The Cellphone Rings

I've been doing a little sociological study on cell phone usage and think I've finally got it all figured out. Here's what I've come up with....

Young kids & teens
Mostly text message until their fingers are blistered. If the phone rings at all, it's usually some Justin Timberlake-type ringtone that is only loud enough to get their friends to say, "i am so totally in love with that song" everytime somebody calls. The ring, however, rarely gets past the first few bars before they answer the phone and start the conversation with something like, "oh. my. god. i totally like can't believe you just called me right now. like totally freaky."

20 somethings
The phones are usually kept in their pockets, so it takes a couple seconds to get out before they can answer. Their cellphone rings are usually some sort of ringtone they've downloaded that is directly related to their quote-unquote lifestyle - or however that is defined in musical terms. Hip hop, emo, goth - each of them has a ringtone that defines them to the core of their being. They do a bit of text messaging but not nearly as much as their younger siblings. They make fun of their younger siblings and their silly ringtones, even though they were just like them 5 years ago.

30 somethings
There's no time for ringtones, they'd rather have the phone vibrate anyway. That way they can keep it on during meetings without missing a single call. Unfortunately, they're always picking up the phone in the middle of conversations and looking at it, despite the fact that nobody heard any ringing. It tends to get a bit confusing for those trying to hold a conversation with them. It's like the cellphone version of Turrets Syndrome.

40 somethings
Would love to have a ringtone from the 70s or 80s. Something like The Love Boat theme or Shaft. They really can't understand why anybody would not want the Shaft theme as a ringtone. However, they're too busy, they don't have the time to find the ringtone and even if they did have they time, they wouldn't know where to get it anyway. So they're content to just stick with the coolest sounding ringtone that came with the phone when they first bought it. They're just discovering text messaging and almost understand how it makes life easier. Their phones are usually hidden in purses or briefcases so the ring volume is set on loud. How else do you expect to hear the phone in the purse? Unfortunately, it takes a little bit too long to find the phone when it's ringing and they often miss the calls for not picking up on time.

50 somethings
They've heard about text messaging but don't understand the fuss. They're not real sure what a ringtone is and really couldn't care less. Ringtones are for kids. Why would anyone need a different sound for a phone ringing anyway? Back when I was growing up, you got a phone, it rang, you answered it, end of story. None of this really matters though because most of the time they forget to turn their cellphones on in the first place.

60 somethings
They're not real sure how to turn the phone off. The ringer volume is set to megaphone-loud, though to them it seems quite normal (just like Pete Townsend felt like the volume at The Who concerts was fairly normal. Now he's stuck with Tinkerbell living in his head.) They never quite realized that there is a mute feature for rings, so rather than turning the ringer off, they just keep it ringing, extremely loudly, in public places until the person finally hangs up or they get stoned to death by the other people in the movie theater.

70 somethings
They don't have a cell phone and don't want one. They don't know what a ringtone is, never heard of a text message and, honestly, don't understand what all the fuss is about and don't really care. They're not so much for new fangled contraptions anyway. They still don't quite understand how to use the answering machine their grandchildren got them for Christmas.

9 Ways The Olympics Could Be More Fun

1. Have the synchronized divers each hold a set of torches. On fire. Just like in Acapulco.

2. Show Michael Phelps' mom after every American medal performance, regardless of the sport or athlete. We clearly didn't see her enough.

3. Two words: strip volleyball

4. Make the Sack Race and the Three Legged Race official Track & Field events

5. Allow competitors to punch any rival who is showboating (coughUsainBoltcough)

6. Have the fencers use the big heavy swords like in Pirates of the Caribbean. And, oh, make them talk like Jack Sparrow too.

7. Javelin catchers.

8. Make archery more old school. Forget the targets. Man with apple on head. William Tell style, yo.

9. Forget the 16 year old minimum age for gymnastics. Imagine a couple of 7 year olds on the balance beam? How cute is that?!

10. Instead of just playing the gold medal winners' national anthem, give 'em a microphone and
make it karaoke.

11. Biathlon, triathlon, pentathlon, decathlon... hows about the Quintathlon. Participants compete in every single Olympic event. Let's see who wins that one.

My Long Lost Life

I don't WANT the Olympics to end. I NEED the Olympics to end. I can't keep it up, I'm going crazy.

Catherine just got home and found me sitting on the couch, the TV on and the computer in front of me. Olympic diving was on TV, Taekwondo streaming on the Internet. I might as well have had a needle coming out of my arm.

What are you doing? she said.

I'm waiting for BMX to start, I replied somewhat matter of factly, as if she couldn't figure that one out.

You're watching diving on the TV and Taekwondo on the computer at the same time? And you say you're just waiting for BMX to start? You need help.

She's right, this has gotten ridiculous.
I need a recovery program.

Can we just give everybody gold medals and call it a day? I need my life back.

The Olympic Spirited Away

You know what I love about triathlon in the Olympics? It's that the winners are ecstatic to have won. They are all jumping for joy, screaming and yelling and victorious. And I'm not even talking about the gold medal winners - it goes without saying that the first place finishers are beyond ecstatic. What I'm talking about are the silver and bronze medal winners in triathlon. When they cross that finish line, they're smiling and joyful and overwhelmed as if they have yet to realize that others finished ahead of them.

It seems to me that there's an honest feeling in triathlon that medaling in the Olympics is the ultimate honor in the sport. I remember, back when I was a kid, how that feeling permeated every sport of the Olympic games. How anybody who finished in the top 3 was deliriously happy. After all, they are Olympic medalists and that's something to be damn proud of.

I loved watching Olympic swimming and am in awe of Michael Phelps and his amazing accomplishments. Yet I can't remember seeing an Olympic swimming race this year when the silver and bronze medalists were screaming and smiling in accomplishment. Instead, it always seemed that two-thirds of the medalists looked as if they just got news that their parents died (with the possible exception of Dara Torres who, the class act that she is, was both honestly ecstatic and slightly disappointed at not getting the gold, in the .01 second margin.)

Same with gymnastics, table tennis, archery and a variety of other sports. The jumping for joy seems to only be reserved for the highest spot on the podium.

(Yes, there are exceptions. I'm not making a sweeping generalization of every single winner. But I am talking about most of them.)

What happened? Where did we go wrong? At what point in our existence did being the 2nd or 3rd best at a something become a losing proposition? There are approximately 6.7 billion people in this world. Billion, with a B. If I could be the top 3 in anything - anything whatsoever - I can pretty much guarantee you that I'd be jumping with joy for the rest of my life. Literally, I'd be jumping up and down until my legs gave out.

But alas, most of us are lucky if we're amongst the 1 million best people in anything. And many of us are even ecstatic to be there! Understanding that there are less than 1 million people racing triathlon in this world, I'm happy to say that I'm better at triathlon than ~99.985% of the human population. And goshdarnnit, if that's not something to be proud of, then what is?

