning ride. Ugh. Double ugh. It's a long lonely bike ride at 6am on a Wednesday morning. Needless to say, the moment I saw a fellow rider rolling along at about my speed, I latched on like a mail-order bride to an ugly millionaire.

Let me introduce you to Bob.

Bob is about sixty-something with a gut that can double as a side-table. He rides just about every day and is always sporting the full cycling gear from one of LA's most notoriously bad-ass teams. I've seen Bob on the road a billion times, though I'd never talked to him.

I actually caught up to Bob today because he had to brake to avoid traffic. A pedestrian was about to walk into the crosswalk in front of him and just before their foot hit the pavement, Bob hurled out a hearty "WHOA!!" that catapulted the walker five feet back onto the grass in fear and probably caused them to soil their underoos in the process.

Maybe the scream was a little louder than necessary, I thought, but I suppose you can't be too careful at this early hour. I rolled up next to Bob and began to chat.

For the next hour we rode side by side as I listened to Bob's stories about his mountain climbing feats in the Alps, his marathon accomplishments in Boston and his triathlon expertise in places I forgot to ask about. I heard about his knee problems and hearing loss. All in all, it was just the type of meaningless conversation I needed to keep my mind preoccupied on anything but the riding.

I realized that Bob, a guy I'd passed on the road for years, is a fairly nice chap. Friendly, warm and a good conversationalist. I almost wish I'd have made the effort to meet the guy earlier. Thumbs up for Bob's social mannerisms.

Soon after giving the thumbs up, I started paying a bit more attention to the way good ole Bob dealt with traffic. Sure he was nice and friendly to me, but something seemed a bit off in the way he was dealing with others.

That whole pedestrian scare at the beginning of our ride together kept haunting me. The first couple of times in traffic following that episode, I just figured he was being a bit cautious. It's a dangerous world out there and sometimes you have to be a defensive bike rider. Perhaps that means calling out to cars before they even merge into a lane close to you. People have died for less, I reminded myself.

I soon noticed that as traffic increased, Bob began to get a bit more vocal.

There was that time when we were approaching a red light and a car about four lengths ahead merged in front of us to get into the right turning lane. I hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. In fact, I didn't even need to apply the brakes in order to avoid the car. Yet the moment we pulled up to the drivers side, Bob turned to the driver and started chastising her on her driving abilities. I had no clue what he was talking about as he raised his voice high enough to seep through the driver's side window.

The poor, scared young girl that was driving the car rolled down her window and apologized profusely. I'm so sorry, she kept repeating. I thought I had enough room. I'm so sorry.

All the while Bob kept lecturing her on driving etiquette and the rules of the road and how she needs to respect bikers and hopefully she can get to work without killing anybody.

Fortunately the light turned green and the girl drove away in fear. We began riding again. This was about the point when I realized that Bob was hard of hearing. What did she say? he asked me.

I looked at him in horrified disbelief. She was apologizing, I replied.

It got a little worse twenty minutes later. We were riding up a busy street approaching yet another intersection. The cars were lined up at the light about ten deep. Halfway into the mix there was a van slowly inching forward and gradually pulling to the side of the road. With more than enough room to pass and very little danger of getting hurt, I rode by the van. As I passed, I gently put my hand on the passenger side window, as I tend to do. If they decide to make a sudden movement to the right, I want to be able to lightly tap on the window and let them know I'm there.

Well... apparently while my hand was lightly touching the window, Bob decided to punch the van and yell at them for hogging the road. As we all can guess, when the van passengers looked over and saw my hand on their car, they immediately assumed I was the one giving their automobile the smack down while they were at a virtual stand-still in traffic.

The light turned green. Bob and I road on in front of the traffic. I cringed inside as I waited for the van to approach us from behind. I desperately prayed that it wasn't filled with those gun-toting, morning-hating people that you hear about on the 5 o'clock news. I glanced over my left shoulder to see if Bob was there and to make sure he was paying attention in case a large shotgun were suddenly shoved into his earlobe.

I saw no Bob. What?! I looked over my left shoulder again. No Bob. I looked over my right shoulder and, lo and behold, there was Bob, tail between his legs, hiding behind me like a kid that just crayoned the dining room walls. Bob, the car beater, had positioned himself as far away from the oncoming angry people as you could get. More importantly, he strategically positioned himself in a place where I would take the bullet before it even gets to him.

I'm a goddam patsy, I thought as images of Lee Harvey Oswald flashed through my mind. I didn't do it, I said to myself. I don't hit cars. I don't anger random people. I don't want to go out like this.

Within seconds the van rolled up next to me. I looked over to see three very angry people yelling words at me I couldn't understand. As I searched for the muzzle that would inevitably get me fifteen seconds on the 5 o'clock news, I watched the passengers gesticulating obscenities in my direction.

Where's Bob now, I thought to myself. Mr. Brave Man. Mr. Bob Almighty. Mr. Yell At Traffic And Hide Behind A Rock.

People in glass houses, Bob.

As the van sped off into the distance, Bob magically appeared back on my right side (his hearing side) and continued our conversation as if nothing happened. Something happened, Bob. Something most definitely happened.

About forty-five minutes later, and five more random traffic outbursts, Bob peeled off and I finished my ride in peace.

