I'm Not Crazy - or - SOS (Survival Of The Shawangunks): A Race Report

People think I’m crazy. You’re crazy, they say to me.
But I don’t listen to them because I know they’re wrong. I’m normal.

It all started a few years ago when my sister decided to move to Gardiner, NY, two hours outside of the Big Apple. Gardiner is one of those small hamlets that would actually be quaint if it were big enough to have a downtown.

With only 5000 people, it nestles itself at the foot of the Shawangunk mountains in the lower Catskills. A haven for rock climbers, mountain bikers and off-road runners, Gardiner is somewhat of a smaller version of an outdoor-man’s paradise – as if Colorado were crammed into 30 square miles.

Meanwhile, zip over to the other side of the country and her younger brother (that’s me) had been gallivanting about for well over a decade in the sprawling concrete metropolis of Los Angeles. He had taken to this thing called triathlon, an activity that few people in the family really admitted to understanding. But he’s in California, they’d whisper quietly to others in their cocktail party confessions. You know those Los Angeles people, they do some really weird things. He’s a little crazy, that kid.

So when said sister saw an article in the local Gardiner paper about a race called the SOS (Survival of the Shawangunks), she thought it sounded pretty nutty. Maybe even crazy enough for the triatha-something brother in California.

You should do this race, she said to me somewhat jokingly, in the same way somebody might say, You should try going over Niagra Falls in a crockpot, that sounds like fun.

That DOES sound like fun, I responded with weird and crazy wide eyes.

That was the end of that conversation. At least for the next five years.

Fast forward to 2006 when my sister decided to do her first triathlon. Like many others before her, she learned to love the sport and was hooked. She started racing triathlons like they were going out of style – a sprint this weekend, an Olympic that one. I can’t believe you’re doing so many races, I’d say to her. You’re crazy!

Next thing I know we stumble into 2007 and I get a call from my sister telling me she wants to race the SOS and would I be interested. Huh? I mean…. Hell yeah!

And so we signed up.

I ask you, who is the crazy one now?!

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the SOS, let me give you the quick rundown. Officially it’s called a “triathlon”. In real life, it’s probably a cross between a triathlon, an adventure race and the movie Alive… but with fewer plane crashes and significantly less cannibalism.

It starts with 30 miles of road biking. That leads to 4.5 miles of trail running which segues into 1.1 miles of lake swimming. After that you’ve got 5.5 miles of more trail running and another .5 miles of lake swimming. As if that’s not enough, toss on another 8 miles of trail running, another .5 miles of lake swimming and then cap it off with a .7 mile trail run that might as well be considered mountain climbing.

It all sums up to 30 miles of biking, 2.1 miles of swimming and 18.7 miles of running. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention that there is only one transition - right after the bike ride. That means that you run with your swim gear and you swim with your run gear. Yes, that includes the shoes.

Crazy, huh? Maybe even a little weird – but in an intriguing kind of way? I thought so too.

Keep in mind that all of this takes place under the incredibly scenic backdrop of the Shawangunk Mountains at the foot of the Catskills, right in the heart of Gardiner where, if you remember what you read 30 seconds ago, my sister currently resides.

I had run on these Shawangunk trails during previous visits to my sister’s house and knew fairly well how gorgeous the area was. If nothing else, I knew the race would be an extremely scenic experience and as the date approached my excitement increased.

I have to admit that I don’t usually look forward to races with excitement. The nervous energy and anxiety usually pin any potential excitement to the floor and pummel it with wedgies and wet willies to the point in which the excitement doesn’t even want to come out and play anymore.

For some reason, this race was different. I was honestly excited about doing it. I smiled at the thought of it. Maybe it was because I knew the course was so gosh darn pretty. Perhaps it was because I couldn’t wait to swim in the pristine, fresh water lakes as opposed to the soiled, petrol-tasting salt waters of LA. Or maybe I was just looking forward to gallivanting on the scenic, winding mountain trails instead of dodging deranged drivers on the smog-filled, highly trafficked city roads of home. Either way, when Catherine and I flew out to Gardiner on Thursday, I wasn’t too nervous.

After a couple of days playing with my nieces (who, for the record, are the cutest things this side of puggle puppies), I still didn’t feel like I was about to embark on a difficult journey. However, there’s nothing like a pre-race athlete’s meeting to energize the anxiety-ridden animal from within. Saturday night’s mandatory meeting did just that. Which led me to the inevitable restless sleep on Saturday night. Which awoke me at 4:45 the next morning.

OK, time to bridle that anxiety. Let’s get to the race report...

THE BIKE
The Distance
30 miles

The Day’s Bike Challenges
* The nervous feeling of nausea that started at the pre-race athlete’s meeting and just won’t go away

The beginning of the SOS is a little weird. I’ve done many a triathlon in my time and the pre-race ritual is always the same. You do the Dead Man Walking shuffle to the transition, slogging through the nervous energy that permeates the air like pepper spray, then you stake your claim on the bike racks, pee on the edges so everybody knows its your territory, lay out your belongings and all the time keep your head down in focused nervousness. You probably smile at a few racers, maybe exchange a couple of pleasantries, but it’s mostly a pre-battle zone. Having a conversation with somebody before a triathlon is more often than not seen as an invasion of personal space – like when those crazy Europeans stand three inches from your face while they speak to you. We just don’t do that in America.

But as I said, SOS is different. The pre-race energy at the start of the SOS is somewhat akin to a local Turkey Trot, except with a lot more super-fit folks. Like a small town Sunday morning coffee klatch, the beginning of the SOS seemed like another excuse for everybody to catch up on small town politics. It was a social gathering, a tea party on wheels. I have to admit, it was a bit weird and somewhat comforting at the same time. So while my sister intermingled with the masses like she was the Mayor of the Shawangunks, I just stood around and tried to act relaxed.

I’ve never been to a multi-sport race that had a bike start. It was a bit weird in a fun sort of way. Rumor has it that the SOS may be the only race sanctioned by USA Triathlon that starts with a bike.

Since they limit the field to 150 people, there were only seven waves for this race. So there we were, a few minutes before 7am, the fog still settled on the surrounding farms and 150 people all dressed in lycra, straddling their bikes in the middle of the street. If this was the first sight aliens saw when they landed on earth, they might very well get back in their UFO and hightail it outta here. Truthfully speaking, I wouldn’t blame them.

I was wave number 6: men 40-44. We were the second to last group to go out, which made me happy. I like starting in the back of the race, that means that there are more people ahead of me at any given time and less people to pass me by and make me feel slow. Being in the back makes me feel fast. I like feeling fast - even though I'm really not.

After the singing of the national anthem that sounded like it came from somebody’s four year old daughter (andprobably did), the clock struck 7am and the first group rolled out. With only 1 minute between the start of each wave, it wasn’t long before the clock clicked over to 7:06. Time to go. With a blast of the air horn, I rolled off toward the sunrise with my 23 other 40 to 44 year old friends. Giddyup.

Though SOS is primarily an off-road race, the bike is all on paved roads. It starts with 10 miles of flats to get the legs warmed up which is quickly followed by the rolling hills. After 15 miles of up and down, you suddenly stop going down. The final 5 miles of the ride are all uphill. Crazy non-stop uphill. The type of uphill that makes you realize the first 25 miles were just a warm-up and you sorta wished somebody told you to slow down long before you got here.

Many times throughout the ride I found myself staring off into the surrounding scenery. It was a gorgeous morning that was just coming alive. We streamed along endless rural roads that weaved in and out of farmland and forest. Ahead of us, the sun was rising over pumpkin patches, vegetable fields and towering rows of seven foot sunflowers.

I tried to keep a steady pace on the bike ride that edged just a little bit out of my comfort zone. With only 30 miles of riding, I knew I didn’t have to hold back too much. At the same time I had a long day ahead of me so I didn’t want to go all out and blow up on the run.

One would think that the pre-race coffee klatch mentality would cease upon the blowing of the starting horn. Nope. Since the starting times for each wave were so close together, the beginning of the ride was somewhat of a pack mentality. Moments of focused racing were interspersed with periods of socializing. More than a few times, another rider would be coming up to pass me on the left, only to stay by my side for a mile or so, introduce himself and share in the beauty of the scenery. It was very friendly. And very weird. We're not used to such overt race-time friendliness in California. We've got PRs to achieve.

By the time I got to the rolling hills, the group had begun to spread out. And when I say spread out, I mean that in the upstate New York, most rural sense of the word. At about mile 15 I realized that there was nobody in my site. Though I knew I was on course because I kept following the arrows, I couldn’t see a single biker anywhere in front of me. I turned around to see who was on my tail. Lord knows, there must be a bunch of people right behind me. Nope. Noone. The only person I could see riding behind me was at least a half mile away.

Now THIS is a race! Damn I feel fast!

Soon enough I hit the bottom of the 5 mile climb. One minute I’m biking solo through the rolling foothills of New England, the next moment I’m riding towards the heavens with a line of people stretched up ahead of me.

Fortunately, I’ve been doing a lot of uphill speed work this year to make up for the lack of running speedwork. Somewhere along the way of my training, I’ve actually become a more confident and stronger climber than I’ve felt in years. As a result, I was kinda looking forward to this part of the ride.

I knew if I just picked a steady cadence and maintained an even effort slightly above my comfort zone but short of having a coronary, I could fly up this hill. So I relaxed my body, shifted my gears to an easier ring, channeled my inner-Lance and pedaled my little butt off. Up, up and away in my beautiful Kestral (if you say that properly, it has the same rhythm as “balloon”).

I passed a few people immediately on the lower slopes of the climb. As the hill got a little steeper, I got a little faster. Soon enough, I caught up to a few more folks. My legs felt relaxed, my body focused. The gasping and hacking of others just fueled my energy to push forward. With each person I passed, I picked up the pace.

Within about two miles I saw my sister in front of me. She was moving at a steady clip and looking pretty good. She’s a good rider, my sister (and a better runner). If it weren’t for the long climb, she would have dusted me on the bike. But in a few minutes I reached her side.

How are you doing? I said as I pedaled up to her.

There you are! She responded with a smile. I was wondering where you’ve been!