So let's get back to the overwhelming joy expressed by the top finishers in the Olympic triathlons. In fact, it doesn't even seem to be limited to the top three. Some of the fourth, fifth and sixth place finishers were as overwhelmed as if they just won the race themselves. Did anybody see Unger screaming his way to a 6th place finish?! And what about the dude high-fiving himself to a last place victory in the men's triathlon with a smile on his face that rivaled the winners?!

Maybe it's because triathlon is such a young sport in the Olympic eye that the participants are still just excited to be on the international stage. With only a few years under our belts, we still hold in awe the power of an Olympic medal. Or maybe it's this hidden camaraderie I talk about so often that is inherent in triathlon. How personal accomplishment isn't so much calculated by the time it took you to finish, but by the effort you put in along the way. And pride isn't a measure of how high you stand in relation to others, but how much you willingly embrace the person that looks back at you in the mirror.

Whatever it is, I'm happy to be a part of it. And I can only hope that this Olympic spirit somehow creeps back into the rest of the sports so that us everyday Joe's can continue to remain in awe of the world's best. So that when we cross our local finish lines, we have role models that have taught us to smile and scream and be proud of our accomplishments, no matter what the clock says.

12 Random Thoughts About The Olympics

1. Who died and made Jim Lampley the anchor? Let's get the SportsCenter folks to run the show. Now THAT would be fun.

2. Since when did beach volleyball warrant more prime time coverage than other, more interesting sports. Like, say, fencing.

3. Speaking of fencing, I'm saddened to realize that Olympic duels look nothing like the fights in The Princess Bride.

4. Beach volleyball in the rain? Huh?!

5. If they allowed rowers to splash competitors in other boats, it'd be a lot more interesting to watch.

6. Live synchronized diving for 1 hour? Really?

7. I still don't understand how they choreographed that part of the opening ceremony when all the "dancers" had the boxes over their heads. Amazing. Truly amazing.

8. It seems that every 4 years each Olympic host tries to outdo the last with their opening ceremonies. My advice to London is, instead of trying to outdo China, go the opposite direction. All you need is a guy in a loin cloth carrying a stick of fire.

9. Why does Michael Phelps have to wear his bathing suit so low? Pull up the pants swimboy.

10. At what point do we realize that Lebron James, Kobe Bryant, Roger Federer and Serena Williams do not constitute the spirit of the Olympics? Hows about we all agree that if you're making more than $10 million per year, stay at home. We'll watch you at your own championships.

11. How great is that Coca-Cola commercial with Carl Lewis and the retarded kids crying?! I mean, really.

12. Speaking of commercials, the award goes to Visa. Gold star.

Freedom Fries Anybody?

What's with the French? How come they hate us so much - what did we ever do to them? I mean, besides naming greasy, deep fried potatoes after them (which doesn't seem nice). Though didn't we make up for that with the French Toast? Doesn't the yummy-ness of French Toast cancel out the greasy-ness (though no less yummy) of the French Fries?

We eat baguettes, we nibble on croissants, we French kiss and drink French wine behind French doors wearing chapeaus in our chateaus. And still, what do we get? Nothing but an upturned nose and a cchhat-ptewie in our general direction. They say things like, "you durgty Amerr-ee-cahns can kees my ahss" and that's just plain mean. The French Canadians aren't even half as mean.

On another note, in case you've been hiding under a rock and haven't seen the greatest swim event ever in the history of everything, click here. I still don't get how he won. It doesn't make sense.

Who ever thought there was a swim race that you'd want to watch over and over. Go figure.





* Please note: the views expressed in this article do not necessarily reflect the views of the author, if that's at all possible.

Celebrities In The Draft

I used to have these celebrity sighting comments on the bottom of the blog but somewhere along the line I forgot to care. Somewhere along the line I think you forgot to care too. Anyhoo, I was just going through my draft blog posts and found this unposted gem in there. Since I couldn't bring myself to actually erase it (I don't like throwing stuff away), I figured I'd post it and you can do with it what you will. So here you go, a blast from the blog past.... Celebrity Sightings....


*************
Who: Tom Hanks and his wife whats-her-name

Where: TCBY

What He Was Doing: Getting yogurt with his wife and friends. And from the looks of Tom, I'd say he's over-recovered from his role in "Castaway". Maybe there've been a few too many TCBY runs when they've been all out of the non-fat flavors. Then again, now that he's a big powerful movie executive and not a lowly actor, who the hell cares what he looks like. On the down side, I suppose this means I'll never see a Bosom Buddies full length movie.

***********

Who: Jon Favreau, writer, director and star of one of the best movies of all time, Swingers. He's also been in a bunch of other films that make you say things like "hey, isn't that the guy from Swingers?"

Where: Starbucks

What He Was Doing: Drinking something too expensive and playing with his newborn child. Actually, it looks like the child may be a month or two old. Which I suppose is as close to newborn as you'll get at Starbucks.

I'm Back

We just got back yesterday from our Vermont - Maine - Boston birthday extravaganza. It was a blast. Relaxing, athletic, fun... all sorts of adjectives rolled into a tree-lined, lake-filled land o' beauty.

This past Saturday (Cat's bday) we ran the Beach to Beacon 10k. I'm going to tell you about that one in a sec. While you're waiting, you might want to go sign up for next year's race because it's definitely one of the better 10ks out there.

Happy Birthday Catherine!

You haven't heard from me in awhile, because Catherine and I are on vacation in Vermont and Maine. (BTW, it's her birthday today in case you, you know, wanted to say something to her)

The Last Thing I Saw

The first thing I saw was a man doing a flip in the air. Then again, maybe the first thing I saw was the black SUV, it's hard to recall. It is also possible that the first thing I saw was the bike. It happened so quickly, some of it is a blur. I was also about three or four cars back, so I couldn't see everything. But the sequence of events can only work in one way, so I suppose that has affected my memory - logic always trumps perception.

The cyclist was coming south at a fairly good clip. The SUV was going north on the other side of the road at about 25 miles per hour when he took a quick left. Cyclist hits SUV, flies into the air, does flip. His head bounces on the ground. Literally, it bounced. I saw it. It hit the ground, bounced and smacked into the ground again.

I cringed. The SUV was still moving and I cringed and hoped that he didn't run over the cyclist. I was three or four cars back and couldn't quite see. I prayed. Sometimes you can say very long, thoughtful prayers in a millisecond. I could tell that the cyclist was on the ground and that the SUV was still moving and all I could do was cringe and pray and hope he didn't get run over.

He didn't.

I immediately grabbed my phone and held down the 9 button. "Would you like to pre-program this key?" the phone prompted me. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! I yelled to Verizon. NO, I DO NOT WANT TO PRE-PROGRAM THE KEY. THE KEY IS ALREADY SUPPOSED TO BE PRE-PROGRAMMED!! Since when is the goddam 9 key NOT already pre-programmed to dial 911?!

I swore at Verizon. I stumbled with the phone. I was shaking.

My fingers felt like tree trunks, the number pad mere pinholes. I somehow pushed the numbers, 9-1-1. I gave them all of the information about the cyclist lying in the road, the SUV parked on the side. I pulled over, got out of my car and rushed across the street.