I'm alive. No thanks to Bob. Another day successfully avoiding becoming a human interest story on the local news.


[Please note, though these events really happened this morning, the real person's name is not actually Bob. The names of people have been changed to protect the innocent. Not that he was there to protect me or anything. But two wrongs don't make a right. Even though three rights make a left.]

The Proper Way To Scream

I went for a bike ride this morning. Why? Because it's on my training schedule.

But that's not my point so stop asking silly questions.

About 5 minutes into my ride I was stopped at the traffic light on the corner of Ocean Avenue and California. I know, that sounds like some sort of symbolism, as if I were to call it the corner of Paradise Boulevard and Heaven. But trust me, there really is an intersection at Ocean Avenue and California Street.

So anyway, I'm there straddled across my bike waiting for the light to turn green on this crisp new morning when all of the sudden I hear somebody yelling. I couldn't quite make out what was said, but it was just as well. You don't really want to hear random yelling in the middle of a street during the wee hours of the morning, regardless of what is uttered. Naturally, I checked out my surroundings to see if I was in danger.

As I glanced to my right I saw a gentleman, about 75 yards away, walking in my direction. He was about 45 years old and fairly rough around the edges. Bulky fellow. If he didn't play football in high school, he probably beat up football players in high school. Maybe even ate them for lunch.

He was wearing a gray sweatshirt that was fairly dirty. His shoes and pants were smeared in the same soiled ilk. It looked like this guy had just slept on the side of the road. In fact, it pretty much looked like the side of the road was where this chap lived on a regular basis.

I soon realized that he was the one yelling. At whom, I'm not sure. But yelling he was.
It didn't take me much longer to recognize what he was saying.

I WILL KILL ANYBODY WHO TALKS TO ME!

That's what he was yelling. And he looked fairly serious about it too, if I may add. Not exactly what you want to hear at 6:30 in the morning.

But, again, that's not my point.

Here's where my point starts. It starts with the actual words that this Crazy Homeless Guy was yelling. And, more importantly, his communication style.

I WILL KILL ANYBODY WHO TALKS TO ME! he screamed with full authority.

In fact, let's stop here for a second and do a test. I urge you to try yelling these words yourself. C'mon, give it a shot... I WILL KILL ANYBODY WHO TALKS TO ME!!

It feels a little odd, doesn't it? I mean, not so much the yelling part (which may feel odd if you're in the library or church or math class or just a quiet person overall. But, again, that's not my point.) What I mean is that it feels odd yelling that many words all at once.

Crazy Homeless Guy used far too many words to get his primary message across.

First of all, let's remember where I was - the corner of Ocean Avenue and California. As you can see, this is a fairly busy intersection in the morning hours. You've got cars zooming up and down Ocean and an equal number of cars headed every which way on California. On top of that, there are runners zipping along the running trail and bikers flying down the bike path.

There's a lot of rapid movement on the corner of Ocean Avenue and California. And just about everybody is moving far too quickly through this intersection for them to hear even a couple words from somebody down the road, much less a complete sentence.

Picture yourself driving at 30 miles as somebody yells I WILL KILL ANYBODY WHO TALKS TO ME. At best, if you get to the intersection early, you may hear "I Will Kill.." before zooming out of ear's reach. At that point, you really don't need to know anymore anyway. In fact, within a few seconds you'd already be at the next block formulating the story you'll tell over bagels and coffee at work.

If you get to the intersection a little later in the communication, on the other hand, you may just hear the end of his sentence: "...Talks To Me". If you're that certain type, upon hearing those words you may even pull your car to the side of the road to talk to the alleged, seemingly desperate and lonely person. As we now know, you'd be in for quite the fatal surprise.

So my first point here really goes to rule number one of public speaking: Know Thy Audience.

In this test, Crazy Homeless Guy failed miserably. His audience was moving at a very rapid rate with extremely limited time for conversation. Eight words are far too many to communicate effectively with the Ocean Avenue and California crowd. Unless, I suppose, you're sitting on a bike at a traffic light over-analyzing speech patterns. (But again, let's not divert the topic.)

Busy intersection aside, let me move on to my second point. To illustrate this, I will need to bring forward one of the basic rules of writing (for the sake of argument, we'll just extrapolate this one into the spoken word.) If you've ever bothered to read Strunk & White's Elements of Style, William Zinsser's On Writing Well, or any of those other books about writing (which I know you haven't, but I have, so just trust me on this one), you'll know that one of the basic rules of communication is to remove any and all unnecessary words.

Apparently one of the biggest pitfalls of new novelists is that they get a tad over-enthusiastic about creating all sorts of brilliantly exaggerated, stupendously ridiculous embellishments to try and create an overwhelming feeling, or vividly blinding image, or depressingly happy mood within the reader and what they end up with is an absurdly unprofessional and borderline illegible run-on-sentence that makes the reader want to commit hari-kari or, at the very least, stop reading and go to another blog with shorter posts.

In other words, many writers use too many words to get their point across. The great writers (me clearly not being one of them) manage to effectively create brilliant imagery and deliver complex messages with very few words.