After a few words of encouragement, I picked up my pace again and breezed up the hill.

I must’ve passed by at least 20 people in those 5 miles of climbing and by the time I reached the top, I was feeling excited about my ride and ready to tackle the rest of the course.

I hit the timing mat, dismounted my bike and stumbled towards the jumping screaming wonderfully supportive cheerleader that I like to call my girlfriend.


TRANSITION

If you’re thinking that the SOS transition is like a regular triathlon with secure fencing and bike racks and assigned areas, think again. One requirement of racers on the SOS is that you have a “handler”. The handler’s responsibility is to handle all of your crap. They get to the transition area before you finish your ride, lay all your knick-knacks on the ground, grab your bike from you when you arrive, lead you to your gear, then take the bike and all the remaining gear and get the heck outta Dodge while you are finishing the race.

Since Catherine is already accustomed to dealing with my crap on a daily basis, she made the perfect handler. When I got off the bike, I just meandered over to the yelling, effervescent jumping bean, she quickly grabbed my bike from me and led me to the little area she carved out among the masses of transition towels. I switched shoes, swallowed some endurolytes, grabbed some gels, gave her a kiss and I was gone.

Time to run.
Bring it on.

RUN #1
The Distance
4.5 miles

The Day’s Run #1 Challenges
* an extremely tight left calf
* a right achilles that felt like it might snap
* frustrations from all of the above

The moment I started to run I could feel something was wrong. My achilles was tight. Too tight. Rubber band about to break type of tight. It was the one part of my body that had me concerned before this race. So, naturally, it was the one part of my body that decided to act up during the race. The last thing I want to do is rupture my achilles. I had already promised myself that if the pain got too bad, I would stop and forfeit the race. I’m not ready to sacrifice a running career for this.

Unfortunately, I’m really not a DNF type of guy.

So the moment that the achilles started aching, I slowed down the pace to my usual excruciating-pain-shuffle. It seems to be one of my standard paces these days. Within minutes I was being passed by many people. All those I had zipped by on the last hill of the bike were running by me like I was sitting on the ground. It was aggravating. I felt like sitting on the ground.

About one mile into the run, my left calf started tightening up. SHIT!! I was already limping on my right leg because of the achilles, now I started limping on both legs. It’s tough to limp on both legs. When you limp on one leg you look like you’re in pain. When you limp on two legs, it just looks like you need to go to the bathroom.

I stopped to stretch and looked for something to lean on. But out here in the middle of the woods, there’s not much to stretch on. So I just kept a slow and steady pace and tried not to think about how much of a long, frustrating day I had ahead of me.

All of the SOS runs take place on mountain biking / cross country skiing trails. Most of the trails are packed dirt with a whole bunch of rocks thrown in for good measure. Every once in awhile you’ll hit a part that is loose shale. Those parts are usually on sharp turns during steep downhills, which is nice.

The first few miles of running are a gradual uphill. The “gradual” part kinda changes at mile three.

There are three hills on the SOS runs that are steep enough to actually have names. When you actually have to name a hill, it usually means it’s gonna hurt. Mile three was the introduction to Cardiac Hill.

Cardiac Hill is a bitch. Not much longer than a half mile, it’s the type of steepness that sucks the energy out of you pretty quickly. You think you can run it, but you’re wrong. You can’t.

Somehow I managed to make my way to the base of Cardiac Hill without crying. As I started up the lower portion, I suddenly heard my sister’s voice behind me. I knew she’d catch me on the run, but I didn’t think it would take this long.

This is your conscience speaking, she said. Don’t blow yourself out on the run.

I turned around to see her smiling, pink visored face approaching. I figured I’d do my best to keep up with her on Cardiac Hill but after 30 seconds I realized that the effort was unnecessary. Apparently so did she. So we walked.

It was nice to walk with my sister up the hill. It made me feel like we were really doing this race together, as a family. If we were both crazy, at least we were crazy together. For the past couple of years we’ve raced St. Anthony’s together, but with more than 20 minutes between our starting times, we really don’t see each other until the finish line. It’s not really “racing together” if you’re never racing together.

As we peaked Cardiac Hill, my sister and I started running again. Depending on the day and time, she can definitely be a faster runner than me and this was one of those times. It was a flat 1 ½ miles until the end of the run and I struggled to keep up with her. Soon enough, I realized my idiocy. (This is where you get impressed that I’ve actually evolved enough to recognize when I’m being stupid). I needed to save my legs from destruction, so I pulled back the pace as she moved off into the distance.

One mile later, I reached Lake Awosting, which marked the end of the first run. Let’s go swimming, shall we?


SWIM #1
The Distance
1.1 miles

The Day’s Swim #1 Challenges
* umm….nothing really

Once I got to the swim start, I saw my sister standing there. I know I’m a faster swimmer than she is, so I figured I wouldn’t see her until later in the race.

I climbed through the trees and got myself to a rock at the edge of the lake where I could sit down and remove my shoes and socks in peace. I have terrible balance and the last thing I’d want to do is crack my face open by trying to remove my shoes while standing up. That’d just be embarrassing.

Once I got my shoes off, I tucked my socks into the toes of the shoes, shoved my shoes into the back of my shorts, slipped on my swim cap, wrapped the goggles around my face, stepped in the water, bid farewell to my sister and I – ka-BAMM!! - I was off.

The Lake Awosting swim was nothing short of miraculous. First of all, it was 72 degrees. No complaints are allowed in 72 degree lake water. Complaints are only allowed in water that is 68 degrees or below. This is just a well-known fact.

On top of the refreshing temperature, this is a fresh water lake that is as clear and clean as Evian. There are no fish in this lake. No algae, no critters and no insects. Since there is no swimming allowed in it for most of the year, there is no trash or waste in this lake. With no boats, there is no taste of gas or oil. It is clean and pristine. I’d imagine that the Virgin Mary would approve of this lake, had she been competing in the SOS. When you get a little water in your mouth during the swim, it tastes more like Crystal Geyser than Shell. No gas, no oil, no scum, no algae. Just water. We don’t get a lot of this in Los Angeles.

I knew I’d be able to make up a lot of time on the swims, especially this long one. I’m a fairly decent swimmer and have the endurance to hold a rapid pace without tiring myself out too much. Since sneakers float, having them crammed in the back of my shorts didn’t slow me down in the slightest. I sighted for the far end of the lake, streamlined my body and kept my arms rotating.

I’d love to give you all sorts of stories about what happened in the swim but, honestly, nothing did. I swam and I swam well. Within a few minutes I started passing people. Then I zipped by a few others. And soon I found myself streaming by so many who had blown by me on the run.

It was fascinating looking at all the swimming styles. Some were wearing wetsuits that they no doubt had to carry for nearly 19 miles of running. Others had dry bags that they pulled like pack mules on the swim. Some others didn’t bother to take off their shoes (which doesn’t make much sense… it’s like swimming with a parachute), and others didn’t bother to take off their socks (which, again, doesn’t make much sense. If you’re removing the shoes, does it really take that long to remove the socks too?)

My arms felt wonderful, my body relaxed. In around about 29 minutes, I emerged at the other end of the lake, feeling pretty darn good about the entire thing.

I climbed up on to the lake side, pulled the shoes out of my shorts and sat on the grass to get myself dressed again. After wringing the water out of my socks I put them on, slipped my feet in my shoes, downed some liquids and Endurolytes at the aid station then was on my way for another run.

Whoooeeee. This is kinda fun!


RUN #2
The Distance
5.5 miles

The Day’s Run #2 Challenges
* cramping in the left leg

One of the things that really got me nervous at the pre-race meeting was all the talk about cramping. You’re going to cramp, they said. Everybody does.

I don’t look forward to cramping. To be honest with you, it kinda scares me. I don’t like knowing that at some point my body is going to start hurting a lot and there’s nothing I can do about it. Maybe I’ll be different, I convinced myself. Maybe I’ll be the one person that doesn’t cramp.

And maybe I’ll win the lotto while I’m at it.

The moment I started running after the first swim, I realized how great I felt. The swim really flushed out a lot of the pain from the previous run. My legs felt loose and relaxed. The calf pain was gone as if it never existed. The achilles still had a bit of a twinge to it, but nothing I couldn’t deal with. This is great! I said out loud with a smile as I picked up the pace.

The first two miles of the second run are all uphill. You pretty much climb straight to the peak of the mountains and look down thousands of feet to the lake from which you just emerged. As I started my way up the climb, I was feeling pretty positive. All of the sudden, the day was turning around. DNF?! Did I ever even consider DNF? Silly me.

About a quarter mile in there was only one person I could see in front of me, and he was only about 20 feet away. We had been going at the same pace but all of the sudden I started catching up to him. Suddenly he stopped. As I passed him by I could hear his grumblings…. Fucking cramps, he said.

Sorry about that bucko, I thought to myself. Good luck with those cramps. Really, good luck. No cramping for me. I’m the no-cramp guy. I’ll be in the history books for not cramping. You’ll hear about me later.

And on and on I went, yapping about in my head about how he was shit out of luck and how I don’t cramp and how I’m so muy macho and how silly he was to even think he could run faster than me and …

And that was about the time my left leg cramped.

It wasn’t much of a cramp, but it was bad enough. As I had said before, my legs felt all loose and relaxed as I ran up the hill. But then all of the sudden, my loose relaxed left leg turned into a concrete slab, just like that Gargoyle on the top of the building in Ghost Busters. You know, the one that goes back and forth between being a man-eating monster and a piece of stiff rock.

I let out a little yell. Maybe even a cuss word, though I can’t be sure. I slowed down my pace and waited, knowing that there wasn’t much I could do. Thoughts of DNF creeped back into my head.

Within 30 seconds, though, the cramps were gone and I was billy-goating my way up the hill. DNF? Did I mention those letters? I must be nuts.

There is an aid station at the top of the hill. The aid station is on the edge of a very large rock. The other side of the rock is nothing – it drops off to reveal the rest of the world in all of its splendid glory. Wherever they sell postcards of the Shawangunks, I’d imagine this is one of the photos.