People had already come by, they were standing around him staring. Don't move, they said. Did anybody call 911, they asked. I did, I said. They're on their way.

I'm a doctor, a guy said as he knelt on the ground. Move away, everybody please move away.

What's your name? he asked as he scanned the body for broken bones.

Christopher, he replied.

Can you feel this? he asked as he squeezed fingers on his right hand, his left

Yes. Yes.

How about this? as he squeezed his left foot, his right.

Yes.

OK. Don't move. Don't get up.

The paramedics arrived, the police arrived. They talked to the witnesses, they examined the victim. The victim. He was a cyclist, now he's a victim.

They asked about the car, they looked at the SUV. They asked questions about the traffic lights, the speed, the incident. The man that was driving stood next to me, silent. He was 65, middle eastern, scared. He opened his phone and began to text. Probably his wife. He's going to be late for dinner.

Who is the driver, the police asked. I pointed my finger. Him.

He was scared. It was a mistake.

* * *

Mandeville wasn't a mistake.

Mandeville happened three weeks ago. The mass of cyclists were on top of the 5 mile climb. They were coming down when a friend fell over, broke a collar bone. The two friends waited while the rest of the crew continued. They called for help. The ambulance came and began to take care of the fallen one. The two friends bid farewell and began to ride down the hill.

Halfway down a car came up behind them. Honking. The cyclists moved to the side of the road in single file. The car came up next to them, he was yelling. They stayed single file on the side of the road. The driver pulled in front of them.

And then he slammed on his brakes.

The driver of the car, traveling just a few feet in front of the cyclists, purposely slammed on his brakes.

The first cyclist jammed his bike, clipped the car and was thrown onto the ground. Banged up, broken arm. The second cyclist hit the rear bumper of the car, flew off his bike and went through the rear window. Not INTO the rear window... THROUGH it. His body was destroyed. His nose was practically ripped off. He'd get 90 stitches on his face alone.

The man got out of the car and continued to yell. I'M A DOCTOR! He added amidst his rage. But he's not the type of doctor that is compassionate and caring, because he wasn't. And he's not the type of doctor that helps people when they're hurt, because he didn't. He just yelled. And nearly killed two cyclists.

The second cyclist pulled his battered body off the ground and lay his body on top of the car. We can't let this man get away, he thought. I must keep him here at all costs until help comes.

Help came. It was another cyclist - and the ambulance from higher up the hill that had been helping their friend with the broken collarbone. The ambulance stopped and took care of the cyclists. The ambulance called the cops.

The driver was arrested. Road rage. A felony, up to 7 years in prison. And he's a doctor. Hopefully he'll lose his license.

The pictures are horrendous. The story is everywhere.

Los Angeles cyclists are hit by cars every week. Cyclists die every year. It's not getting better, it's getting worse. People are angrier, more stressed, they don't pay attention, they don't care. People are on their phones, their blackberries, they're reading books while they drive. People read books while they're driving.

I want to help, but I don't know what to do.

I feel it's not a matter of if I'll get hit by a car, but a matter of when. In the past two years I've been hit by one car and run off the road by two others. But it could get worse. I'm still alive. Next time could be worse.

I'm nervous when I ride, scared when Catherine leaves. I fear my friends will fall victim.

We want to be cyclists, not victims.

Post Apologies

I need to apologize to everybody. I haven't posted a gosh darn thing in awhile. It's not for lack of caring. I've had oh so many things to say but, honestly, work has been so incredibly crazy busy. To top it off, Catherine and I were just in New York City for a bunch of days where we went to our friends wedding. And now I'm trying to get a magazine article done. As if that's not enough, Catherine and I are headed out east again next week to celebrate her big birthday.

Excuses excuses.

I'm going to try to say a little something or other before we leave, but no promises.

Thanks for your understanding.
It's why I like you so much.

Running In Place

Remember when you were in fourth grade PE class and you had to run in place? You know, jogging without going anywhere. In hindsight, it seems fairly ridiculous. I can't imagine it's the type of activity that would teach kids any type of valuable lesson besides, say, learning how to skip PE class.

It seems to me that forcing a group of highly impressionable children to run in place may just be some sort of displaced analogical representation of a sad and lonely gym teacher who feels like he's going nowhere in life. Making kids run in place is his way of forcing the rest of the world to suffer the failure that his mother thinks he is. If he'd only gotten married and applied himself a little better, maybe he wouldn't be such an embarrassment to the family and maybe, just maybe, he could've grown up to be the successful, well-respected man that his brother Frances turned out to be.

This line of thought began last night when Catherine came home from work and told me that she needed to do leg strengthening exercises. She changed into her very sexy tights and jog bra (as women tend to do in such situations), came back into the living room, put on some random Madonna album (as women also tend to do in these situations) and began to read her workout instructions.

Suddenly she looked at me with somewhat of a blank star on her face. I'm supposed to start with a five minute warm-up on a spinning bike, she said. I don't have a spinning bike.

And, with nary another word spoke, she began to jog. In place. Going nowhere.

She tried her darndest not to look at me while I tried my hardest not to laugh. All I could do was stare in amazement. I hadn't seen anybody jog in place in decades. Probably since Coach Reznicki's PE class. (Rez-o was a douchebag).

I stared in disblief. The smirk turning to a grin turning to a smile turning to...

Catherine glanced over at me with one of those looks that says "What's your problem, chump?! You never see somebody jog in place before?!". And then she quickly looked away.

I really tried my hardest not to laugh, but, c'mon people, she's jogging in place! Finally, like a balloon that expanded beyond it's limit, Catherine burst out in hysterics.

I can't believe I'm jogging in place!! she spat out. You have to promise not to tell anybody about this!

You've got to be kidding, I replied. You're jogging in place!! Hell, I'm telling EVERYBODY!

But, alas, apparently jogging in place doesn't have the same cache when you're an adult as it did when you were a kid (assuming it had any cache as a kid). Within about two minutes, Catherine's jogging in place turned into endless laps between the living room and dining room. Keeping in mind, that the distance between the two extends about 10 feet. Yet somewhere amidst all of this nonsense, it got me thinking about my life.

As I've grown older, I've learned to despise running in place. I thrive on forward movement. I want to continue to grow, to move, to learn. If there's one thing that is guaranteed to chew me apart from the inside, it's the concept of standing still. Granted, I can lay on the couch and read just as well as the next guy. Put me in front of a TV and I'll stay potatoed there ad infinitum. But, believe it or not, part of that is about learning and growing.

The reason I love watching the Olympic Trials and the Tour de France and the Bass Master Classic and any other sport I can put my remote on, is because it ignites the fire of inspiration within me. Believe it or not, sitting on my ass and watching a couple of guys play billiards actually drives me forward. It helps me to be the best, most inspired person I can be in whatever I am doing.

And isn't this a reason for life - to be the person you want to be?