If you're interested in knowing what this writing mastery looks like, hop on your bike and pedal your triathlon-ass down to the library and browse through a couple pockets of brilliance like Nabokov's Lolita, Dostoevsky's Notes From Underground or Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. Hell, why don't you even pick up Stephen King's It for good measure (yeah, I throw Stephen King in with that illustrious group. Love him or hate him, you've gotta admit the guy is the master of manipulating words to scare the living crap out of you. Nobody does what he does as well as he does.)

So back to our Crazy Homeless Guy and his emphatic eight word threat. Clearly he did not adhere to these basic laws of effective communication. For Godsakes, it doesn't even feel normal to me to scream all those words. And, arguably, I'm not crazy or homeless. Screaming those words is about as unnatural as the swimming form of my YMCA friend, The Kicker.

I WILL KILL ANYBODY WHO TALKS TO ME!!

Eight words. Surely there are ways to get the message across more succinctly.

The truth is, there are many ways that Crazy Homeless Guy could've gotten his point across in a much more effective, natural sounding manner. All he'd have to do is remember the movie classic Stripes. And I guarantee you, just from the looks of this fellow, that he's already seen the movie.

Remember Frances in Stripes? He was the recruit with the bad attitude. Yet underneath the anger, Frances was a tremendous communicator who got his point across very quickly:

Touch me, I'll kill you.
Look at me, I'll kill you.

Look at how simple that is. Five words. And Frances didn't even have to yell. To the contrary, his word usage was so concise, so precise, that it needed no extra embellishment.

Touch me, I'll kill you.

versus

I WILL KILL ANYBODY WHO TALKS TO ME!!

I ask you, which is more effective.

But don't let me stop there, cause I've got even better examples and we all know this post isn't long enough already.

Perhaps the best example of the superior communication that may have helped Crazy Homeless Guy comes from the master of simplicity, the king of concise, the great, legendary orator, Frankenstein and his immortal words:

Fire, bad.

Really now, how much more succinct can you get. Two words and you've pretty much got the point across.

When I was in Italy a few years ago, a homeless man came up to me and asked for money. When he realized I was American, he started asking me about our President and my feelings towards his political agenda. I was stunned. The homeless man started talking in great detail about the political maneuvers, strategic alliances and discreet agendas that our government was practicing. He discussed intricacies of concepts I knew very little about, despite the fact that I had seen their headlines in the paper for days.

In Europe, the homeless are sophisticated in their conversations.

In the US, we scream things like I WILL KILL ANYBODY WHO TALKS TO ME, when everybody knows that a simple "Talking, bad" will do.

The Filling Of A Blank Mind

Have you run out of things to say on your blog?

Clearly Catherine was talking to me because there were only two of us in the room and only one of us has a blog. (Besides, she couldn't possibly be talking out loud to herself because she rarely asks questions when she's doing that, it's more just statements. I'm the one who asks the questions when talking to myself out loud. Mostly things like Are you crazy?! or What the heck was that?! But I suppose that's another story entirely.)

Why do you ask? I asked.

Because you haven't updated it as often as you usually do.

Oh. Well....uhhh..... I stuttered. And then for some reason I just decided to let whatever was on my mind come out of my mouth, which is never a good idea.

I just haven't had the time lately. I mean, it's not that I haven't had the time, it's just that I've been too busy. What I'm saying is that I haven't been overly busy, I'm just doing other things. Well, um.... uh..... I suppose I haven't had any wonderfully new ideas. Yeah, I guess you're right.

Catherine went back to doing whatever she was doing on the computer and I started mulling this thought over a bit. I consider myself a fairly creative chap, able to come up with different types of ideas for different types of things. If I may say so, I also consider myself a pretty decent story teller. I'm no Aesop by any means, but I know how to link a few words together into somewhat meaningful sentences.

So why has my mind been blog-blank?

You know what I've realized? I bet you don't. I've realized that the more I exercise, the more stories I come up with. This is funny for a couple of reasons. Firstly, not all of my stories are exercise-related (though many of them are). Yet for some reason, when I get my training on, it apparently stimulates my mind to come up with interesting things to talk about. Secondly... actually, I don't have a secondly. Forget secondly. Secondly is dead to me.

The past two weeks have mostly found me recovering from surgery or a cold. Or, really, both. I spent most of my time on the couch with my hands firmly clasped around the remote control. With the way I felt and the multitude of drugs I was on, they'd have to pry that remote out of my cold dead fingers.

One would think that this image alone would bring about a few stories. But one would be wrong, nothing even came to mind. Maybe it was the drugs.

Yet the moment I got myself on the bike again and dilly-dallied into the pool, I once again started thinking of things to say. As my body became active, so did my brain.

There's clearly some link in here between exercising the body and exercising the mind. And there's clearly some philosophical cum spiritual cum anatomical insight to all of this. And clearly that insight is completely eluding me.

But right now, both my body and mind are on the road to recovery. Which I suppose means you'll be hearing from me more than you have been over the past few weeks.

Unless, of course, I get injured.
Or too busy.
Or, you know, anything else that comes to mind.

Who's The Y Wacko Now?

Today marks a milestone in my athletic career. Let's note this in our respective diaries, shall we. Saturday March 3, 2007. On this day, for the first time in the memorable past, I went swimming at the local YMCA and didn't see any crazed freaky folks in the pool with me.

I know, I thought it was impossible as well.