As I stood at the aid station and guzzled down some Gatorade, I stared across the great expanse of the country that lay before me. It was breathtaking. I felt like I was in an a Runner’s World ad. Maybe even a Gatorade commercial. Then I started wondering why I was doing all this modeling for free. This is ridiculous. I need to call my agent and renegotiate.

I soon snapped out of my Hollywood fog and decided to continue on with my race.

Fortunately, the rest of the run to the second swim is all downhill. It twists and winds through canopies of trees, opens to panoramas of beauty and delves into endless fields of forest. The descent is steep enough to allow you to gather the speed of a gazelle, but gradual enough so you don’t end up slipping on the rocks and breaking your leg and being that one lame gazelle that gets eaten by the hyenas.

As soon as I started running again, it felt great. Beyond great. It was incredible. No, it was beyond incredible. What’s beyond incredible? Whatever it is, that’s what this was. I was an off-road maniac, zipping like wildfire through the forest of turns. I smiled. I laughed. I had chills stream up and down my spine. I may have even started singing songs out loud. You know I'm really happy when I start singing songs out loud.

Wow, I said to myself a few times between stanzas.

That’s all you can really say during this incredible experience. Sometimes three letters is all it takes to express the emotions.

Wow.

Within about one mile of running in solitude, I finally saw somebody in front of me. He was moving along at a pretty good clip – somewhere in the sub-8 minute mile range - though I was going a little bit faster. Soon enough I caught up to him.

Man, isn’t this incredible? I said as I approached.

He looked at me with the same glean in his eyes that I could imagine was exuding from mine. This is AMAZING! he responded.

We got to talking, this chap and I. His name is Dave. Dave is from New Jersey. He has done three Ironman races (including Kona in 2006. Lottery.), but, like me, this was his first SOS.

I’m not sure if Dave was trying to keep up with me or if I was trying to keep up with Dave. Either way, we kept picking up the pace as we got lost in conversation. Faster and faster we went as we yammered about the beautiful swim, the gorgeous trails, our previous racing experiences and all sorts of miscellaneous jabberwocky. Soon enough, I realized that we were practically sprinting.

I thought I should slow down, but it felt great. I kept going.
Wow, I whispered quietly to myself. Wow.

A few miles later, we reached Lake Minnewaska and the bouncing, screaming encouragement of my wonderful girlfriend.

I thanked Dave for an incredible run.

Time for swim number 2.


SWIM #2
The Distance
.5 miles

The Day’s Swim #2 Challenges
* complacence. I’m not good with complacence.

In some ways the second swim reminded me a lot of the Ironman Lake Placid swim. Like Mirror Lake, Lake Minnewaska is ½ mile long. It is also the same 70+ temperature, the same clean and clear water and the same beautiful setting – a mountain lake wrapped in the down comfort of beautiful green trees. More importantly, like Mirror Lake, there is a rope down the center of Lake Minnewaska for swim direction. All you’ve got to do is follow the rope. When it ends, you’re done.

Sounds easy enough, right?

Here’s the problem, I’m not a very straight swimmer. In fact, my swimming is somewhat akin to a drunk sparrow. I should be flying straight, but instead I’m weaving and wobbling all over kingdom come and it’s somewhat amazing that I don’t end up face first in the trunk of a tree, or , at the very least, into a big orange buoy.

One would think that having a rope right down Broadway would help keep me on track. If it were only so easy. After five minutes of drifting about like a runaway train, I saw another swimmer going at what I guessed was my pace. Maybe I’ll draft off of him, I thought to myself as I pushed towards his feet.

For the next five minutes I stayed locked in this guys wake. I really don’t have a ton of experience drafting on the swim, so I assumed that the fact this seemed so easy was normal. I was putting out very little effort and had to keep slowing myself down so I didn’t grab his feet. But I’m drafting, I reminded myself. It’s easy, but I’m probably going a lot faster than I normally would.

Soon enough we reached the end of the swim. I looked at my watch. 15 minutes. Whaaa?! FIFTEEN minutes?! It was at least a minute or two slower than I expected. Slower than I know I can do on my own. Maybe Mr Drafter wasn’t as fast as I assumed. Maybe I should’ve passed his slow ass way back in the middle of the lake when I first thought of it. Maybe I really need to let this go and start running. I've got bigger things to worry about.


RUN #3
The Distance
8 miles

The Day’s Run #3 Challenges
* tired legs
* squishy shoes
* a body that decided it had enough and would rather lay down and take a nap

I took my time putting on my wet shoes and socks. Knowing that I had a long run ahead of me, I wanted to make sure I didn’t get any loose rock or lakeshore debris stuck in my feet. Eight miles of pebbles in socks can turn into more pain than I really need at this point in my life.

The first mile of the third run takes place on the only paved road of the run. Unfortunately it is an extremely steep hill of the down variety. It’s the type of steep where you almost have to swerve back and forth, slaloming your way to the bottom in hopes of maybe saving your knees to run another day.

Though I’m not a huge fan of running down these incredibly steep hills, I will freely admit that it’s much worse when you do it in wet shoes and socks.

I’ve got these fancy Teva shoes that dry out in about two minutes of running. They’re so great, that when I run on trails (post-swim), I can’t even tell that they are wet. What I discovered is that when you run on a steep, paved downhill in these wet shoes, the feet squish and slosh and float around like fish out of water. It’s kind of like running down a mountain on a Slip n’ Slide. Maybe fun for a 10 year old. Not so much for me.

Once you reach the bottom of the hill, you hop back into the forest and onto 7 miles of scenic solitude. The first part of the trail weaves its way along the side of a babbling brook. I saw only one person running here. It was a woman, and when I passed her by she was complaining about her knees. Clearly she didn’t do any Slip n’ Slide training.

As I ambled along the creekside trail, I quickly became mesmerized by the soothing sounds of dribbling water, only to look up and realize I was sailing in solitude down a flat path with nothing in sight but an endless tunnel of trees.

I’d imagine that this part of the run could be viewed in one of two ways. It could be a frustrating venture, struggling through the endless tedium of unchanging scenery. Or, you could engross your mind in the soothing sounds of the rustling trees and the silent peacefulness of the pitter-pattering of your feet. I opted for the latter – the pitter patter - and had a grand old time running through the forest.

I smiled, I sang, I remained in awe of the senseless beauty. I laughed out loud when shivers of joy flooded my body. I couldn’t see a single person in front of me for as long as the path stretched forward. I looked behind me. Not a soul.

This must be heaven, I thought. When I die, I am going to be sent to a long trail in the woods for me to run on in peace. I don’t think I’ve died yet, but this is probably what it looks like.

I tried to keep a steady pace that was, again, just out of my comfort zone. My legs were definitely tired at this point but I knew I could keep this up without a problem. Then, completely out of the blue, at around mile 13 of the running (mile 4 of this run), my body decided it didn’t like what I was doing anymore.

It didn’t even bother to give a warning. Nothing like “hey, bucko, we’re about to pack it in in a few minutes, you might want to come up with a Plan B.”

In an instant, my knees started hurting, my quads started tightening and everything else felt like it was teetering on the edge of disaster. You know that game where you build a tower of little wooden pieces, then you pick the wooden blocks out one by one and the person that loses is the one who picks the last block that makes the tower collapse. Well, here I was at mile 13 of the run and I suddenly felt like I was one block away from total collapse.

I slowed down a bit and tried to let my heart rate come down and my muscles recover. It was too late for DNF, that didn’t even cross my mind. I tried to separate myself from the pain and focus on the beauty of my surroundings. Maybe that will help. Pretty trees. Fields of grass. Scenic path. Focus, focus, focus. This is heaven. I love this. Focus. No pain. No pain. Focus.

As I turned the corner I saw another aid station in the distance. OK, that might help.

I stumbled into the aid station and stopped. There was nobody else in sight, just me and the volunteers. I had some Gatorade. Some water. I ate a banana. Then another. A couple of Endurolytes. A gel. More water. Some Gatorade. Was I hungry or just stalling? I’m not quite sure. But this is a free buffet, right?

After I had stuffed myself silly, I decided to give running a go one more time. Lo and behold, fuel seemed to be what I needed. As I began to jog down the path towards the next swim, I noticed my knees felt better and my body felt more in tune. Granted, everything was still tired, but at least it wasn’t hurting. The tower had been rebuilt.

So I picked up the pace a little and kept moving forward.

In about five minutes I heard another runner approaching. I looked back, it was Dave. My Run #2 buddy. And he was moving along at a fairly good clip. As he neared me, I did a little soul searching. Can I keep up with him? Do I have enough in me to pick up the pace for another three miles? How deep can I dig?

How you doing?! He smiled as he reached my side.

Pretty good, I replied happily. But there’s no way in hell I can keep up with you this time. (I suppose that was my decision). Have a great run, I continued. See you at the finish.

That was the last I saw of Dave during the race.

At mile 15 (mile 6 of the third run), there is only one thing that separates you from the final swim and the finish. It’s called Godzilla.

As I mentioned before, there are three runs that are brutal enough to have special names. Godzilla is one of them. Godzilla is a two mile uphill. It’s a big brutal monster that keeps swiping at you and trying to break you down.

As for me, I’m not so much scared of monsters.

At the pre-race meeting, somebody who had competed in SOS before suggested that I walk Godzilla. Most people walk Godzilla, he said.

Well, with only three miles to go in this race, I’m apparently not most people. If you know me, you know that I like myself a good hill to run up. Godzilla was no different. I tucked my head down, took a big breath and started to climb. It was brutal. I struggled up, one step at a time. Half way to the top, I thought of walking.

Walking?! I suddenly heard my mind arguing with my body. Why the hell would you want to walk?! Keep running you wuss!!

So I listened. In the end, Godzilla’s bark is much worse than his bite. I reached the top and was feeling pretty darn good about it, thank you very much.

As I hit the flats I saw a man sitting in the middle of the trail and heard the roar of screams from up above. I turned my head up towards the skies and saw the top of a mountain. Is that the finish line way up there? I asked the man.

Yep, he said. You’re almost there. Take a left into the woods, don’t trip on the roots and run to the lake. Good luck.

Left in the woods? Whaaaa?