If nothing else, the purpose of life is about experiencing life. It's about capturing emotion and memories; about exploring and teaching and keeping the world spinning around. Life is about learning how to grow a tree from a seedling, so the next generation can grow a forest from the tree. It's about moving forward. It's not about getting to the finish line as much as moving away from the starting line. In life, there is no running in place.

And I suppose within that is how we take triathlon as the great analogy of life. Working hard, challenging ourselves, learning, growing, achieving. It's not about the time at the end, but the time we had getting to the end.

Let's keep moving forward.

The 7 Worst Sounds in Triathlon

1. POWWW!!!-SSsssssssss: The deafening sound of a blown tire the moment you step into the water

2. Five words uttered when you're at mile10 of the run, when 100 degree temperature is considered "cooling off", when the very last drop of moisture in your body has just evaporated, when you finally reach the aid station that appears like an oasis in the Sahara, that's when you hear it: We're all out of water

3. The screeching of car tires right behind your bike

4. Ambulance sirens

5. "WATCH OUT!!" screamed by the douchebag riding his bike right behind you

6. "Shaark!" yelled while you're swimming. Even if you're in a pool and they're clearly joking, it's still not funny.

7. Four words: "No more toilet paper"

The Art Of Stuffing A Kielbasa

Every week, the LA Tri Club puts on a Wednesday morning ocean swim that has become quite the festive fete. Though it starts at the early hour of 6:30am - on a school-day nonetheless - it consistently attracts about 50 to 100 people. If you close your eyes and force yourself to throw up, it almost feels like the start of a triathlon, which is kinda good, because that's the whole purpose.

The swim is a "speed circuit," which may not be the best name for the activity. Perhaps it's better simply named a "swim circuit" - or maybe just a "don't drown circuit". Either way, this so-called circuit pretty much entails everybody starting en masse and running from the sand into the ocean, then swimming 250 meters out to a little buoy, rounding the buoy and swimming the 250 meters back to shore, running out of the water, across about 50 meters of frustratingly deep sand, then back into the water to repeat the whole thing again as many times as you please, or until your toes get stung by a stingray, whichever comes first.

This past Wednesday was the first time I attended this particular swim, despite the fact that I've heard all the hoo-haa about it for years. Catherine and I got there at about 6:15 and pulled into the parking lot with the rest of our early morning brethren. The parking lot was full. Doors were ajar, trunks were open, goggles were defogging, bodies were lubing, flip flops were flopping and everybody was getting themselves prepared in their own special ways. I looked around at the masses in their own worlds with their own processes and you know what I discovered? I discovered that there are many different ways to squeeze into a wetsuit. It almost seems like an art.

So I decided to do a little research on this whole thing. What I've found is a wealth of information about putting on a wetsuit and in just a short time I've become the world's foremost expert on wetsuit putting-on-ing. Just because I like you, I'm going to share all of my knowledge with you right here, right now. Don't you feel lucky? I thought so.

Basically, the art of putting on a wetsuit can all be boiled down to five different techniques: The Fold, The Frog, The Jump, The Leap and The Tush. Let me explain...

The Fold
The Fold is perhaps the most popular technique for putting on a wetsuit. Some of you folks may also know this as The Fingernail, The Pull or The Shimmy method. Whatever you like to call it, it's pretty simple and is the technique usually taught to new-comers.

The Fold begins with two feet in the wetsuit (having feet firmly back inside flip flops is optional, though recommended). In the early stage, the suit rests just above the knees. If required, the user can stand up and waddle to the other side of the car with the hopes of not falling down, in the same manner as one might do the moments before the start of a burlap sack race.

With wetsuit bunched on quads, the user reaches down and proceeds to pull and yank the bottom of the suit leg, massaging the suit up the leg until the mid-leg bunching has been maximized and you can create none more bunching.

For those wishing to be certified in The Fold method, one essentially utilizes a wetsuit rolfing technique to manipulate the suit (this is a trick question in the certification test - just a heads up.) When maximum bunching has been achieved, user then pulls the suit above the hips and continues the folding technique on the legs and arms until the tightest fit possible has been achieved.

The Fold technique is a favorite of Type A personalities. The problem with this is that, because they are Type A personalities, there is always more Folding and pulling that can be done.


The Frog
Though The Fold is most effective for the common body types, The Frog is apparently a very effective assembly system for those people with wetsuits that need a little extra lift in the crotchal region. The process entails getting the suit almost halfway on, where the legs and hips are fully covered with only the upper body remaining (a Fold technique may or may not be used in the early stages of this process). To an outside observer, it may seem like the user is but a couple of arms and a zip away from being done and ready to waddle to the water. But, alas, there is one more step to be had.

Prior to even beginning the upper body maneuvering, you will find The Frog-ger suddenly bending the legs and squatting very low to the ground, as if they just had sudden flashbacks to their last time in a Chinese Port-A-Pooper. And just when you think they're going to fall right onto the ground - kablaaam! - they straighten their legs and grab their crotch in one fell swoop without their feet ever leaving the ground.

The overall purpose of The Frog technique is to lift up the crotch area of the wetsuit for a tighter, more snug fit. But The Frog maneuver is not easy. It requires a level of leg-hand-crotch coordination that is not common to multi-sport athletes. If done properly, it is a thing of beauty. But for The Frog neophyte, well.... let's just say there are certain triathletes who will no longer be able to make babies. If you are interested in learning the proper, USAT-sanctioned Frog technique, please feel free to contact Catherine. She is a certified Frog instructor.


The Jump
Certain people unfamiliar with wetsuit placement have confused The Frog and The Jump, assuming they are different parts of the same maneuver. They're not. Don't listen to those people.

The Jump is a very controversial method of putting on a wetsuit. Certain pundits have claimed that The Jump is not actually a technique but rather a "flair". One often cited study reports that "...[The] Jump, though widely accepted as a viable method for getting into a wetsuit, has been proven to have less than 3.86% effectiveness in decreasing Hogan's Air Displacement..." (In case you don't know, Hogan's Air Displacement is the amount of air - in cubic millimeters - that exists at any given time between one's wetsuit and one's skin. It was named after a Captain Hogan that was a prisoner of war in Germany and escaped by swimming 300 miles to England with nothing more than a Hefty trashbag and a package of rubber bands to keep himself warm. Hogan's Heroes was loosely based on him, though after the Glad bag lawsuit, the story line was changed and Captain Hogan died a poor, lonely man with nothing to his name but a lifetime supply of trashbags.)

The study continues, "...we can safely surmise that The Jump is nothing more than a self-serving technique that aids only in battles of ego and self-confidence. "

Arguments aside, I must believe that people find true value in executing The Jump. The technique is rather rudimentary and occurs in distinct sections of the wetsuit assembly process. Specifically, once the legs have been fully inserted into the suit and such suit has been firmly raised up around the hip region, the user slightly bends the legs (though not as deep as with The Frog) and, with hands grasping the edge of the suit, bounds off the ground while yanking the suit higher up the hips. The Jump can be executed between one and three times during any single wetsuit dressing. To qualify as a true Jump, one's feet may not leave the ground by more than 6 inches.

