You Learn Something New...

Assuming that I do, in fact, learn something new every day, I think we can check today off the list....

A Man's Guide to Communicating With Women
Chapter IV: Arguments

A woman has the last word in any argument.

Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument.

How To Be A Triathlete

For all you playas out there, here you go...

Ironman Life's 8 Tips On How To Be A Triathlete And Impress Your Friends Without Actually Doing An Ounce Of Exercise

1. Shave your legs. Chicks dig it.

2. Lycra. Buy it.

3. Get into the pool before 6:00 am at least once. Brag about it forever.

4. Re-mortgage your house - buy a bike. Mention words like "campy" and "downtube"

5. Go to the running store, buy the most expensive shoes available. Refer to their "superior technology"

6. Buy Triathlete Magazine. Leave it on your coffee table. When people ask about it, start your response with "Oh that? It's nothing..."

7. Choose a race. In every conversation, figure out how to talk about the intense training you're doing for it (don't worry, no need to actually do the race.)

8. End the last conversation of every day with "I've got to get to sleep. Early training day tomorrow."

All The Best Intentions

Honestly, I really want to write more. I'd love to write everyday. I used to write everyday. I loved it.

I like posting on my blog. It's fun in some sort of exhibitionistically voyeuristic type of way. It's just that things are really really busy with work. Really. Honestly.

It's not that I don't WANT to post. Want has nothing to do with it. I have all the best intentions of writing something new. Something funny. Something insightful. Something.

Anything.

It'll come. Thanks for your patience.

A Couple-A Things I Want To Share

I have two things to share with you....

First, after years of research, I have finally discovered the epicenter of wacko. It's at the Coffee Bean in Brentwood, California. This is the single location in the entire world from which all wackos emanate. More info on that later.

Secondly, Catherine and I raced the Malibu Triathlon yesterday as a relay team (with our friend Chris). As you may have heard, Malibu brings in quite the participant list, including Matthew McConaughy (or however the hell he spells his name), J-Lo, Anna Kournikova, Andy Baldwin and a whole host of others. More info on that later too.

Thirdly, (yes, I know I only said two things, but you should know me enough by now to have figured out there'd be more), somebody smashed into my car while I was sleeping. I wasn't sleeping in the car. I was in bed, the car was in the street. The car is now in the autobody shop with $3,000 worth of damage.

It's Her Conscience

[Please note, the names in this post have been changed to protect the guilty, for some silly reason.]

You're not gonna believe this one. Actually, maybe you'll believe it, but I don't. And since I'm the one writing this blog, I'm allowed to assume that you feel exactly like I do.

A few months ago I got a random email from one of my loyal friendly blog readers about one of my race reports from years gone by. Said reader, who shall remain Anonymous, informed me that he was reading another bloggers race report and it seemed familiar. So he came back to one of my race reports and realized that this other blogger copied some of my first Ironman experiences and used it to describe her first Ironman experience.

In the writing world, we call that Plagiarism. In the blogging world, we call that What The Fuck?!

It seemed odd when Anonymous told me about it. So I went to read it myself, all the while giving this other blogger the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it was a misunderstanding, I thought. Maybe there were some similar experiences. Maybe my words even inspired her. But as I began to read through her race report, it seemed way too close to be coincidence. And as I got further into her so-called writing, all those maybes flew out the window and landed in a big pile of manure. This definitely was NOT coincidence.

First of all, it wasn't like the other blogger (who we'll call Julie) took a few words here and there. She took paragraphs. Entire paragraphs. Multiple paragraphs. Taken word for word from my Ironman race report to describe her Ironman experience. Big sections taken directly from my writing where the only things that were changed were self-descriptive details (age, name, home state, etc.)

Weird, huh? Well, it gets worse.

I did my first Ironman in 2006. Julie was writing about an Ironman experience in 2007 - yet still somehow she experienced the same exact weather that I did. Sure, maybe. But even weirder, I had raced Ironman Lake Placid, she did Ironman Louisville. Do you understand what I'm saying here? She used my description of the Lake Placid course to describe an ENTIRELY different one. I mean, everything was different about our experiences - different time of year, different state, different course, different everything... including different people. I am me and she is not. But apparently the same words work for both. Apparently, there are the same hills, the same wind, the same climbs, the same me, the same everything.