I looked around for the path to run down, the path that would take me to the final swim. But I couldn’t see any path. There was nothing but trees. I looked on the ground where his fingers had pointed. Suddenly I saw an arrow leading directly into the woods and over tree roots. Don’t trip on the roots, he had said. I suppose that means this is the way to go.

A free-form forest sprint after 18 miles of running. Crazy, but fun. I scrambled through the trees for the couple of hundred yards until I finally saw the final lake stretched before me.

The last lake. The last swim. Almost done.
Let’s frolic in the water one more time, shall we?

SWIM #3
The Distance
.5 miles

The Day’s Swim #3 Challenges
* some more of those damn leg cramps

The last swim takes place at Lake Mohonk, which is right in front of the incredibly scenic Mohonk Mountain House. The Mohonk Mountain House is one of those exclusive resorts that has probably been nestled here in the woods for well over 100 years. It is an enormous structure that towers above the Shawangunks in all of its splendid beauty. After traipsing through the woods, conquering monsters and battling the body, it is an awe-filled site to then stumble upon the monstrosity of Mohonk.

Like all of the other swims that I had done, I quickly tucked my shoes/socks into the back of my shorts and started on my way. And, like all of the other swims I’d done, there weren’t that many people around – but I ended up passing all those that I could see.

Lake Mohonk is nothing different than the other lakes. I suppose at this point in the race you get somewhat jaded.

Oh, another pristine lake? What’s the big deal. Clear, clean water? Whatever.

Needless to say, I pretty much enjoyed the swim. Though I was struck with slight leg cramps a hundred meters from the end, I made it across without too much issue.

The one thing that is significantly different in the Mohonk swim than the others is the end of it. Whereas the other swims end on the shallow shores of the lake, the Mohonk swim pretty much dead ends at a stone wall. Actually, it’s less of a stone wall and more a pile of boulders that you have to climb over to get out.

I heard of quite a few people that were so tired by the end of the swim, they had to stay in the water for a few minutes before finding enough energy to pull themselves out. Fortunately, my arms weren’t that tired, and my cramped legs had recovered, so I popped out of there as quickly as I could and put on my wet socks and shoes as rapidly as possible. Less than a mile to the finish. Time to get this adventure over with.

RUN #4
The Distance
.7 miles

The Day’s Run #4 Challenges
* leg cramps
* I forgot to bring my climbing rope

The last run is fairly short, only seven-tenths of a mile. The first tenth of a mile is relatively flat, as is the last tenth. It’s really the middle half mile that you need to worry about.

Remember that I said there were three runs that were steep enough to have names? Welcome to Skytop.

This last run is the type of hill that is difficult to walk up, much less run. The slant is so steep, you have to lean forward to keep yourself moving. In ½ mile you climb 300 feet. To put that in perspective, it’s like climbing to the top of a 30 story building. But before you do that, why don’t you bike 30 miles, run 18 miles and swim 2 miles. Great, now go climb a 30 story building. Good luck.

Oh, and if the path is too difficult to run up, you’re really going to be pissed when you realize that it’s so steep in the end you’ve got to lift your tired, burning legs up a flight of oversized stairs. Yeah, you’re definitely not gonna like that part.

My legs started cramping before I even got to the real incline. I guess in a way that helped me to relax a little bit because I had to slow down to flush them out. No bother though, soon enough the pain of the hill out-shadowed the pain of the cramping.

I had dreams of really pushing myself to the limit on this hill. In retrospect, I realize I did push myself to the limit, I just didn’t realize that my limit would be so gosh darn slow.

This run to Skytop was, without a doubt, the most challenging, the most brutal, the most unrelenting run I’ve ever done in any race at any time in my life. After three minutes of climbing, I was gasping all sorts of nasty words under my breath. I dared not look up, for fear of realizing the trail continued on. And by the time I thought I had absolutely nothing left and may just crumble onto the ground, I reached the stairs.

It’s less than 10 stairs, but it takes all the energy you can muster to get up them. Though it might be cliché to say these are like the Stairway to Heaven, they are. Remember, nobody said the stairs to Heaven were easy.

But once you reach the top and lift your eyes from the trail to see what lies ahead, you realize you are standing on the top of the world.

It’s an incredible, awe inspiring feeling that chilled every bone in my body.

Skytop is the peak of the Shawangunks. It overlooks everything. It overlooks Mohonk and Gardiner and New Paltz. I didn’t have my glasses on, but I think it overlooked Paris and Beijing and Kona as well.

When you lift your eyes and see you are on Skytop, you know you are done. You have Survived. The pain begins to clear. The row of onlookers begins to cheer. And as you stretch to the finish line that beckons in front of you, suddenly you forget that you are tired. You forget that you have cramped. You forget that your body may not have really enjoyed the entire journey. But you have, and that’s pretty much all that counts.

I screamed in joy as I reached the crowd. They clapped and cheered and made me feel like a hero. I saw Catherine - my bouncing, screaming, loving cheerleader - and ran to give her a kiss. I was happy. Ecstatic. My body wanted to finish, but I had too much fun to want to stop. I flew effortlessly the remaining 100 feet to the finish and crossed the line with a smile that stretched across the Shawangunks.

I survived. I am a Survivor.

It was a tremendous adventure, the SOS. A truly incredible experience. Without a doubt, this bike-run-swim-run-swim-run-swim-run was the most amazing race I’ve ever completed.

Sounds crazy, huh?

The Dangling Carrot

It is 7:00 on Thursday morning right now. I've been up since 5:30 and figured I could use the time to crank out some of the SOS race report. It's been taking quite awhile to write it for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I don't have a tremendous amount of time to spend on it, so I try to cram in a few minutes at night and some early morning hours. Secondly, it seems to be turning into a novel. I'm really trying my hardest to keep it short, honestly I am. But as we all know, I'm not real good at the short story. Toss on an eight-stage event and all of the sudden I need to start finding an agent and publisher.

Catherine just left for a 16 mile run. Who runs 16 miles on a Thursday morning?! It seems so odd to me. Long runs are for weekends, not Thursday mornings. Then I remembered that we are running the New York Marathon in less than 2 months. Uh-oh.

The funny thing is that I can't imagine myself running 16 miles all at once right now. It's not because my body is physically sore, it's not. My problem is all mental. Sure I can do a race that has 18.7 miles of running. In fact, I just did one four days ago. But for goodness sakes, that run was split up with some refreshing swims. 16 miles without stopping?! Hell no. Even worse, 26.2 without stopping?!

I decided to reward myself this week with rest. No exercise at all. So far it's been working out well - I've made it four days. But, honestly, I don't know how long this will last. I'm not a good rester.

There's a marathon ahead that apparently I just started getting nervous for. And then I've got this Ironman thingy.

I can see the carrot in front of me. I keep swiping for it but it's just out of reach.
I guess I just need to go a little harder.

Post-SOS

I am a Survivor!

...and so damn happy about it. What a tremendous, tremendous adventure...

You may have heard me screaming when I reached the finish line way high up on top of the mountain, as the sound of my voice echoed off the millions of acres of valley below. That was me... very happy.

The SOS (Survival of the Shawangunks) race report will follow shortly, but I just needed to unload a bit of my yippee-kai-yay on you right now. Wooohooo!!!!

T Minus One Day

Catherine and I are in upstate New York right now, just outside of New Paltz. My big SOS race is tomorrow, which I believe is my main race for the year if I'm not mistaken.

Yesterday, Catherine, my sister and I took out the mountain bikes and rode the 18+ miles of trails that will be the run portion of the race. To use Catherine's words, "it's crazy beautiful." And it ends at Mohonk, which is crazier beautifuller.

It should be a good time. That is, if it doesn't rain, like is forecasted.

Speed and Power of the Mind

I wrote this one a few months ago but never posted it because I never finished it. I'm posting it now... maybe you can finish it for me.

Right now Catherine and I are in the middle of the speed portion of our training program. However, what with my calf injury and not being able to run, my running speed pretty much is relegated to indoor training. The alarm clock has become my starting gun, and the distance between the bed and the bathroom my track.

The extent of my speed work begins when that starting alarm goes off. I hop out of bed and shuffle off to the bathroom in what I can only hope is a faster split than Catherine's. Of course, even though her legs are tired from her grueling bike rides and runs, she still manages to inch me out at the finish line. I can't even medal in the bathroom dash.

Truth be told, I wish I was able to do the real speed workouts on the track. It's been so long since I've been able to do a full period of speed training, I forget if the pain and nausea is a good or bad feeling.

But since I can't participate in the fun run sessions, my coach suggested that I do an extra speed workout on the bike each week. I can't say that I love the grueling bike speed sessions as much as I love the running speed work, but I suppose limpers can't be choosers.

Tuesday's bike work was a tough one. Picture this: four 6-minute repeats at maximum speed, followed by four 1-minute repeats at miximum-er speed, followed by throwing up in my mouth.

I decided to do that speed session on my trainer because apparently I'm a glutton for punishment. (Alright alright... the real reason is that I had TiVo'd an extra episode of The Wire that I desperately needed to watch.)

Per the suggestion of my coach, I decided to toss on a second speed session this week. I did that one this morning, which is probably why I feel sick right now.

Unable to stomach the thought of another painful set of four 6-minute repeats like I had done two days earlier, I decided to do a whole crapload of one minute repeats instead. All uphill. One minute hard, thirty seconds rest. One minute hard, thirty seconds rest. And I continued these shenanigans until I ran out of mountain to climb.

It took thirteen of these one-minute all-out pushes to get me to the top of the hill. My legs were screaming for mercy like a million little daggers were placed in each pore. My breathing was hectic. Like a lizard in a flea farm, my tongue was lashing out for any extra molecule of oxygen to satiate my burning body. It hurt. But here's the funny thing - my heart rate never really got above 168 the entire time.

Hmmm. Interesting.

I coasted back down the hill to recover a bit until I ran into Catherine. She was just finishing her workout and needed to do a few more 1-minute repeats. What the hell, I thought, I'll do them with you.

So I turned around and started pounding up the hill with Catherine. One minute all-out, thirty seconds rest. One minute hard, thirty seconds easy.