But alas, nary a wacko was swimming in the pool this morning. They all seemed practically normal.
Who woulda thunk.

I half expected the Scuba Diver to be there. After all, she's in the pool just about every morning. She's always decked out in her full-face mask, super snorkel and two-foot flippers - pretty much enough gear to get her across the 25 yard pool in under 2.5 seconds. When I first saw her I thought she must be starting diving lessons and wanted to get in the pool to practice. That was 2 years ago. I'm not sure what practice she still needs.

Then there's The Kicker. She's my favorite. I love when she's in the pool with me because it gives me something to stare at - like a car crash doing laps. The Kicker could be a decent swimmer if she wasn't such a spazz. Calling her The Kicker may not even be accurate because what her legs are doing is to kicking like Spam is to meat: same basic category, but way more embarrassing.

Did you ever see the Monty Python shtick about the Ministry Of Silly Walks? It's the one where they walk across the room in exaggerated steps - long, wide, and high. That's how The Kicker swims, like she's on the swim team for the Ministry of Silly Walks.

I sometimes try to emulate her kick to see what it feels like, mostly because I want to know if there's anyway in hell that it even remotely feels natural. It doesn't.

At first I thought she was just practicing stretching her legs. But it's been over a year now and I think her legs are all stretched out. Besides, she does that so-called kicking throughout her entire workout, it's not just part of a longer training session. It amazes me that somebody can swim in a pool so frequently with such a dramatically retarded kicking form and not notice the style in which every other person in the pool is kicking. I'm not one to go up and randomly teach people how to swim, but when I see her flailing out there, all I want to do is give her a kickboard, a couple of simple pointers and perhaps a thwack across the face.

Of course there's also The Doctor. Il Doctore is at the pool like clockwork at 7am every morning. He jumps into the lane (literally) and then goes about his 30-or-so minutes of lap swimming. To the layman's eye, The Doctor is a fine swimmer. But if you look a little deeper you find some wonderfully fascinating idiosyncrasies. There's the knife splitting scissor kick that'll attack you like a moray eel if you come too close. I know, I've got the black and blue marks to prove it. And then there's the dragging left arm that just can't seem to get all the way out of the water on the recovery part of the stroke. Right arm looks good, finger-tip dragging and all. The left arm is like a dead jellyfish. I hope The Doctor isn't a left-handed surgeon.

Yet perhaps my favorite part of The Doctor's swimming style happens just as he approaches the end of the lane. Throughout each lap he's got a fairly decent stroke that's not too rushed. But for some reason unbeknownst to man, whenever he's within three feet of the wall he tries to fit in four or five extra strokes in the distance where there should be no more than one. I suppose it's the swimming equivalent of Fred Flintstone's bowling form.

But, as I said before, none of my freaky swimming buddies were there during my workout today. Instead, I was joined in my lane by a woman so streamlined I mistook her for a dolphin at one point. No matter how hard I pushed, she was kicking my ass every which way but loose. And then there was the couple in the lane next to me that may very well have had a Speedo endorsement from the looks of them.

I suppose what this all means is that I was today's pool freak.
Given my recent form, that's not too far from the truth.

There Are No Atheists in Triathlon

I am not a religious man. I don't go to temple or church. I don't own a star of David, a cross or any other similarly symbolic sacrosanct token. I've been to Jewish services, Christian, Catholic, Baptist, Buddhist and multi-denominational. I don't subscribe to any particular belief, but am accepting of all. I was raised a Jew, but no longer celebrate any of the holidays. I give gifts on Christmas, oftentimes even get a tree. I love the smell of pine, the expression of love through giving and the convivial feeling that immerses our culture throughout the month of December. I believe Jesus existed, but I'm not necessarily buying the rest of the story. I am not against religion in any way. It is just that I am not a religious man.

I own a Bible and have read through its many parts. It's a tough read. I've been Bar Mitzvah-ed and read from the Torah. It's a tougher read. I don't understand the least bit of Hebrew, I can barely even pronounce the words. I don't believe that there is an actual being overseeing; no mystical grand puppetteer playing with the marionette strings of our lives. We are what we are when we are where we are. If there is a God, it is us. I don't believe Heaven as an actual destination; heaven is right here, right now. I don't believe in Hell, it is just a state of mind.

I believe in the spirit and will of humanity. I believe in the goodness that lies within us. I believe in happiness and unity and love. I believe in the energy that surrounds us the energy that drives us the energy that connects us all. I believe we are all connected. I believe there is a reason, but we are looking outside when the answer lies within. I believe that when I die, there is a part of me that remains. I believe that what you do, affects what I do, affects what you do, affects the world. Whether I know you or not. I believe there is a magical mysterious part of each of us that creates each of us and molds each of us into each of us.

I am not against religion in any way. It's just that I'm not a religious man.

Yet whenever I get to the starting line, I pray. I pray for the energy to battle the unknown that lies before me and the power to survive. I pray for the strength to change the things I can change, the courage to deal with those things I cannot, and the wisdom to know the difference. I pray for peace and patience and serenity. And then the starting gun goes off...