I was flabbergasted at the race report. I showed it to Catherine. Catherine read it and was shocked. She said she forgot it wasn't my race report. She said that she practically expected to get to the part where Julie kissed her at the end of the race.

Can you believe it? I couldn't either.

So I confronted Julie about her report. After all, I am a writer. I am forever working on a book. There is a good chance that my Ironman race report may show up in a novel. Lord knows, I don't want to get into a lawsuit about plagiarizing my own experience. Besides, plagiarism is a crime. At least in my eyes. So, as I said, I confronted her.

Julie was shocked. As if she didn't realize that her race report was a blatant rip-off of mine. As if she had no clue.

Crazy? Yeah, but get this...

Julie said that the year she did the Ironman was hectic. "My uncle was dying with bone cancer," she told me. "And so I was attending to him.. and my friend Beth helped by posting the race report. It was really tough... because not only did my uncle spend time in the hospice, but my best friend was dying from cancer... So I wasn't exactly attentive over what was getting put up as I was very distraught."

She wasn't attentive, she was distraught. She didn't have a lot of time to do blogging. For most of us that means we don't post any blogs, right? For Julie, it's different. She came up with a solution - an "editor / coblogger." A friend of Julie's wrote for Julie on Julie's blog as if she actually were Julie.

I repeat, she had her friend write her blog about her life because she was too busy living her life.

Which part of this makes sense to anybody?

Julie remained shocked. "I do not take plagiarism lightly," she told me. "Particularly from another athlete such as yourself, whom I respect and admire!" And plagiarize, apparently.

Let me contact her and ask her about this, Julie said. And she proceeded to send a note to her friend, the "co-blogger". We're calling her Beth. I was copied on the email where Julie asked Beth if she plagiarized my blog for the race report. It was a pretty straight-forward letter that clearly discussed plagiarism and clearly had me copied on it. Naturally, Beth copied me on her response. Here's what she said:

* * * *

"hi darling [editor's note: that's Julie she's calling darling, not me. just for the record],

excuse me for my tardiness in response we had a full weekend with mother and a party almost every single night not sure if you remember but also was peter's 40th birthday on saturday.

i remember when i was helping you post everything i researched and got information from a few other ironman race write ups to tell me what to say because i didn't really know what to talk about. sorry just didn't understand much about athletics you know me i like shopping much more my scene!

hope this didn't cause any trouble i am sorry if it did.

i'm back on thursday via heathrow shall we do coffee?"

* * * *

First of all, did I just end up as a side story in "The Devil Wears Prada?"

Oh, there are so many ways I can make fun of that letter, but I shan't in any of them at this point in time. I'll just focus on the part where Beth doesn't seem to feel like she did anything wrong.

Then again, let's even hold off on the not feeling like you're doing anything wrong part. Let's talk about the idea where you race your first Ironman. It's an awe-inspiring experience. An emotional and physical rollercoaster. A draining celebration of months of pain, sacrifice, focus and determination. Your first Ironman is a personal experience. It's a journey of self-discovery; a travel through your inner-being.

Julie went through all of that.
And then she had somebody else write about it.

And not just any old somebody, but somebody who is not an athlete, somebody who does not understand Ironman, somebody who did not even seem to talk to Julie much about the experience in the first place.

And then Julie knowingly posted it on her site as if it were real! How could she not know and approve of this being posted as her experience?!

Explain to me, in which part of this is Julie the victim?

"It looks like she had no idea what she was talking about," Julie followed up with me. "[I guess Beth] just "borrowed" inspiration from google. In retrospect, it did seem [weird that] she wrote so well about Ironman having no experience in triathlon."

To lie, to plagiarize - as if that's not deceitful enough. But I haven't even mentioned the comments yet.

Last I looked, there were 79 comments attached to her race report. Seventy nine. "That's incredibly written" they said. "What an amazing experience" they uttered. "That's the best race report I ever read" they proclaimed.

I got sick.

I wondered how Julie can let this happen and still feel good about herself. I wondered who else she had been plagiarizing from.