We were moving pretty rapidly but the odd thing was that my legs felt relaxed. Even though I was keeping track of the time, wasting extra oxygen to call out the 15 second intervals, it wasn't as tough as my previous repeats.

And just as I was convincing myself that I was a stronger rider than Catherine, I noticed my heart rate was leveled at 168.

168?! I just rode up the hill at 168 and nearly puked out a lung. Now here I am at 168 feeling like I'm strolling through the park. How can this be? Tell me it isn't true.

I started tapping my watch and holding it to my ear like they do in movies to make sure it's working correctly. Never mind that it's a digital watch. I held it closer to my heart to make sure it was recording all the beats. I looked down at it again: 168.

And all I could think of was the amazing power of the mind. The power to make my life harder than it needs to be when apparently that suits me - and the power to walk through the park of pain without worry.

I've thought about this ride quite a bit since then and have philosophized ad infinitum about the minds ability to control the body - to create suffering and stimulate release. As I'm struggling through a grueling race, inches away from crumbling to pieces, I step back with my mindseye and ask myself who is controlling me, the body or the brain. And the answer is inevitably the same. We are products of our own mind. We have created our own world in our own image. We live in our own matrix. And I think I'm ready to try the blue pill.

It's Not So Much The Heat....

When it's 95 degrees out and you are sick with a fever, it's tough to tell which part is making you sweat.

I woke up this morning and figured I was sweating because my place was so hot. After all, it gets like a sauna in here during the summer. The hardwood floors might as well be lava rocks. As if that's not enough, the ceiling fan in my bedroom suddenly konked out earlier this week. I keep pressing the on button only to hear the engine desperately trying to whirr itself alive, but the blades just sit there in a motionless stupor.

This unbearable temperature and broken fan would normally explain all the sweating. But who ever said anything about normal. We've got to add on the fact that Catherine's body emits a furnace-like heat when she sleeps. I nearly singe my body on her scorching skin every time she rolls over and practically pushes me off the bed (which she does every night because she's a bed hog, though she'll undoubtedly deny it).

So, as I was saying, when I woke up this morning it was tough to tell why I was drenched in sweat. Eventually I squished myself out of bed and crept out to the couch to catch a little of my morning SportsCenter. Somewhere between Beckham spraining his ACL and Michael Vick shooting puppies, I decided to go out for a bike ride.

For some reason I convinced myself that a bike ride would make me feel good. It would cool me off and get my blood flowing. So I got myself all saddled up, carried my bike outside, straddled my ride and pedaled away.

The first part of any morning bike ride is always tough for me. My body isn't warmed up and my legs are tired. I usually creep along at a pretty slow pace for the first five minutes, which is exactly what I did today. I meandered my way through the residential streets. Up roads and down avenues. Past houses and mansions and palatial estates. Ten minutes later I realized my legs had not warmed up and my body had not stopped sweating.

I turned the corner and began a nice two mile downhill; the road that usually marks the end of warm-up and the beginning of get-in-the-zone-and-ride. As I started down the street, I noticed my legs didn't feel like pushing. I was coasting. Moreso, I was still sweating.

I could feel my body getting hotter. I could sense my legs getting tighter and my mind was definitely not excited to be out here.

I made an executive decision to call it quits and after a few quick turns, got myself back home. It was a thirty minute ride with an average pace of a whopping 9 miles an hour.

I'm sitting on the couch right now. It is still hot as hell outside. There's a cool breeze blowing through the window, but that doesn't seem to be doing much. I'm sweating from every pour in my body. My head feels hot, my body feels tired. It's gotta be a fever, right?

Then again, maybe all I need is a short run.

Santa Barbara Triathlon Race Report - or - The Chairpants 40

I used to think that I wanted to race the Santa Barbara Triathlon. I also used to think I wanted to be a veterinarian. Apparently I was wrong on both counts.

So many people from the LA Tri Club have ranted and raved about the Santa Barbara Tri, somehow I got it into my head that it would be a fun, easy race. So in 2002 I signed up for the darn thing. However, as race day approached, I didn't really have the get-up and go to get there, so I didn't bother to get up nor go.

I signed up again in 2003, probably as revenge for the 2002 debacle. But, again, I didn't do it. I think my legs were too tired from having done Vineman one month earlier. Mostly, though, I think I finally realized that I had no desire to do the race. Enough was enough. I had done my good deed by donating my money to the Santa Barbara Triathlon fund and needn't make that investment again.

Fast forward to 2007 and my dear girlfriend Catherine states somewhat unabashedly that Santa Barbara is one race she really wants to do. Great, I say. Have fun. Let me know how it goes.

With me clearly not racing, Catherine went on a recruiting mission to wrangle in some other suckers. Lo and behold, our friend Chris took the bait and signed up. I was fine in my role as a spectator. After all, I've got my big SOS race two weeks after Santa Barbara, there's no sense in tiring out my legs. Besides, I don't want to do the race anyway.

Somewhere along the way, though, I too got suckered in. Catherine and her wily ways somehow managed to lure me in during a weak moment. One minute all was status quo and the next thing I know I had committed to being part of a relay. Though I'm not really sure how it happened, it seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, being one leg of a relay isn't really doing the race, is it?

Wendy (Chris' wife) was going to do the swim and my friend Paul was going to do the bike. Me, apparently I'm the runner. We called ourselves The Chairpants 40, mostly because we all turned 40 this year. Also because my friend Paul came up with the concept of the Chairpants - a pair of pants with a built in chair. Just when you thought everything had been done to promote laziness, along comes the Chairpants. Brilliant, eh?

The Chairpants 40. We were rockin and ready to go.

Fast forward again to the week before the race and envision me talking on the phone to my good friend Paul as he tells me he's got a pinched nerve in his neck and can't ride a bike. Envision even further the subtle sounds of Catherine coughing and sniffling in the background as she suffers a losing battle with sickness.

Paul's out, Catherine's out. And here I am driving up to Santa Barbara so I can do the bike-run of the Santa Barbara Triathlon while my girlfriend - the girlfriend who wanted to do the race in the first place, the girlfriend who convinced me to do it as a relay - that girlfriend would now just be acting as a spectator.

Will this race never leave me be?!

I have heard many things about the Santa Barbara course, many of which have included such pleasing words as "beautiful," "pretty" and "fun." I've stretched every sinew of my memory and can't recall anybody every harping on words such as "hilly," "horrendously difficult" and "good luck, sucker."

Welcome to the Santa Barbara Triathlon.

SWIM
the day's swim challenges:
* not much, especially since I didn't do the swim
* had I done the swim, I probably would've said something obnoxious about the frigidly cold water

I have to admit, I'm really darn glad I didn't do the swim at this race. Sure the water was as flat as an english muffin (not quite a pancake, it still had a few nooks and crannies), but it was as brutally cold as my first girlfriend. Wendy, however, the skillful swimmer of The Chairpants 40, is not one to complain. So she didn't. God bless her soul.

As I waited in the warmth of the transition area, blanketed by the anxiety-ridden nervousness of all the other relay racers who seemed to be taking this a little too seriously, Wendy swam herself silly out in the arctic-like waters.

After emerging from the frozen tundra, she then hustled up the longer-than-necessary strip of sand to get to transition where I stood lazily leaning on my bike. I took the timing chip off of her ankle because no doubt her fingers were frozen stiff, then gave her a hug of congratulations as I meandered off onto my bike ride.

BIKE
the day's bike challenges
* higher than desired heart rate
* sorer than desired back
* hillier than desired course

The moment that I hopped on my bike, I realized that my lassaiz-faire attitude towards this race made me forget that warming up my legs pre-race might be a good idea. Oops. Knowing that I really didn't want to tear any muscles, I tried to keep my heart rate low in the beginning. Unfortunately that didn't work out exactly as planned.

Don't believe what anybody else tells you, the Santa Barbara bike course is challenging. It is a 34 mile out-and-back ride jammed with enough surprises to tire you out. The first 9 miles of the ride are a steady uphill. It's the type of uphill that gets you frustrated because you think you should be going faster. And so you push a little harder until you realize your heart rate monitor is flashing "danger will robinson" warnings. And then just as the frustration begins to subside, all of the sudden you hit a steeper hill that you have to climb. In retrospect, it seems kind of like the Chinese Water Torture of bike routes.

The roads were packed for me during this first part of the ride, including a few people who really didn't understand the basics of triathlon etiquette - like don't crash into me. I tried my hardest to keep a steady pace as I swerved in and out of the bike traffic. Surge and slow, I tried to avoid the random movements of other riders. And every time I looked at my watch, I realized my heart-rate was far past the lactate threshold and quickly approaching the hamstring-cramp zone. I struggled to keep my breathing smooth but it was a difficult task.

Riders were all over the road like it was the Memorial Day Parade and we were the Short Bus Junior High Biking Band. There was even one putz, fully decked out in an aero helmet, one piece racing suit and disc wheel, who wasn't even registered for the race. He was just going for a bike ride and trying to motivate his girlfriend who actually was racing - and clearly wasn't biking up to his standards.

So he'd be plodding along in his aero kit at about 10 mph, stopping, starting, slowing, surging and weaving all across the road, causing other racers to stop, start, slow, swerve, surge and curse, all the while telling his little chicky to pick up the pace. How about this, Mr Aero-Schmuck, how about you take your sorry ass to the transition area and stop violating about fourteen pages of the triathlon rule book. And by the way, do you really need a disc wheel and aero helmet to go 10 mph?!

After a few miles of this I had enough, so I surged past Aero guy and jammed down the rapid descent of El Torro Canyon.

The second 9 miles of the bike ride are almost flat, but not really. Still a steady uphill, this second part of the course becomes a bit more deceivingly frustrating as you battle the oncoming headwind. I don't like headwinds and this one was no different. I tried to stay relaxed and steady and remind myself that I didn't need to go hard. I did this while I continually pushed myself harder. Sometimes I'm a bad listener.

Soon enough I got to the turnaround loop. Once you manage to make your way up the 12% climb in the middle of the loop, a climb that would actually be fairly pretty had you not been so focused on gasping out a lung, you find yourself back onto the straight-away, this time with a tailwind.