Flip flops are optional with The Jump; it is recommended that the user be aware of their terrain and use proper judgement accordingly. The Jump may also be combined with The Frog (though please only attempt this with sufficient experience and support).


The Leap
Unlike The Jump, there really isn't a lot of controversy about The Leap. Most everybody is in agreement that this method adds absolutely no actual value towards putting on a wetsuit. The Leap is just like The Jump, with the one exception being that the user bounds well over 6 inches from the ground. Leapers oftentimes jump for heights in excess of 1 foot. The Leap is usually only done one time in any single wetsuit dressing and is most often followed by the rolling of eyes from all nearby witnesses. You'll know you have just missed witnessing a Leap attempt when you hear bystanders muttering under their breath such words as "douchebag" and "blowhard".


The Tush
The Tush is a rare and dying technique, and perhaps one of the most difficult of all methods to put on a wetsuit. It is believed that The Tush was originated by surfers in Costa Rica, back before Costa Rica was a safe place for whitey. Somewhere in the 80s, The Tush became quite popular amongst the surfing community and even edged over into scuba diving for a few years in the early 90s. By the mid-90s, triathletes began to fiddle with The Tush method but it never really caught on.

The Tush technique entails performing the entire first two phases of wetsuit placement while sitting down on the ground (or, originally, on a surfboard). Though some articles have claimed that sitting on the trunk or bumper of a car still qualifies as The Tush method, the true connoisseur would disagree.

Putting on a wetsuit with The Tush technique is extremely difficult. Though getting the feet into the wetsuit is not overly challenging, moving the suit over the upper legs and onto the tush is a feat only reserved for the most experienced. Unfortunately, once you get your feet into your wetsuit, you're really at the point of no return with The Tush for standing up with a wetsuit around your ankles is a nearly impossible task.

I don't recommend you try The Tush without proper support and instruction. I've seen people try and, frankly, it gets ugly.


* * *

As far as I have been able to tell, those are all of the modern day wetsuit assembly techniques that are currently recognized by the KSAA (Kielbasa Stuffing Association of America, the national governing body for putting on a wetsuit). If you've heard of anything else, let me know.

I hope this has been helpful.

My First Masters Class - or - (Not Really) A Race Report

I felt like throwing up.
I didn't know why I was there or what I had to prove by going through with it all.
Honestly, I just wanted to leave.

I've said it before, I'll say it again - I get really nervous about racing. I'm not that guy that is bubbling with excitement to get to the starting line. There's no pre-race bubbling for me. Sure, I may sometimes mistakenly say something like, I'm really excited for the race. But that's wrong. I'm not. In reality, I'm just telling you the abridged version of the sentence, which should really go something like this:

I'm really petrified of doing the race because I get so nervous and agitated and anxious and start to doubt myself and wonder why I'm doing it and wonder why I put myself in this situation over and over again so, no Mrs Buttercup, I'm not enthusiastic about it all, and truth be told, I might throw up on your ugly orange Crocs if you don't stop asking me about it though since you don't seem to be shutting your yapper there's one thing I can say for sure and that is that I'm really excited for the end of the goddam race when I'm on the other side of the finish line and all this feeling of self-combustion is behind me.

The real problem, though, is not that I don't like racing, it is that I love having raced. I try not to think about this dilemma too much because inevitably it just makes me question what I'm doing in this godforsaken sport in the first place.

If you really want me to be honest, I'll admit that I even get nervous for some workouts. If it's supposed to be a long or grueling training session, there's a good chance I begin to doubt myself. It's not that I lack self-confidence or that I'm a quitter - it's mostly that I have this profound inability to connect the past with the present. Though I can do Ironman races until my toes go blue, I'll still get to the starting line of a Sprint and question if I can even make it through.

It's like all the memories of my past are stored in one side of my brain and the entire present experience happens on the diametric opposite side of my brain. In-betwixt the two is nothing but a huge, empty, bottomless void. Death befalls he who tries to cross the void.

It's not normal. Nor is it based in anything that resembles reality. Logically, I know that I can get through the workout, the sprint, the race. I know it because I've seen myself do it time and again. Unfortunately, reality and logic have nothing to do with my athletic self-analysis.

So anyway, somewhere along the way I became a halfway decent swimmer. If I knew you a little better, I'd admit to you that I think the reason I'm a good swimmer is because I'm a Pisces. Us fish, we take up swimming very quickly. However, since you and I are not yet BFFs, I'm not going to say that, because if I did you'll just think I'm all weird and woo-woo, and you'll probably make fun of me when I'm not around. So let's just say I really focused on my swimming for a few years, paid very close attention to the fast folks out there and somehow figured out how to move my scrawny little body forward somewhat efficiently.

I'm no Michael Phelps or anything, but I tend to finish the swim somewhere around the top 20% overall in any given race. When I do my 100 yard repeats in the pool, I'm usually in the 1:18 to 1:25 range. I'm not trying to brag by any means, just trying to give you some information that may be important to know later on in this story, if I ever get on with the story.

* * *

I've talked about joining a Masters swim club for about 5 years now, maybe longer. I'm really good at talking about swimming.

I've always known that Masters would help me with my swimming, but I've always been a little intimidated. You see, when Catherine and I show up at our dinky little YMCA pool at 6:30 in the morning, it's just us and a Greyhound busload of geriatrics who can barely keep themselves afloat. Compared to that crowd, we are Olympians. It's good for the ego.

Masters, on the other hand, is an ego killer. I know that without even having to show up.

But, alas, Catherine and I have made a couple of friends with some of the "normal" folks at the gym. For the past year these guys have been telling us about the YMCA Masters class. It's more low key, they said. We only do about 2,500 yards, not some ridiculous 6,000 meter workout, they promised. It's a fun, friendly group of people, they continued. Sounds like fun, I'd respond time and again. We'll come next week.

But come next week, we didn't come. This has been going on for over a year.

You want to go to the Masters class? I'd ask Catherine

Not really, she'd reply

OK, I'd agree. And that was that.

Fast forward to this week and something apparently changed.

I'm going to the Masters class on Monday, Catherine said. Wanna join?

Are you serious? I said rather quizzically. If I had the gene that let me raise one eyebrow higher than the other, I would've done that.

Yes, she replied. I'm serious.

Have you ever been to a Masters class before? I asked her, though I already knew her answer.

No, she said. But we're going on Monday.

Oh. OK.

* * *

The YMCA Masters group starts at 6:00 pm. Catherine and I got onto the pool deck at 5:50 because, for some reason, we thought that was the right thing to do. I suppose we equated it to a dinner party. If dinner at Jimmy and SueBeth's house is scheduled for 6:00, it's only proper to show up a little earlier, maybe even with a bottle of wine, a box of homemade croutons or some other party favor to make them think you're really thoughtful.

But alas, apparently the same show-up-early rule doesn't apply to swimming groups. The clock hit 5:50 pm as Catherine and I stood awkwardly alone on the pool deck. We gently eased our nervous bodies into a lane and figured we should kill time by warming up, so we started swimming slowly. After about 100 yards we stopped on the edge of the pool and looked around. 5:52 pm. Still noone.