I told her to remove the post immediately (she did). I suggested that she contact every single blogger that she's plagiarized from and let them know. I suggested she apologize. I recommended that she write a post on her site letting her readers know that she's been deceiving them and stealing from others. I didn't try to force her to do this. It's her conscience, she's got to live with it. I just want my writing off her blog.

For four weeks I watched. Nothing changed. Periodically I'd get emails from her saying things like, "of course I will publish something on my blog about the report being plagiarized from you" and "I'm working on telling people, but it's so hard to put together."

And then, just as suddenly, my friend Anonymous returned and pointed me to another blog by another journalist, who is far removed from triathlon or sports. She had written a very personal, autobiographical essay about her childhood. It had already been published in a magazine and posted on her blog. Julie copied it and made believe it was her own. It's like if I took Barack Obama's autobiography, put my name and photo on it and claimed it as my own. The Audacity of Ironman.

There were 47 comments attached to that post. Among them were: "You are a beautiful woman and this post is amazing." And "you have an amazing way with words. I felt like I was reading a beautiful novel."

Shortly thereafter, Julie took her blog down. She informed me that she was getting abused by bloggers. That people were calling her a liar and a plagiarizer and she couldn't stand it anymore. I'm leaving the blog world, she said.

Good.

We're better off without you stealing from us.

The Bike Chop

I'm annoyed.

My road bike is a Kestrel. The bike loves me, I love it. (Well, most of the time we love each other - just not always during Ironman training). The last time I rode my road bike was on April 13, 2008. That was at Ironman Arizona.

The day before Ironman, I noticed that Kestrel had a booth at the race expo. Over the past year the paint on my bike has been beginning to fade and so I went up to the fine Kestrel folks and asked them if they'd be able to fix it.

Probably, they said. But unfortunately we don't deal directly with our customers. When you get home, they continued, bring the bike to your local bike shop and have them send it back to us. We'll check it out for you.

No problem.

I race. I get home. I bring the bike to my bike shop and they send it off to Kestrel with a "it'll be back in about three weeks".

Two and a half months later I get a call informing me that Kestrel won't do anything with my current frame. Send the bike back, I say. Enough already.

One month later the bike is back at my bike shop waiting for me to pick it up. I go pick it up. It cost me $200.

Two hundred dollars?! I say somewhat flabbergasted. Actually, completely flabbergasted.

Shipping, labor.

Labor?

Yes, we had to disassemble your bike and then reassemble it.

So it cost me two hundred dollars to get told that I'm shit out of luck?

Yep.

OK. Here's my credit card.

I pay for the bike, feeling a bit perturbed. I bring my bike outside. As I'm loading it into the car, I notice a gauge in the fork. A gauge. Not a scratch. Not a nick. Not a dent.

Gauge.

I bring the bike back into the bike shop. Look at this, I say to the bike shop attendee (who, actually, is really nice and a friend of mine).

Uh-oh, he says. Let me see if it's safe to ride, he says.

He knows it's not my fault. He takes the bike away. He comes back 5 minutes later. Should be safe, he says.

How do we know it's safe? I ask.

Well, the only way to really know is to send it back to Kestrel.

You mean to pay another $150 to send it back?

Yep.

I didn't have to roll my eyes or scream or throw a tantrum to get my feelings across. I effectively relayed tantrum without having to jump and potentially pull a hamstring.

So what do we do now? I ask. Clearly this isn't my fault.

Let me make some calls, he responds. I'll get back to you this week.

Two weeks later I'm on the phone with him. I've got bad news, he says. It's not our fault. And Kestrel says it's not their fault.

Well clearly it's not my fault! I complain.

Yes, true.

There's silence.

So...? Now what? I ask.

So now here I am, having already paid $200 to have my bike destroyed. Not feeling like it's safe enough to ride and having to pay another $150 to get that determined. The bike store isn't willing to take responsibility. Kestrel isn't willing to take responsibility. And though every single person and company involved in this entire ridiculous transaction knows, without an ounce of doubt, that I am definitely not responsible for any of it, I'm still the one that appears to be getting screwed.

So, as I said before, I'm really annoyed.

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.