Riding the tailwind was a blast. Of course, I always forget that these yeee-haa moments usually lead to bad things. In this case, the bad thing was the El Torro Canyon climb at mile 24 that pretty much sucks the manhood right out of you, one pedal rotation at a time.

Torro Canyon is about a mile and a half long and steep. S.T.E.E.P. I almost wish I had brought cramp-ons. It's that type of steep.

I knew this one was going to hurt, so I started the climb at a slow, steady pace and just tried to keep picking it up as I moved up the mountain. Halfway up the hill my legs were burning like they were on fire. However, I kept passing people so apparently I was doing something right. With each biker I passed, I managed to find something in me to push me harder - as if I sucked the energy out of them to fuel myself. Whatever, it worked.

By the time I got to the top of the climb, I felt great. Almost energized in a silly sort of way. Considering that I knew the rest of the way home was mostly downhill, I dropped down into my aerobars and flicked on the turbo switch.

I think I actually smiled as I sailed through the turns, zipping by other riders as if they were standing still. And when I jammed into transition and heard the surprising shouts of Wendy and Catherine, amazed that I had biked the course so quickly, I was feeling pretty good and ready for a run.

Bring it on.

RUN
the day's run challenges
* a couple of calves that didn't agree with me
* nausea from sugar-overload
* enough with the Gatorade already

I knew that I was going too quickly the moment I started running. But, Goddammit, my legs were feeling good and I wasn't about to waste the moment. Moving along at about an 8 minute mile, I latched on to a woman who seemed super-fit and somehow got it in my head that I would have her pace me for the next 10 miles.

We struck up a nice friendly conversation as we ran side-by-side and soon enough we passed the one mile mark. It was right about this time that reality sunk in for me - when both my mind and my body realized they couldn't yet handle this pace. Just as I dropped back from her and she spirited off into the distance, my calves morphed into concrete slabs.

SHIT! I screamed as I stopped by the side of the road. I leaned against a telephone pole and stretched out my legs as I silently cursed my running shoes. You see, I decided once again to try a new pair of shoes on this run. With only two weeks before my SOS race, I really need to figure out what shoes to run in. Here I was at mile 1 of the Santa Barbara run convincing myself that I never need to run in Teva Sunkosi's again.

After a few minutes of stretching, I decided to start moving again, albeit at a much slower pace. The legs were still tight, but I could feel them loosening and I definitely didn't need to push this one hard.

Like the bike course, the Santa Barbara run is deceivingly tough. The first four miles are pretty much uphill. Just before mile five you run down a steep road to the turnaround, which kinda blows because then you've got to turn around and run back up the damn thing. And believe me, it's a bitch. But by the time you get to the top of that climb, all you've got are a few rolling hills ahead of you before you hit the downhill and flats back to the finish.

My legs were tight through the first few miles of the run, but as I climbed up the hill to mile four I could feel them loosen up a bit. Something about running up hills makes me feel good. I'm a little weird that way. The longer the uphill, the better I feel.

Fittingly, the further I got into this uphill-esque race, the more my legs started loosening up and the faster I went.

By the time I got to the five mile turnaround, I was feeling pretty darn good and back down to clocking somewhere in the 8 minutes per mile range. As I made the turnaround I saw Chris. He was pushing up the insane hill.

In a few seconds I caught up to Chris and slowed down to chat. He seemed to be feeling pretty good and moving along at a steady pace, so I quickly bid farewell and billy goated my way up the hill.

Like the El Torro Canyon ride, I kept zipping past people with every step. And, like El Torro, each person I passed fueled me to go faster so by the time I got to the top of this horrendous climb, I was feeling pretty fresh and ready to pick up the pace.

The last four miles back to the finish were pretty darn good. I decided it was time to just push with all I had left. I also decided I didn't want anybody passing me on the run anymore. So I picked up the pace. I clocked in a 7:45 for the last uphill mile. Then a couple of 7:40s. And finally squeezed out a 7:22 mile to finish the race.

It felt wonderful. My legs were loose, my body relaxed. I felt like I was flying. I crossed the finish line with a smile on my face and a whole lot of happy in my being.

What a great race, I thought.
I wonder why I didn't do this one sooner.

'Sup Brah

I went to the Salvation Army last week to donate some clothing. I got some pretty hefty attitude from the employee there. Apparently he didn't like how I filled out the receipt. For some reason he didn't like the fact that I wrote down that I had donated two bags of clothing, despite the fact that I had donated two bags of clothing. Apparently this fellow was having a bad day. And somehow I couldn't help but think of the last time I was at the Salvation Army so I figured I'd reprint that story for you. A blast from the past. Enjoy...


"Whatsup, bro."
That's the first thing the Salvation Army guy said to me this morning.
"Later, bro."
That's the last thing the Salvation Army guy said to me this morning.

You see, I'm a bro. Sometimes I'm a dude. A few times I've even been a brah. Mostly, though, I'm just confused.

But wait, let's take a step back here for a second. Let me create the image...

I am 39 years old, just a Peckinpah short of 40. For better or worse, I look a bit younger than I actually am. From what I'm told, I apparently look like I'm in my late 20s or early 30s, that age where people still care about whether a movie is rated R or NC17 or whatever other acronymic categories they have for movies these days. (Acronymic... you like that one, don't you? I knew you would.)

I maintain one of those cliche Hollywood two-day beards, primarily because it helps me look like I'm closer to my early 30s as opposed to an age where I'd be carded at the aforementioned R rated movies. Though my hair is starting to grey around the edges, I'm not falling short in the hair category at all, unlike some of my high-foreheaded peers. To the contrary, I've got a lot of hair on my head.

Like a few of today's youth, I keep my hair a wee bit longer than the close-cropped corporate cut. I don't look like a surfer by any means, but I probably would stand out in the conservative cubicles of Proctor & Gamble.

So here I am, rapidly approaching middle age, yet am still referred to by such puerile monikers as bro, brah and dude. Part of me is somewhat offended when people call me these names. That part of me just wants to whip out my ID and shove it in their face, all the while screaming, I'm 40-frickin years old, kid!! DON'T CALL ME BRAH! I'M NOT YOUR BRO! HOW ABOUT SIR? WHAT'S WRONG WITH SIR?! HOW ABOUT A LITTLE GODDAMN RESPECT HERE?!?!?!

Of course the other part of me is completely happy to maintain it's youthful nature. Hell, if these youngsters consider me a part of their culture, I should feel happy. Elated even. Maybe I'm younger than I think. Maybe these back pains and slow-to-get-out-of-bed mornings are a sign of my spriteliness, of my extreme athletic ability, and not an indication that I'm two steps away from being able to park in the Handicapped Zone.

So when the Salvation Army guy bid me farewell this morning with a heartfelt "Later bro," I started realizing that this was the new form of being carded. Instead of "you look young, can I see your ID please?" our society has narrowed the interchange down to a simple "Whatsup Brah".

Even though I feel as if my life is already halfway over and that I have already worked for more years in my past than I will probably work in the future, I suppose I still feel as if I have some sort of connection to youth. After all, I'm a bro. A dude, even.

So I suppose that next time I am in the supermarket and the check-out person says to me, Would you like help out with your packages, sir? My proper response should probably be something in the realm of, No worries, brah. I got enough kid left in me to carry twice as many packages.

Later, dude.

The Empty Space

I originally started this story with a bunch of loquaciously poetic crapola about the beautiful Southern California weather and how the clear blue skies seamlessly melt into the clear blue water and blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda. When I read it back to myself I actually felt nauseous. It was essentially ten pounds of hooey crammed into a five pound blog.

So I erased it and decided to get right to the point. The point being stupidity. More specifically, let's talk about the jackass that sideswiped me a couple of days ago while I was riding my bike.

Let's first set the record straight - many Los Angeles drivers are stupid. It's the nature of the city. Living with stupidity is part of the sacrifice you make to live in this weather. Pile on to the fact that this was one of the last summer days of the year, and the stupidity factor increases dramatically. Let me try to paint the picture for you...

Imagine the beauty of the Pacific Coast Highway crammed to the gills with non-stop weekend, beach-going traffic. For the sake of setting a standard, why don't you assume that all the drivers have average intelligence, just as a baseline. In a normal world that would be fairly reasonable conditions that one would feel could be a safe cycling environment. A little nerve-racking, but safe enough. However, in order to create a more realistic Los Angeles environment you need to make a few minor adjustments.

First, take 20% of the drivers and feed them all the drugs and alcohol they can get in their system without them passing out. OK, now put them back behind the wheel. Next, take another 20% of the people on the road and siphon all the brains out of their head until they just stand there clueless, with a blank, robotic stare. Great, now put them back behind the wheel too. There you go, that best represents a sunny summer day on the Pacific Coast Highway.

Your chances of survival have just dropped dramatically. But it sure is pretty scenery.

So here's the scenario... it was mid-day on a summer Sunday and I was riding down the aforementioned Pacific Coast Highway along the Malibu beaches. It's a popular place during a popular time of year. There were a lot of people parked on the side of the road to my right and even more driving down the highway to my left. Needless to say, I was being extra careful. One of my biggest biking fears is being tagged by a randomly opened car door. I feel like it is almost inevitable that this will happen eventually. It seems not a matter of "if", but of "when". So I pay special close attention to what is ahead of me when I'm riding by parked cars.

About 2 hours into the ride I was coming down a slight hill, rolling along at about 25 miles per hour. I was riding fairly slowly and was very alert during this part of the ride. Mostly because I was stressed. I knew something bad was going to happen and I was hoping I could get off the damn road before it happened.

A few feet to the left of me was the four lane highway. A couple of feet to the right of me was a line of cars parked by the beach. As I scanned the parked cars for randomly opening doors, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a very large white vehicle moving past me on my left. It wasn't moving very quickly, perhaps they were looking for a parking space. It was an enormous car. Like an Escalade or something.

Apparently, just as the Escalade reached my side, the driver saw the empty parking space for which he was seeking. Unfortunately there was one thing that separated the SUV from the parking space: me.

Let's stop here for a second and take a pop quiz. Put yourself in the Escalade drivers position. Having just passed by a bike rider and wanting to get into a parking space right in front of both of you, which of the following would you do:

A) Slow down, wait for the bike rider to pass, then safely pull to the side of the road and back into the space

B) Honk your horn, yell obscenities at the bike rider and throw a half-filled Burger King cup at him until he stops to let you in. If he gives you any lip, shoot him.