I struggle, I fight and battle my way through. I continually remind myself to stay calm and relaxed. Don't push it too hard, don't go over the edge. And the deeper I get into the race, the more difficult it becomes. My body begins to shut down. Every atom of every muscle screams at me to stop. To give up. But my mind pushes me forward. An epic battle plays over again between the phsyical and the spiritual. I have to dig deep and deeper to keep moving. To take another step. Yet I do. I always take another step. It is that magical mysterious part of me that drives me and keeps me moving towards the finish line. Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil. For I am with me.

And miles upon miles later, the end is nigh. And as I make the final turn to the finish line, the skies open up. And if there is a God, if there is a being overseeing, He is always with me at the finish line. His hand is in mine driving me forward. His arms are around me, giving me strength. And if there is a God, we always finish together. If there is a God, I would bet all the money in all the world that he is an endurance athlete.

I am not a religious man.
But there are no atheists in long-distance triathlon.


******

[Note: I actually wrote this in January 2006, but I've been thinking a bit about it lately so figured I'd post it again... if for nothing else than it means I don't have to do a search everytime I want to read it.]

Suddenly It All Makes Sense...

Now I know why he doesn't respond to my letters anymore...

The Memory of Pizza

I didn't exercise today. Or yesterday. Or the day before that. I won't exercise tomorrow either.

You wanna know why I haven't exercised this week?
Bad genes.
Yep. It's my parents fault.

Let me tell you the story. But first, let me confess that I'm flying high on some generic version of Vicodin right now so I can't be held responsible for anything I say. According to this little yellow label, apparently I may suddenly fall asleep and start drooling on the computer keyboard. I can't be held responsible for that either. In fact, now seems just about as good a time as any to void myself of any and all responsibility whatsoever. I hereby declare myself irresponsible. Ah, the freedom. I feel like I'm becoming one with my inner-two-year old.

Now that we got that out of the way, let's get back to the story.

It's all kind of a blur, but the one thing I remember most is the fishing hook. It kept coming in and out of my mouth, attached to that long black string. Or at least I thought it was a fishing hook. Through the fuzzy filter of my hazy vision and blurred consciousness, it sure looked a lot like a fishing hook. I soon figured out that this hook was stitching the long black string into my mouth, but I couldn't feel anything. I'm not sure I could feel anything anywhere on my body, I was that far out of it. This, of course, was probably a result of the enormously long needle that had been poked around my mouth, injecting what seems to have been an elephant tranquilizer into my face.

I'm jumping all around, aren't I? OK, OK... let me go back to the beginning...

My parents gave me quite a few things. They gave me a runners body and an endurance racer's mindset. They gave me a love for reading, a sickening addiction to crossword puzzles and a drive to be the best that I can be. They gave me an Amazon gift certificate for my birthday. And they gave me a receding gum-line. Why don't you guess which one of those had me in surgery this week. I'll give you a hint, it has nothing to do with Jeff Bezos.

I've been postponing the surgery for the better part of a year but I figured now was as good a time as any to get it done. After all, I still have nearly two months before my first race of the season and well over 5 months before any race that I really care about.

Like other similar minor-but-not-that-minor surgeries, I'd have to take at least a week off from training. Once I actually start exercising again, I'd undoubtedly have to take it very slowly while getting back into the flow of it all. On top of that, the mouth surgery meant that I would be relegated to a diet of liquids for at least one week, maybe more. There goes any hope of maintaining strength.

Naturally, like any good triathlete, I really focused on some quality carbo-loading prior to the surgery. I guess you can say that I had a one week taper in preparation for going under the knife. Hell, if I was going to be relegated to sipping my meals out of a straw for the next forseeable future, I wanted to get as many scrump-dili-icious carbo-filled treats into my system as quickly as possible. If I couldn't get the taste, I at least wanted the memory of pizza to get me through these dark days.

The moment I showed up in El Doctore's office for the surgery, they had me down four white pills. What are these? I asked as they silently slipped down my esophagus. Halcion, Nurse Rosie told me without bothering to even look up and acknowledge my existence.

Halcyon? I replied with a smile and my best "pay attention to me" voice. You mean, like the halcyon days of youth? That sounds like fun.

Nurse Rosie looked up from the folders she was filing and stared at me. If looks could slap someone across the face, consider me slapped. Why don't you go sit down and relax, she said right before she turned her back on me.

OK, then. I see the way it is. A guy just tries to be a little nice every once in a while and this is what he gets? A visual slap in the face? Harrumph.

I turned around, sat down in one of the waiting room chairs and began to read my book.

Twenty minutes later I had just begun to relax when another nurse came by and called my name. Come with me, she said. How are you feeling? A little tired?

Is this supposed to make me tired? I questioned with all honesty while I put down my book and stood up from the chair. As I began to walk over to the Nurse who was graciously holding the door open for me, the halcyon days of youth kicked in and I wobbled my way across the waiting room, nearly slamming into the wall right next to the door. I quickly pulled myself together and tried to act normal. I looked at the carpet behind me as if it was the floors fault, and I mumbled some inaudible mumbo-jumbo about new shoes and sticky carpets.

As I mentioned before, the rest of the day was a bit of a blur. Apparently this halcion stuff has got a real kick to it. I remember very little from the actual surgery. About five minutes after I was placed in the fancy surgery chair, the doctor walked in and I vaguely remember having a conversation with him about Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin. It seems a bit ridiculous now but it all made such perfect sense back then.