I looked at Catherine.
She looked at me.
We stood there. Swim caps on. Goggles on.
Shaking.
Waiting.

What are we supposed to do? I asked her, feeling somewhat uncomfortable.
I don't know, she said. I guess just wait.

I could feel the nervousness creeping through my veins. It was like that moment when they call the wave right before yours. The wetsuit is on, transition is put together, you haven't yet started but already there's no turning back.

The thought of me getting a butt-whoopin in my first Masters class awakened all the pre-race monsters that lurk in the murky waters of my stomach. Though logically I knew this was just another swim workout, for my body, this was race morning. I had that feeling of dread, the wonder-why-I'm-here-in-the-first-place feeling. Oy.

I think I might throw up, I said to Catherine. Maybe I should keep swimming.

After another hundred yards or so, I noticed the coach had come to the poolside and was closing off three lanes. Cat and I stopped swimming and stood around kind of awkwardly, both of us waiting for instruction. Isn't that what you're supposed to do in Masters class, wait until you're instructed to do something?

You guys here for the workout? Coach Andy asked, probably more out of pity than friendliness.

Yes! I blared in probably a more excited tone than was required.

He smiled the way you do at the annoying little kid who keeps stepping on your feet when you're in the grocery store line.

So why don't you two swim 300 slowly, he instructed.

Exactly what I need, another 300 yards. Since my dramatic decline in exercise over the past months, I can barely get through 2500 yards without my arms falling off and here I am doing 600 of warm-up before the workout even begins. But he's the coach, so we swam.

As we finished our warm-up, I noticed that about six other swimmers had appeared. I looked at the clock, 6:07. Mental note, apparently Masters swim etiquette is more like fashionably late cocktail party than pleasantly early dinner party.

Three people had gotten in the "fast" lane next to us and a woman who didn't seem to know much beyond the doggie paddle was in the "slow" lane. That left Cat and I with a lane to ourselves. I began to feel a bit more comfortable, knowing that, first, I wouldn't have to swim in circles and, secondly, that I can share my misery with Catherine in the quiet solitude of our own lane.

OK, everybody, Coach Andy said as he brought a whiteboard over to the side of the pool. Time to go. Here's today's workout.

At first I looked at the board and thought it was some sort of complicated physics theorem and our only hope of actually understanding it relied on our collective ability to channel all the intellectual energy we could from Good Will Hunting. There were numbers and X's and circles with division lines and combinations of words I'd never even heard before. And just as I was about to get out my abacus, Coach Andy began to explain the workout.

Truth be told, I'm not quite sure what he said, but there definitely were a lot of numbers. Three times one hundred done seventy five free twenty five back faster each twenty five faster each hundred on the one-fifty by the two-ten four hundred in fifty increments of twenty five with forty two fifty three on seventy five, hut, hut, hike!

Through the first five minutes of his soliloquy, I got pretty nervous. About halfway through I realized that there was no hope in me remembering it all, so I shouldn't even try. I can barely remember my age, the odds of me committing this workout to memory was somewhere between slim and nil - and Slim just left town. So I just shut off my mind.

We started with 100 repeats. Three of them. I hit 1:21 for the first one, which felt all nice and fine - until I started the second. The second one began to hurt. It's too early to hurt, I thought. By the time I got through the third one, my arms already felt like jello. Uh-oh.

Next up was a 400 swim that was broken up into these crazy, yoga-like drills that involved hip rotations and dolphin kicking and all sorts of gyrations that my body is just not accustomed too. The way I was humping the water made me feel like a lame extra in a porno version of Finding Nemo. The 400 was supposed to be the "easy" part, but by the time I got 300 into it, I felt like I was going to drown. I was focusing to try and keep my composure - or as much composure as can be kept while thrusting into an aquatic void.

Suddenly I realized that Catherine was no longer in my lane. Huh?!? At the same time that I see her over in the "slow" lane (she's not going to like that one) I notice two other guys have jumped into my lane. Uh-oh.

I get to the end of the lane, I realize that one of the people is Simon. The good news is that Simon is one of the "normal" friends that convinced me and Catherine to come here. The more challenging news is that Simon is fast. Really fast. Simon just came in 2nd in his age group at the World Championships. Simon kicks my ass so fast, he's done kicking before I even know I've been whooped.

As for the third guy, I don't know who he is and he doesn't seem to know us, but it's time for the next set of 100s, so enough with the pleasantries. I tell Simon he should go first, he does. The other guy and I look at each other and shrug our shoulders. After you, he says. And so I go.

I push with all my might for the first 100, for fear that the guy behind me is going to swim right over me. On every turn I notice he's back there, but not yet about to smack my heels. After I finish 75, I begin to do backstroke as fast as my tired arms would allow. I can see our reflection on the ceiling above us and realize that he's not exactly on my toes, but he's catching up. I finish the first hundred and my arms feel like rubber bands. My nose itches but I can't quite find the energy to lift up my hand and scratch it. That's OK, though, because it's time for another fast 100. And then another. At this point I can barely believe I'm still breathing, which means it's time to swim 400 with more thrusting and gyrating and other movements that at once not normal for human beings and not for normal human beings.

I somehow survive all of that and feel I've done well. I'm proud of myself for the three seconds that I have available for pride until I realize that we have to do the whole thing over again. Coach Andy looks over at Simon and says, why don't you do 1:15s for these next three hundreds. Simon nods. Then Andy looks at me and the other guy and says, ummm, and why don't you guys shoot for 1:20.

I laugh. The other guys look at me and laugh at me (not with me). Hows about I shoot for 1:20, I say to them, but actually finish in 1:30.

And just before we start, Coach Andy tells the third guy to go first, Simon second, me last. Next thing I know, we're off. And third guy? Apparently he's been holding back all the entire time because he was knocking off hundreds in about 1:10 like it was nobody's business. He was dropping Simon pretty quickly. And me? Well, I was the guy that they almost lapped every 100.

Another 400 later and we were done. We survived. My arms were so tired I could barely pull myself out of the water. But we survived. Just like a race, I didn't want to be there but I'm glad I was. I didn't necessarily love the workout, but I sure loved having done the workout. And I suppose this is what people have been talking about all along - that the only way to swim better is to swim with those that are better. I definitely pushed myself thanks to my lane mates. It was tiring, it was grueling, I couldn't wait for it to be done. But I suppose that's a good thing. And I'm going to try to remember this feeling of accomplishment next time I show up at a masters swim before it falls in the huge, bottomless void.

Carpe Child

The other day I read a quote from Mark Cuban (yes, Mark Cuban) that really struck me. It's our theme for this week...

Today's the youngest you'll ever be. Act like it.

Eye-Mon Ya Le'pt!!

Let's demystify the canker sore. There's really nothing embarrassing about getting one - it happens to the best of us. Getting a canker sore doesn't mean you've been eating kitty litter or drinking water from the toilet bowl. You can do all that stuff without actually getting a canker sore (You might die, but with no canker sores.)