C) Ignore the bike rider completely, you don't know him anyway. Just close your eyes, turn the steering wheel and pull right into the spot. If you feel something under your tires, don't worry, it's probably just a speed bump.

If you selected Option A, you may be normal. If you selected Option B, you're probably one of the many gang-bangers in this city who are just looking for an excuse to shoot somebody - and wearing lycra is a good enough excuse. If you selected Option C, you may have been driving the Escalade that side-swiped me. In which case, you're a dick.

Just as he passed me by, the Escalade driver turned the steering wheel and began to cut me off. I jammed on my brakes hard. My heart rate probably shot up, cause I could feel it in my throat. I'm no doctor, but if I remember the Operation game board correctly, I'm pretty sure that the heart is not supposed to be located in the throat.

My bike started skidding towards the car, which is always a fairly nerve racking experience that involves lives flashing in front of eyes. I began yelling. I yell a lot at stupid drivers when I ride. I yell very loudly because sometimes stupid people are hard of hearing. There may even have been obscenities uttered. I sometimes use obscenities for dramatic effect.

Something like, HEY! HEY!! WHAT THE #$*&! ARE YOU DOING?!?!, could very well have emerged from betwixt my lips.

The driver did not slow down or stop. He kept moving and kept cutting me off. I squeezed my brakes harder as my rear tire fishtailed on the road. I couldn't swerve to my left, I'd be riding right into the oncoming traffic of a busy highway and that's a bad thing. I couldn't swerve to my right because I'd slam into a parked car - and if I were lucky enough to miss the parked cars, I'd fly over the side of the cliff instead. My only hope was to veer slightly towards the right and aim for the edge of the empty parking space where the SUV was going. Hopefully I could squeeze in there and stop before he ran me over.

I headed for the empty space, all the while trying to maintain control of my bike. I really needed to slow down to a stop before I ended up splatting against the side of the SUV, but since the Escalade was cutting the turn very close there was not a lot of room for me to fit in-between him and the parked cars. This looked like disaster.

I yelled, I screamed, I braked. I think I may have prayed a little bit too..... and then it finally stopped. I was leaning against the side of the SUV. Or, rather, the SUV was jammed up against me. I got sandwiched in like a head vice. The entire left side of my body was crammed against the side of the Escalade while the right side of my body was jammed against the parked car. I was stuck. Had he cut the turn any closer, I would've been squished by the moronic driver.

WHAT THE #*&! ARE YOU DOING?! I decided to yell again for special effect.

Physically I was fine, mentally I was in disbelief. How can they let such stupid people on the road? How is this possible?

I squeezed myself out of my jam, had a few choice words with the driver (who, by the way, seems to have been part of the 20% that had all the drugs and alcohol in their system) and continued nervously on my way back home. Needless to say, I took it very slowly and cautiously.

I tried to relax and concentrate on my surroundings. But it's tough out there on a busy road when you don't know who is driving and what substances they may have ingested into their bodies.

As I continued riding, I thought about this dramatic event and what I could learn from it all. I carefully pondered my grand takeaway that would leave me a much better person. But I didn't come up with anything good enough to provide a solid conclusion to this story. So I figure I'll just end it with some of the poetic hooey that I tried to start it all with.

It was the type of beautiful day that ends up on thirty-five cent postcards. Where the clear blue skies seemed to stretch on endlessly into the distance until they melted ever so seamlessly into the refreshingly blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean. It was as if God had an extra few buckets of blue paint and a burning inspiration to wow. It was awe-inspiring. Virtually poetic. It was one of those days that was beautiful enough to make you almost forget all of your worries. Almost.

No More Mr. Nice Guy

Nice job!
Niiice!
Good hustle!
Way to go!

These are the words that one local rider utters to other cyclists as he's passing them by. They're not heartfelt, his words of encouragement. It almost seems patronizing.

It doesn't matter how fast you're going or how much effort you are expending, he will inevitably utter one of the above mentioned phrases as he approaches on his bicycle. It's as if he were running for mayor and just wanted everybody to like him. But he tries too hard so it backfires. It comes across as arrogant. I once even got a "Way to go!" while I was at a dead stop at a traffic light.

Way to go?!?! What the hell is that supposed to mean? I'M STANDING STILL YOU BUFFOON!!! Am I really doing that great of a job of standing still?! Am I a better stand still-er than other riders?!

I'm sure he means well. Or, rather, I hope he means well. But he seems to be a fairly arrogant chap once you talk to the guy. And he's also a fairly annoying runt, which may very well be aligned with the arrogance. This is why I call him the Nice Guy. I like irony.

Not surprisingly, the Nice Guy always rides alone. The fact is that after about ten minutes of riding with him and listening to his inane ramblings, you realize you really only have two choices: you can either punch him in the face or you can sacrifice yourself and swerve into the oncoming traffic.

It's the classic battle between good and evil. Where the Nice Guy, with all his quasi-encouraging words, represents the good that turns people bad.

A couple of weeks ago I was just starting a bike ride. Only about two miles into it, I was still very much in my warm-up phase. With a body that was still in the pain of recovery from the pounding of the previous days, I was in no rush to get moving quickly. I had just been stopped at a red light and was creeping along at a fairly slow pace when the Nice Guy rolled up behind me. Good job!, he blurted out.

I was in no mood for pretending, I had no patience for this insincere crapola. GOOD JOB FOR WHAT?! I yelled back at him as I sped up the bike to a whopping 7 miles an hour.

He turned around and looked at me with a glint of fear in his eyes. As if nobody had ever questioned his half-hearted commentary.

Ummm...., he stumbled, no doubt realizing that of all the things to say to me in this scenario, "good job" may very well have been one of the most idiotic. Good job for getting out and riding, was what he eventually said.

[GONGGGG!!!!] Stupid answer, I thought to myself as I gave him a blank stare of disbelief. Exactly what I expected, you're a moron. Go away from me.

I never saw the Nice Guy again until a couple of weeks later. I was 15 minutes into a four hour ride when a drafting line of about 10 riders blew on by. whoosh!whoosh!whoosh!whoosh! they zipped through as I stayed slow, kept my head down to hold my line and moved to my right to give them more room. whoosh!whoosh! they kept coming by. Then as the last woosh! neared, I heard it: Niiice!

WTF?!?!

I looked up to see that Mr. Nice Guy had tagged on to the back of the draft line. Nice Guy is a decent rider - a little faster than me - but I know the group that he was with, they're "real" racers. There's no way in hell he'd be able to hang on to them. Yet as he struggled to stick to the last wheel, he still had enough energy to get out a "niice" as he passed me by.

Moron.

I continued my ride in peaceful solitude. I finally got to the rolling hills and started climbing them slowly then zipping down the other side. As I neared the bottom of the second hill, I looked up ahead of me. Mr. Nice Guy.

He had been dropped - no surprise - and here he was all alone again, casually pedaling away and waiting for some other sucker to come by for him to leech onto. I didn't want to be that sucker. I don't like leeches.

As I reached the bottom of the hill and begin the next climb, I saw the he was only 20 meters in front of me. I could tell that he was moving at just about my pace, maybe a fraction slower. At this rate I'd be right up next to him in a few seconds and he, undoubtedly, will leech on to me, drowning my brain in his incessantly moronic banter until I either punch him in the face or suicidally swerve into oncoming traffic.

I saw my fate and it wasn't pretty. I realized I had two options: either I could try to accept the fact that I'll have an annoying riding partner for the next hour and learn to deal with it or I could make my move and hope with all my might that he can't keep up with me.

I decided to go for option B. It seemed less painful.

I got angry. I didn't want to be in this position - I wanted to have a nice, calming ride. And now here I was, recognizing that I needed to push my body to it's very limit in hopes of out-biking somebody who is a better biker than me.

I looked up and saw he was now only about 10 meters away. We had both started climbing the hill and I knew he'd be hearing me approach anytime soon. Once he heard me, he would have ample warning to pick up the pace and stay with me. I couldn't risk that. I had to make my move. Now or never.

I took a big breath, flipped my bike into a lower gear, put my head down, got out of the saddle and accelerated up the hill with every piece of energy I had. Within less than a second he heard me approaching. He looked back. Niiice!, he said as he got out of his saddle.

Shit, I thought to myself, he's going to try and keep up. I pushed harder. My heartrate was at 165 and rising. I dug in deeper as I streamed up the hill. Head down, eyes focused. Pedaling stronger and faster. Heart rate at 168. 170. 172. My legs were burning, quads a searing line of pain. But I didn't look back and I didn't stop. Have to keep going. Push. Push.

I soon reached the top of the hill with absolutely nothing left in my legs. I sat back down in my saddle as I took to the flat road. I tried to catch my breath while I uttered a silent prayer, hoping to dear God that the Nice Guy wasn't able to keep up.

And then I turned to look behind me....

Nothing. Noone. I looked further down the road and saw him still struggling up the hill.
I did it!! I did it!! I dropped Mr. Nice Guy! Wooohooo!!!

I'm free!!!

But such parties don't last too long. I knew he was a better cyclist than me so I realized I had to maintain a pretty aggressive pace over these flats if I was going to keep my distance. I tucked down into the aerobars and started a-pedalin'.

Feeling began to come back into my legs and I started churning through the pedal rotations. High cadence, fast movement... I felt like all was going well. I was picking off some of the other riders who were ahead of me, zipping by them in relaxed but rapid movements. I felt great, I had succeeded. A smile began to emerge across my face.

As I got into the flow, my mind began to wander into corners of the brain that are only left available for long bike rides. The thoughts of this or that, of when and how, and ifs or buts. The gentle rocking of the bike, the movement on the road, lulls the mind into a kind of serenity that non-athletes will never understand. It's that serenity of monotony that makes a 7 hour ride seem to fly by like it's nothing.