At some point I put on my iPod to relax me during the two hour procedure. I have no recollection of anything that I actually listened to on my iPod. Truth be told, I'm not even sure I remembered to turn the darn thing on. Fast forward what seemed like a couple of seconds and I start coming back to reality and noticing this fish hook coming in and out of my mouth.

Next thing I know I'm sitting in the waiting room reading my book and waiting for Catherine to pick me up. I don't remember reading my book. In fact, I don't remember how I got to the waiting room. I don't even remember Catherine driving me home. Yet somehow I got back here, where I am right now laying on the couch and typing this, three bottles of very colorful pills by my side.

The day after the surgery I woke up with that part of a hangover that has you trying to piece together the previous day's activities with a fair bit of fear and trepidation - knowing full well that you've embarrassed yourself but searching the corners of your mind to figure out how much and how badly. I remember speaking on the phone with a few people but have no recollection as to what I said. I vaguely recall a friend of mine stopping by for a couple of seconds and looking at me like I had fallen off the loony side of the sanity barrier, but I don't remember much beyond that.

For some reason that whole Ben Franklin conversation seems to be continually haunting me.

Meanwhile, here I am with my mouth pain. I'm relegated to sipping on yogurt, cold soup and smoothies for the next week or so. I suppose this is a pretty good diet, had I actually needed to lose weight. I weighed myself this morning and already lost 3 pounds. (In case you're wondering, yes, my ab still looks like jello.) My body is a bit tired as it strives to recover from the surgery with very little nutritional help. I haven't yet looked into my mouth because, frankly, I don't want to see what's going on in there. It hurts and I can feel the stitches, that's all I need to know.

I am counting the days until I can exercise again. I got a green light to do a light workout on Sunday. That said, I went for a walk up the street today and it damn near tuckered me out so I don't really have high expectations for Sunday's so-called "light workout".

On my little jaunt today, I walked by the Starbucks and the Wild Oats supermarket. My mouth started watering. But it wasn't until I stood outside the local restaurant and watched all the patrons eating their salads and sandwiches that life got a bit more difficult. I longed for a bite of bread, a breast of chicken. A measly little corn chip would do.

I suppose this is what it's like to get old. Remind me to call my parents and thank them for all this.

Body By Jell-o

Let's face the facts, I've been doing crunches non-stop for the better part of 10 years and I've never seen more than a one-pack, much less a 12-pack. I don't have abs - I have ab. Just one. One jiggly, squishy, Jello-like ab.

I wish I could have a flat, ripped stomach. I've been doing these damn crunches since Kurt Cobain was alive. Trust me, it ain't working. Catherine, on the other hand, has the good genes. She's got a naturally flat ripped stomach and I don't think she'd ever done a sit-up until last year when I showed her how.

I like patting and rubbing her flat stomach. It's neat.

So after a decade of these meaningless crunches, somewhere around last September I decided I had enough. I figured, if I don't have a washboard by now, it just ain't ever gonna happen.

Keep that little anecdote in the back of your mind, cause right now I'm going to completely change the subject on you.

Biking has never been my strong sport. Most of the time it's been my weak sport. As a matter of fact, it seems to be getting weaker. Now that I mention it, the word "weak" seems to be a great single word summary of my biking skills.

I fancy myself a runner - I've got strong calves and the thin runners body. On the other hand, I've got very weak, barely non-existent quads and a couple-a hamstrings that are tighter than Saddam's noose. Since quads and hamstrings are pretty crucial elements in cycling, it doesn't bode well for me at all.

But I'm thin and small. In fact, my physical stats are eerily similar to pro-cycling, blood-transfusing wunderkind, Tyler Hamilton (of course that includes his unborn twin). When cyclists see my physique they sometimes say things like "man, you've got a climbers body" and "wow, bro, you must fly up the hills."

I usually respond to these comments with some witty, highly intelligent retort such as, um.....uhhhh....... no.

Truth be told, I'm a much better cyclist on the flats (where I can use my lower legs) than on the hills (where I have to rely on my lack-of upper legs). So whenever I'm out for a long bike ride or climbing endless hills it places all sorts of strain on my quads and hamstrings. Inevitably I'm going to end up with loads of back pain. It's a given. Back pain and bike riding go together for me like ice cream and pretzels (which happen to be the perfect mixture of flavors).

It is expected that when I finish a ride, my back is going to hurt. If the back doesn't hurt, I really didn't go that far.

So if we're ever at a race together, you'll recognize me when I hit T2 - I'm the one that looks like a question mark.

Fortunately, the running part of the race usually helps to straighten me out and make the pain go away. After a few short minutes on the road, my back is back to normal.

That is, all would go back to normal until this past December. I went out on a short little three miler this past December. It was a nice run, as my recent runs go. My calf didn't hurt, achilles was fine... but when I finished, my back was in excruciating pain. I was confused. My back isn't supposed to hurt after a run. For a second I thought I had just gone for a bike ride and I wondered why I did that in running shoes and jogging shorts. Then I realized something had changed - and not for the better.

Since that time, my back has become increasingly pained after my runs - which sure sucks some of the joy out of the ole running straw, if you ask me.