There are many common, everday reasons why these little buggers show up. It could be from stress or poor nutrition. Food allergies often cause cankers sores and, believe it or not, so do menstrual periods. Heck, getting canker sores can also be genetic - one family may be more canker-prone than the next.

For some reason Catherine and I are canker sore magnets. I believe our mouths are the perfect storm of allergies, stress, nutrition and genetics. We're both a walking petri dish of canker.

Especially Catherine. She inherited from her family a long history of canker. In fact, I think the family crest has a canker sore in the corner.

Catherine gets canker sores when the wind blows. Granted, women are more prone to the canker sore than men, but when God handed out the canker gene, I think She must've tripped and spilled extra into Catherine's mouth. Oops, God may have said. Ummm..... sorry about that. Here, I'll make you extra pretty to balance that off. [poof!]

Complaining about our canker sores has become somewhat of a sport for Catherine and me.

Look at this!, one of us might say to the other on any given day as we pull back our lip to display the infection.

No, thanks, the other one will respond and quickly escape into another room. Unfortunately you can run but you can't hide from the canker. The infected one will inevitably follow you wherever you go, all the while pulling out their lip with thumb and forefinger to expose the sore.

C'mon! Look! Just look quickly!
(Though with fingers firmly on lip, that usually comes out as "C'ba! Loo! Jus loo kickly!")

There's only one way that this scenario comes to an end, and that's with one of us peering into the mouth of the other and confirming the hideousness with an "ewwww, that's disgusting". And then we go on with our regular lives.

I can't quite figure out the purpose of the canker sore and, apparently, neither can any doctors. It's not really known what causes them and they don't seem to play any particular role in human existence. Let's face it, the mouth is an important hole in the human body and adding any extra holes within the mouth are, in general, a bad idea. Holes in the teeth, holes in the gums - really, other than the primary hole that defines the mouth, there are no other holes in there that don't cause excruciating pain.

Which leads us to this past week. I got the canker sore to end all canker sores. It was ridiculously huge and enormously painful. It felt as big as a blimp shoved between my bottom lip and gum and it hurt like a mofo. When I was a kid, I once read about this old torture trick where the bad guys would put a weasel on somebody's stomach and cover the weasel with a bowl. Then they'd put hot coals on the bowl. In trying to escape the heat, the weasel would scratch and burrow into the person's stomach. (Disgusting, I know.) That's how my canker sore felt - as if a weasel was burrowing into my gums.

I could barely talk without wincing. Everyday my canker sore seemed to get bigger and more painful. Loo! I'd scream at Catherine as I pulled my bottom lip out as far as it could go. C'bon, jus loo at dis kickly!

Finally, by day three, I had grown a pretty serious speech impediment. It hurt so much to talk that I had to alter my pronunciation to avoid the pain. The word "left", for instance, normally a rather simple word to say, became excruciatingly difficult. For any normal person, in order to say the word "left" one has the top row of teeth barely touching the bottom lip to form the "ft" sound. But for me, that ever-so-slight pulling of the lip caused a searing pain that somewhat resembled the feeling of the sharp end of a spork being shoved into my gums.

The canker sore was so painful it even hurt to run. Still, one day I sucked it up and Catherine and I went out for a jog. I was grimacing and quiet for most of the time. As if the standard leg pain isn't enough during a run, now my face hurt. As we made it to the turn-around and proceeded to turn around, Catherine mistakenly began to move in front of me.

On ya le'pt, I said.

What? she replied, still veering onto my side of the path.

Le'pt! Le'pt!! Eye-mon ya le'pt!! I said with annoyance, hoping not to trip on her heels.

Huh? she said, clearly getting frustrated. As if I were purposely trying to confuse her.

LE'PT!!! I screamed as loud as my canker sore would let me. LE'PT!!! I CAN' SAY LE'PT - IT HURTS.. EYE! MON! YA! LE'PT!!!

Catherine turned her head and looked at me as if I were a circus clown.

Life with my canker sore didn't get better after that. Truth be told, I ended up straining my calf. I'm going to blame that on the canker sore.

Since I can't run, I've been sitting around trying to figure out the meaning of my canker sore. Because I know that success doesn't come without pain, I must believe that having endured so much cankerous agony, there must be some achievement that has resulted. I must, in some way, be a better person because of this canker sore. And then I figured it out.

It is my new mission, my one true goal: to rid the world of canker sores. We must free ourselves from the chain of canker. We must be able to retain our ability to eat, to speak, to brush all of our teeth equally without pain. If we can come up with a cure for lupus and herpes, surely we can tackle canker. I just did a quick Google search and there doesn't seem to be a Canker Sore Relief Fund in existence yet. I'm on it. Together, we will be canker free. Grab your Anbesol and unite.

Who's in?

For The Record

It's official, I forgot The Alamo.

El Poco Grande

There are some people out there - and you may very well be one of them - that have a tendency to give names to inanimate objects. Honestly, it's not something I've ever done, but I can understand why it happens.

As humans, when we love something it is in our nature to really want it to love us back. Unfortunately, for inanimate objects, it is in their nature to not really do anything at all. Inanimate objects have a tough time showing us love, mostly because their inanimate. Aside from a scary forest in the Wizard of Oz and a few other randomly documented instances, inanimate objects pretty much remain inanimate, just like they're supposed to.

Naming an inanimate object is a way for us humans to feel good about ourselves. It's about falling in love with an object that really doesn't have the ability to appreciate you or love you or tickle your toes when you're sleeping. And it's about giving personality and humanism to that which has none.

I have quite a few friends who have named their cars. One of my closest friends has been naming his cars since high school. Fat Amy was his latest baby. She's one of those old Land Rover's or something of the sort that was built in the 70s or 80s. She's not really that fat so I'm not quite sure where the adjective part of the name came from. She definitely looks like an Amy, if that matters at all. Fat Amy fell on some tough times over the past few years and had to be sold. I try not to bring her up in conversations. I don't like making grown men cry.

According to folklore, certain men apparently give names to their private parts - assuming these can be considered inanimate objects. I was never one of those people and, frankly, I'm not even going to get into this conversation because wherever it goes, it's gonna end up in a very bad place.

Apparently many people decide to name their bicycles. Once again, I'm not one of those people but my girlfriend is. Yes, Catherine named her bike immediately after she bought it.

You can't have a bike without a name! she said to me as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

You can't? I responded dumbfoundedly.

No, you can't, she said. And that seemed to be the end of that conversation.

Since naming is a way to humanize an inanimate object, most people usually select human-like names for their bikes and cars and so forth. Things like Eleanor and Herbert and LaQuisha. As for my Catherine, she decided to name her bike "El Poco Grande".

Granted, Catherine has always had a little thing for Latino men and that may explain why she's given her bike the name of a Mexican midget wrestler. Still, it seems kinda odd.

El Poco Grande.