About 20 minutes later I was climbing the last hill when I heard another group of bikers approaching me from behind. It's a Saturday morning on the Pacific Coast Highway, a haven for bike riders. I edged a little more to the right to give them room. It was a smaller group, only about five riders in this one. Woosh!woosh!woosh! they came by. And at the very end, as the last woosh! approached, I heard it.

Nice hustle!

I looked up to see the back wheel of Mr. Nice Guy pulling away.

I felt my blood boiling. I wanted to speed up to him just so I could punch him in the face. But before I made my move, I stopped myself. I let it go. I slowed down my pace. There would be no more running away for me.

I had made a valiant effort to escape from the firm grasp of the incessant friendliness of the morning cyclist. I had angered myself to counter his benevolence. In the end, he has prevailed.

I suppose in an odd way that this is a happy ending; that the "good" has won and overcome the "badness" of anger. But I've gotta be honest with you, next time I see Mr. Nice Guy on the road, I can't promise that I still won't feel like punching him in the face.

The Accessorizor

I have a new favorite swimmer. No, it's not you. Sorry.

It's not Michael Phelps, either, though I have to admit I think he looks a bit primatel with his long gorilla arms. My favorite swimmer isn't even Amanda Beard, though - [gulp] - she definitely holds a special place in my, uh, heart.

No, no, my new favorite swimmer is somebody more special. Somebody who can swim slower than a speeding kickboarder. More powerful than a three year old with floaties. Able to lap tall geriatrics in a single hour. Look! Down in the pool! It's a manatee! It's a submarine! It's... The Accessorizor!!

[insert timpani drum beats: ba-ba-ba-bummmmmm]

When you swim at my YMCA, it's tough to really choose one person that makes the forty-five dollars a month all worthwhile. There are so many options, so much to enjoy, I get all giddy at the thought of showing up in the morning and wondering what the day has in store.

When I first started swimming there, I thought the woman in the full scuba gear was a hoot. But after a few years of watching her scuba 25 yards at a time (with a weight belt on, might I add), it doesn't seem nearly as interesting anymore. There are so many people using snorkels in the pool, you'd think you were in a lost Hawaiian cove, but without the sea turtles, colorful fish or pretty much anything else that looks pretty.

As you know, the kicker was my favorite for awhile. After all, how can you not like somebody who swims like their auditioning for The Ministry Of Silly Walks? I smile when I see her approaching poolside. She warms my heart.

In the early days, far before The Kicker, there was Mrs. Cchhhat-Ptewie. An older Asian woman who always wore an American flag swim cap, she'd do the geriatric breaststroke for the 25 yards down the lane, then lean over the edge of the pool and - cccchat-ptewie!! - spit up a loogie. After the throat cleansing, she'd turn around, breaststroke her way back to the other end of the pool and - ccchat-ptewie! - spit up again. This would continue for the twenty-or so minutes she'd spend in the pool. It really balanced on the very thin line between fascinating and nauseating. Actually, it quickly plummeted onto the concrete sidewalk of nauseating.

I haven't seen Mrs. Cchhhat-Ptewie in awhile, but her husband, Mr. Cchhat-Ptewie, is still there fairly regularly. He used to wear the same American flag swim cap as his wife. In fact, he'd even wear the swim cap when he was taking a shower, post-workout. (They're just as cute as a button, those Ccchhat-Ptewies.) Recently, Mr. C-P has taken to wearing a fluorescent pink swim cap. Apparently he's not so hot on the United States anymore.

Unlike his dearly beloved wife, Mr. Cchhhat-Ptewie isn't much of a spitter, thank God. Instead, what jiggles my jollies is his blatant mis-use of the flippers. Mr. C-P has got a kick that he should really patent.

It seems like it would be almost natural when wearing flippers to straighten out your legs behind you and kick lightly so the flippers propel you forward. Not in this pool. Not at my YMCA. Instead of the standard flipper kick that you can see anywhere, Mr. Cchhat-Ptewie has kicked it up a notch.

You know that hamstring stretch where you lay on your back and pull your knee up to your chest? Well try doing that on your stomach, in a pool, with flippers on your feet. That's Mr. Cchhat-Ptewie. The crazy thing is that since he's kicking so inefficiently, the flippers actually slow him down, which forces him to stop and catch his breath for a couple of minutes after every single lap. I just want to give him a kickboard and about three seconds of pointers. I know it'll change his life.

But, alas, I am not one to give any swim lessons. And Mr. Cchhat-Ptewie, though no longer my pool favorite, still holds a special place in my heart.

Oh, and by the way, Corrado Soprano ain't my favorite either, but he should be a YMCA fashion model. Somehow, somewhere this nice old gentleman found a pair of goggles that look EXACTLY like Corrado's glasses. You know those oversized, outdated glasses that really old people seem to wear as they are driving twenty miles an hour down the highway? Well apparently whatever company sells those glasses just came out with a line of swim goggles.

But enough about others, let's talk about the Accessorizor.

I saw the Accessorizor for the first time last week. He is probably about my age, somewhere in the late 30s or early 40s. Like me, he doesn't look as if he's in amazing shape, but he clearly has a little athleticism locked deep inside there somewhere. He's not a bad swimmer - or at least I don't think he is, it's tough to tell. But the thing that sets him apart from the masses is of all the accessories he wears when he's in the pool. He's like Mr. T in a Speedo. It makes the Scuba Diver look like she's swimming naked.

The Accessorizor is sporting the Scuba mask, of course. That's practically a required accessory at the YMCA. He's also got that funky snorkel that comes right up in front of your face so it doesn't get clogged with water when you practice breathing. You can't pay enough for that technology.

Then there are the flippers. You've gotta have flippers. And the pull buoy. What's a swim without a pull buoy. Oh, and there are the weights on the hands, I suppose that helps build strength. And the swim paddles. I'm sure somebody somewhere told him you can't become a better swimmer without them.

Now I'm sure none of these accessories sound like they are out of the ordinary for a swimmer, and they're not. However, when you wear them all at once, all the time, it becomes a bit overwhelming. It's like trying to bench press, do squats and sit-ups all at the same time, while chewing gum and standing on one foot. With somebody tickling you.

Just getting all the accessories on is half the battle - and a battle that takes him a good five or ten minutes of poolside struggling. But the coup d'grace of all this is the final must-have swimming accessory. The one piece of equipment that will make us all jealous: It's the clock. But no, no... not just an ordinary clock. It's the LapTech Pro Pool Timer, to be exact.

I've never really seen a LapTech Pro up close and personal before, but it seems like a nifty idea. In fact, I could imagine it's a great tool if 1) you've got a really hard time counting laps or 2) you're curious to know what time it is every 45 seconds or so.

Here's the catch though - the Accessorizor always swims in a lane that is right next to the YMCA pool clock. Let me help you visualize this. The YMCA pool clock is about 5 feet in diameter. You can practically see the damn thing from space. In fact, in this one pool there are three different clocks on three different sides of the room. No matter which way you look, there's a second hand telling you you're not going fast enough. But that means nothing to The Accessorizor. Superheroes have no need for five foot clocks.

The LapTech Pro snakes out of it's nifty black carrying case on the edge of the pool and hangs right down into the water. The perfect location for the Accessorizor to time his swim. While he's heading down in the other direction, I sometimes duck my head under water, sashay under the lane line and get myself a close-up look at the LapTech Pro. You don't see them often - I don't want to miss the opportunity.

The Accessorizor checks the LapTech Pro every few laps. Maybe it's because he is wearing so much gear that he doesn't have the energy to actually lift his head up the three inches it would take to look at the 5-foot wall clock. Or perhaps wearing a watch would be the additional accessory - that extra ounce of weight - that would sink the poor fellow. I'm sure he has his reasons. But I can't help but smile when I realize how long it takes him to actually read what the LapTech is saying.

When The Accessorizor comes back to the end of the pool, he stops, balances himself on his flippered feet with pull-buoyed legs held tight and with his face still under water thanks to the snorkel. He reaches down with his weighted, paddled hands, lifts the LapTech closer to his face-masked eyes, checks the time then turns around and swims another hundy or so. The entire time checking process takes about 10 seconds which, may I add, is about 9.5 seconds longer than it takes to look at the monstrosity of a clock that hangs on the wall four feet in front of him.

Ya gotta love it. He's great.
I laugh. I cry. I feel like spitting on the side of the pool.

I love the Accessorizor. In this sport that requires so many pieces and parts; where we are always trying to go further, faster and stronger; where the person with the most toys is the envy of the most people; the Accessorizor wins.

He dares to bring it all together. In some ways he's a bit of a mirror of all of us. As we try every trick to beat the ticking of time, and as we incessantly lighten, strengthen and aerodynamic our way to slashing seconds off the clock, the Accessorizor is silently mocking us.

Yes, I laugh at him as he checks his LapTech Pro, but I only laugh for a brief moment because as I stare obsessively at the counting seconds of my multi-faceted watch, straighten my goggles and push the pull buoy up a little closer to my crotch, I have no more time to laugh. I must push off the wall yet again and test my abilities to forever beat the ticking of the clock.

No Rhyme Or Reason

I live in Los Angeles, California. We have two baseball teams, two basketball teams, one hockey team and one soccer team. We are host to the LA Marathon and the LA Triathlon. Sure we may be missing a football team, but we still have our fair share of sports in this city. Which made my trip to the Post Office today all the more confusing and poetic.

As I was standing in line waiting to mail my packages, my eyes meandered over to the post office display...

There were your standard envelopes and jiffy packs; rolls of packing tape and bubble wrap. Even teddy bears on the wall, next to canvas bags with postage stamp designs. Yes, they had it all.

But the one thing that really caught my eye and made me wonder. Were the magnetic sports decals they had hanging near the pencils, but a little yonder. Not the Lakers or the Dodgers or magnetic David Beckham heads, but a big red and white logo for the Cincinnati Reds.

Cincinnati?! I thought. That's fucking absurd. We live in a big coast-side city, not some midwestern suburb. Do they really think we need to remember Johnny Bench, when we already have Lindsey and Paris and her other friend, what's her name... that wench.

Give me Kobe or Nomar or even Posh Spice, a little LA pride would be kinda nice. But alas a Cincinnati Reds decal was all I saw this time. I have no clue why I decided to make this idiotic story rhyme.