So now I've got back pain when I bike AND when I run. Fortunately, swimming in the nice cool water is so soothing, it usually revives and refreshes my tired body. Until yesterday. (You can probably see where this one is going, can'tcha smarty-pants?)

I was doing a nice easy 2500 yard swim, really focusing on my stroke. Reach, extend, push. Reach, extend, push. When all of the sudden, somewhere in the middle of my second 600, smack dab in the midst of a mighty impressive extension, I felt a little tweak in my back. Uh-oh, I said, causing me to swallow quite a bit of water.

I continued on with my swimming a bit more cautiously. The back pain didn't go away. Did I pull something? Did I break something?

Finally, as I pried myself out of bed this morning, my hand on my back in my best geriatric pose, it all started making sense. Since I stopped doing my daily crunches, my core strength has plummeted six feet under. Not only do I have jelly belly, but all the support that was hidden down beyond the flab, is there no longer.

In a funny way it kinda made me proud to realize that my crunches actually did something good for me. Maybe the 1990s weren't so pointless after all. And I suppose this is as good enough reason as it gets to start crunching again.

Don't you love a happy ending?

The Mind Chill Factor

"Somewhere out there is a nice, sunny place

with warm breezes and shady palms
where all the second place guys train."

It was 48 degrees this morning with a Mind Chill Factor of 36 degrees. Needless to say, I bundled up in all my winter riding gear. Dry-fit shirt, armies, long-sleeve riding jersey, winter tights, wool socks... you know the drill.

Of course the one thing you probably don't know is what a Mind Chill Factor is. Let me explain... Basically, it's just like a Wind Chill Factor but without the wind. Oh, and the difference in temperature is all in your mind. That's why it's called a Mind Chill Factor.

You see, those of us who live out here in Paradise are used to warm sunny days. Take today, for instance. The forecast called for rain showers. In fact, the last four days were supposed to be filled with these so-called rain showers. As I look outside all I see is a clear blue sky - the same blue sky that I've seen for the last four days. There's not a single cloud in sight. And the temperature? Why its a sweltering 72 degrees. This is what we in Southern California like to call a "normal winter day."

However, this is the entertainment capital of the world so, like good entertainment capitalists, we watch a lot of TV. While watching the boob-tube we see many pictures of random places with all of the snow piled high and people bundled up in thick funny-looking coats. We listen to fat, jolly guys on morning talk shows tell us about six degree temperatures in this town and minus fourteen degree temperatures in that town.

And as we listen to it all, us Paradise-livers, we think its all made-up. As if its another reality show gone-bad. Because, after all, its seventy frickin degrees outside and I feel like turning on the damn air conditioning.

But then every once in awhile we get hit with a cold day. Right smack in the middle of our shorts-wearing winters, we'll get slammed with a thirty degree morning or popped with a random snowfall in Malibu. And the fact that we're so used to endlessly warm sunshiney days, the cold ones are even harder to deal with. It warps our minds.

So after all the TV watching and newspaper reading about schools being closed and cars sliding off the road and people freezing their petunias off, we half expect it to happen to us. In fact, we so much half-expect it that when the temperature drops even a degree below the mildness we consider "normal," our minds tell us that the Ice Age has cometh.

When you experience two months of seeing 55 degree mornings, the 48 degree awakening is a chill-fest. It actually makes you feel as if it is freezing. It's the Mind Chill Factor. And, you see, the longer the warm spell has been, the greater the Mind Chill Factor on those randomly cold days. Dare I say but a 48 degree day with a 36 degree Mind Chill is colder than a morning when you are actually used to it being 36 degrees.

I got an e-mail from my sister last night. She lives in upstate New York and had recently finished a bike ride in their 25 degree weather. She seemed happy in the e-mail, though she was talking about how she spent the rest of the evening defrosting her fingers. That e-mail was on my mind when I woke up this morning and Catherine told me it was 48 degrees.

48 degrees?! I exclaimed in horror all the while having visions of frostbite and desperately trying to remember some of those survival tips from Man vs Wild.

I took out every single piece of warm riding clothes that I owned and layered them on. Wool socks? Better put those on too...(not realizing until later that they were my hiking socks, not riding socks). As I started to roll my bike outside, somewhat resembling the sorry-looking child in A Christmas Story, I saw a lone toe warmer on the floor.

Catherine, the wonderful girlfriend she is, had bought me these toe warmers last Christmas to make sure my little feet were all warm and snuggly on these frigid morning rides. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way I lost one. But with a Mind Chill Factor of 36, one warm foot was better than no foots at all. So I strapped that darn thing onto my right cycling shoe and wobbled out the door.

You probably think I started sweating immediately. You'd be wrong. As it turns out, I wasn't overdressed in the slightest. I was comfortable my entire ride. You know why? Because it's all in the mind. Sure it was 48 degrees outside, but in my mind, it was freezing.

Now excuse me, I need to get a hot cup of nonfat, no sugar cocoa and cuddle up around the electric fireplace.

Just Say No

Thank you for being patient with me. Sometimes I think you have more patience with me than I have for myself. It's usually those times when I also think that I've had too much caffeine. From my severely limited research, I've discovered that patience and caffeine appear to be inversely related. The more caffeine, the less patience.