Technically, it means The Little Big. It can also mean "The Little Great One". I suppose if you're a fan of 70s bands, it may translate to "The Great Poco", though I'm not sure that Catherine is a big enough classic rock aficionado to go down that road, and if she did I'd reckon she'd opt for something more fitting for a bicycle, like Pink Floyd. All this said, I can only assume that her original intention was to name the bike "the little great one".

Catherine stands at about 5 foot 4 inches (on a good day. In heels. Standing on a staircase.) Needless to say, El Poco Grande is very much on the "poco" side of things. He kinda resembles a clown bike in his miniscule size. I'm always amazed when I pick him up - he's so small and light that I can't help but envision a wee little gerbil pedaling around in circles on this thing. Apparently, though, the bike packs quite a wallop, which probably explains why I have a tough time keeping up with Catherine when we're riding at full speed. I reckon that's where the "grande" part of the name comes into play.

Catherine loves her Poco Grande like nobody's business. It's not uncommon for her to spend hours cleaning the frame, scrubbing the chain and shiny-ing the parts that apparently need to be shiny-er. Every once in awhile I look over at her and she's just sitting there ogling over the bike with a healthy loving glow on her face. I'd be a liar if I said I didn't feel jealous.

I once heard somebody ask her why she gave the bike a masculine name.

If I'm going to have something between my legs for that long, she said. It sure better be a man.

Which suddenly gets me thinking that perhaps the name El Poco Grande has another meaning. One that I haven't fully considered. But I already told myself I wouldn't go down that path...

My Bike And I

My bike and I are going through some tough times. It's gotten pretty ugly and, honestly, I don't know if we'll ever resolve our differences. I hate to air out my dirty laundry, but you probably should know that we haven't talked to each other for months; we haven't even so much as looked each other in the eyes/spokes. I'm scared that we may break up. Irreconcilable differences. Creative differences. I'm not sure what the press release is going to say yet. Whatever it turns out to be, you'll probably be able to read through the lines. Basically, I hate the bitch.

I was flipping through TV channels the other day and ran across a show on E! Entertainment called "The World's Most Expensive Celebrity Divorces". I'm not one for watching this type of over-dramatic hooey, but something got me to pay attention for a few minutes. At first I thought it was pretty ridiculous. I didn't even put down the remote control because I knew I'd be switching channels soon and why waste the extra energy to pick the remote back up off the table six inches in front of me. But it was somewhere amidst the Drew Barrymore saga that I realized what kept me watching: Every one of these cases was a reflection of my relationship with my bike.

We were a typical case of love, my bike and I. I had lost my previous bike in a freak accident when she was stolen from my locked garage. Though I had a short span of grieving, the insurance money sure helped me feel better. At first I felt a little dirty, how a few dollars in my pocket could erase all the good years of the relationship. But eventually I got over it and continued on with my life - as we always do.

I wasn't looking to find a new bike, my bike found me. It was love at first sight. Her sleek black frame, her carbon fiber body - she had the looks of a goddess. She was too good for me, out of my league. Every time I saw her sleek lines I couldn't believe she was actually mine. These types of bikes don't happen to guys like me.

Strangers would look at her and say things like "wow, she sure is a beauty!" And then they'd look at me, my slight non-muscular frame, my chicken legs - and they'd mumble quietly to themselves "why the hell is she with him?" and justify it with, "he must have a lot of money. Or big gearing."

But it was more than her looks - much more than the physical attraction. We worked together, my bike and I. Like Billy Joel and Christie Brinkley in the good years, we were made to be together. Things just meshed.

I remember the first time I rode her. I remember the warmth in my
loins as I slowly stretched my leg across her bosom. I can still
feel the way the silky saddle caressed my inner thigh. You never
forget your first.

And the bond? It was like she was psychic, forever knowing when I wanted to slow down or speed up before I even figured it out. She quietly controlled the road and made me feel great about my cycling - it was if I didn't have to put in any effort at all. Like she rode herself. She made me a better cyclist. She completed me.

Those were the happy days. I was drunk with joy, floating in the clouds of amour. Just the mere thought of my bike would awaken the mass of butterflies otherwise laying dormant in my stomach. I had a new life and a new love. Most humans don't get to experience this feeling very often. I knew I was lucky.

We spent a few very wonderful years together. But, as things happen, life began to change. We rode a lot, some might say too much. Slowly her sheen began to fade. Dirt piled up, paint began to crack. I didn't dote on her as much. My riding style developed and I began to have doubts. Was it the saddle that began to hurt or did our bodies not mesh anymore? Did I really want a bike with this big of a top tube?

Still, we continued to ride more and more. So I tried dressing her up. New handlebars, new tires. I cleaned her meticulously like I used to do in our days of early love, scrubbing and caressing each of her tubes and crevasses. I doted in desperation.

All the while we trained for Ironman. Though we had some rocky roads on our way to Ironman Lake Placid, we did it and, more importantly, we did it together. I even thought it brought us closer. It seemed to rekindle a long lost spark. So we decided to do Ironman Arizona.

The training for Arizona wasn't nearly as difficult as Lake Placid. But, in hindsight, I realize it was just an indication of us falling apart. We had extremely long rides together. It was just the two of us - my bike and I - out on the road for hours on end. There was nothing to distract us from our own company. Sure it was fine, but that's all it was - just fine.

There were no moments of great joy, no laughing and blathering like we use to do. We were both in our own worlds doing our own thing. No longer did she ride herself, no longer did she seem to understand me or my body. We were two separate beings who happened to be together.

We didn't ignore each other on purpose, but we didn't make the effort to connect. Endless stretches of silence were interrupted by meaningless banter.

This hurts, I'd tell her, but she wouldn't answer.

My body hurts, I'd say a little louder. I wanted attention, I wanted her to care.

Oh, she'd reply and continue rolling down the street.

I swear she'd roll into the potholes on purpose. Oops, sorry, she might say. But I didn't believe her.

We made it to Ironman Arizona and things took a turn from bad to worse. It was the most challenging bike ride I've ever had. It was hot and windy and painful. Every minute was harder than the last. I didn't want to continue and, it seemed apparent, neither did she. We weren't working as one - we hadn't been for awhile.

I've lost the love and it's nowhere to be found. We didn't leave the love in Tempe, because thelove was lost long before then. We were faking it out in Arizona. Just going through the motions.

Ironman Arizona was a sympathy fuck - our swan song.

As I said, we haven't even talked to each other since then. In fact, I haven't told anybody this, but I moved out. It just got too difficult for the two of us to stay in one place so I have been staying at Catherine's for the past month. Most recently, my bike left town. She got shipped away for a paint replacement or some sort of physical overhaul. Honestly, I don't think I'll ever see her again. There's a good chance she'll never come back but will be replaced with another bike. A younger bike, one with more life and spunk.

I don't know what's going to happen. It is at once both sad and a relief. Though I feel guilty for saying this, I feel as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

I just signed up for an aquathlon. It will be my first event without my bike close by. Maybe I'll miss her when I'm there, maybe I'll think of all those days of yore when our love was so young and free. But I doubt it. At this point, I'll be happy to never have to ride her again. My bike and I - we're done.