Take me, for instance (especially since I was the only person involved in my so-called research study). The effect of caffeine on my body is somewhat similar to the effect that funny mask had on Jim Carrey. My jaw drops, my tongue rolls out onto the ground and my mind starts bouncing around in all sorts of directions until I feel like the Tasmanian Devil.

If I have so much as a glass of iced tea after 3 o'clock in the afternoon, I'm destined for some serious sleeping problems that evening. Truth be told, there is enough caffeine in a decaf cuppa joe to get me three steps to loopy.

Today is a rest day. No exercise. Which means my morning is wide open to partake in one of my favorite activities: sitting outside the Coffee Bean and reading the morning paper. So I got myself a decaf cup of something-or-other, plopped my fanny on my favorite outdoor corner seat and began to peruse the latest news about Iraq-this and Afghanistan-that (I refused to read any articles about Iran today because, after all, it's a rest day. I didn't ran.) As I took slight yet savory sips of my sugar-laced, milk-drenched, vanilla powdered bean-juice (I like coffee just as long as it doesn't taste like coffee), I could feel the decaf caffeine seeping into my blood stream.

Somewhere around the end of the first section, I started losing track of the story lines. About the time that I hit the Business section I lost the ability to focus on an article past four paragraphs. And by the time I got to the Sports section, I just resorted to looking at photos. I really had no patience left for anything else.

Suddenly I looked up and saw the window washer guy in front of me. Excuse me sir, he said in what I must admit was a very friendly tone. I just need to get to that window behind you, it won't take more than a few seconds.

Everybody else in the row got up out of the way quickly and patiently, knowing that the washer-fellow would have to do the entire window behind us all. As for me, I was ready to rip his head off for no reason whatsoever.

I grabbed my paper and shoved it under my arm, hefted my cup of coffee off the table and stormed down the street. As if this person actually offended me. As if there was any need for me to be rude.

My mind was bouncing off the walls as I walked towards my home and I started thinking about why I got up in a huff and walked away. I had no answer. Except the caffeine. The evil evil caffeine. As I neared the corner, I walked up to the garbage can and threw away my half-filled cup of coffee.

This caffeine stuff. It's just not good for me.

Now here I am, just short of 5 o'clock in the evening and I still feel the final effects of my decaf caffeine trip. It's odd, really, the Dr. Jeckyl and Mr. Bounce Off The Walls response I get to caffeine.

But there's a bright side. Isn't there always?
And that's with triathlon. Ah, I love when life leads back to triathlon.

I, like many of my racing brethren, enjoy ingesting a gel or two when I race. I know there are some of you out there that marvel at this fact - where the mere thought of a gel may make you vomitous. You, my friends...you can drink down your Perpetuems and sip on your disgustingly colorful liquid meals. Give me a Sonic Strawberry Clif Shot and a handi-wipe anyday.

When my mind is going and my body is following, a gloriously apple Carboom or deliciously raspberry Hammer Gel is the magic elixir. Within ten minutes I am flying down the road again as if I never had a problem in the first place. And when I'm out there near the end of the race day, struggling to pick up my pace and chase that elusive PR; when everything in my body is screaming to stop, to sit on the curb and cry... it is then, my all-liquid diet compadres, it is at this time that I'll calmly ease out a Tangerine PowerBar Gel. Or better yet, let's try the double-caf Espresso Love Gu.

There's nothing like the silky smooth taste of a caffeinated gel to turn my world around. And there's something about movement that makes it all better. Sure, this morning as I sat still, calmly trying to read the paper, the caffeine in my body was pushing and pulling and forcing me to go. We have no patience, it told me. We don't like rest days. But I didn't listen. I tried to read the paper. I tried to relax.

It didn't work.

But with 7 miles to go in a half-Ironman, I say bring on the caffeine. Double-caf. Triple-caf me. Give me whatcha got. Cause every speck of every gel is pushing me faster and faster to the finish and....

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We apologize for the sudden interruption. We've had to cease transmission of this blog post due to technical difficulties. The author was suddenly experiencing peculiarly maniacal behaviour, jumping up and down while screaming such seemingly random phrases as "Tri Berry" and "Lemon Sublime." And all with a peculiar British accent. We shall resume transmission shortly.

17 Things That Triathlon Has Taught Me About Life

1. There are good days and there are bad days and sometimes you can't tell the difference until you start.

2. Contrary to popular belief, sleep is not overrated. Not in the slightest.

3. Don't forget to breathe.

4. Just because it's raining doesn't mean you should cry.

5. Nobody ever said it was easy.

6. Pain is temporary. Pride lasts a lifetime. Sometimes even two.

7. Create a plan and stick to it. It may not always work, but if you stay focused and relaxed, it'll all end up just fine.

8. You've got to try. No matter what happens in the end, you'll have bigger regrets from not ever trying.

9. Strength and courage blossom from the sands of adversity.

10. Sometimes its the little things that make the big differences

11. Getting to the starting line is usually a lot harder than getting to the finish.

12. Listen to your body and listen to your mind. And make sure you know when they're lying to you.

13. You can't change the past and you won't alter the future. Enjoy right now, right now.

14. Smile - it does a body good.

15. Be supportive of others. We're all in this together.

16. It's OK to cry.

17. Don't forget to eat. Especially breakfast - that's a really important one.