Biking With Yoda

That spectator did not just call me "Tiny."

Yep. He did.

He called me "Tiny."

Judge me by my size do you? Mmmmm?

And well you should not. In cycling size matters not. For my ally is The Force, and a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us and binds us. Luminous beings are, not this crude matter. You must feel The Force around you; here, between you, me, the tree, the rock, everywhere. Even between the land and the bike.

Better to be small it is, but large in the ways of The Force.

Fifty Six miles to the transition it is. Plan we must! Mmmm? Yes!

Big cyclists you are, and hammering the hills out of T1. Great warrior, hmmmm? Wars not one great.

Grave danger you are in. Impatient you are. Impatient I am not. Strong in the ways of the force am I. If the heart rate low and steady you keep, then strong at the end will you be. But you? Grave danger you are in.

Spinning up the hills I was, and low within the wind my shape I made. Fewer than 135 heart beats to the minute did I make. The Force was with me. 1 hour did pass and more than a third of the course had I run. To the end in less than three will I make? Always in motion, the future is.

Ah, hour two. Powerful you have become, the dark side I sense in you. But fear you? I do not! Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.

But my ally is The Force. Even smaller do I become and invisible to the wind am I. This is not the cyclist you are looking for. Move along. Slower I must go, but still there is no weakness. No impatience. Use the Force I must. Because . . .

Now the third hour is. A few minutes behind am I. And yet, no impatience. Three hours can I make? Do or do not. There is no try.

So through the wind I must ride until we turn for home and then flow with The Force at my back I will. 22, 24, 28 and 30 mph riding on the Force.

And three hours I did make, faster than my own efforts have yet permitted. Faster still could I have gone. And now run I will.

And when 43 years old you are, look as good, you will not.

Size Does Matter

I've often wondered: is bigger necessarily better?

If you were to believe half the things you see or hear in the media--legitimate media or the questionable forms that appear in 24 hour stores and Supreme Court cases--you'd think that size was the sine qua non of satisfaction. Indeed, the whole world economy has been in a downward spiral due to the bigger is better, people borrowing (and banks lending) money at too much risk in order to get that McMansion or house they can't afford.

And when was the last time a woman swooned over the little guy--and Tom Cruise doesn't count because he stands on a box. And I would further note for the record that there was only "Mr. Big" in the popular TV series. There was no "Mr. Really Knows His Business" or "Mr. Just Right" or "Mr. Rocked My World" even "Mr. Kind."

But again, how can bigger necessarily be better? I mean, how can something that doesn't fit feel good? What of size-induced discomfort? I mean who wants to climb on top of something huge that just doesn't fit and try to make it work? Is that really fun? Does that really feel pleasurable? You can see, I hope, how someone who is 5'4" (with all parts scaled to fit) might wonder about such things.

But finally, this weekend, I knew for sure my crank was just the right size for the job. A lot of guys resort to self-help when it comes to crank size. And sure, I like a "do it yourself" crank job just as much as the next guy. DIY can be lots of fun and should be a part of any healthy person's life. There's certainly no shame in it. But, this time I went to a "professional," if you get my meaning. And the professional attention made all the difference.

The feelings and sensations were mind blowing. I just kept going and going and going. Six hours I went. Seriously! Six hours! And a few minutes after finishing, I was ready to go again. It was so smooth and effortless, gliding like a well-lubed piston fitting and moving within the tight walls of its cylinder. Sometimes I pushed hard and slow. Sometimes fast and quick. Changing tempos and position and pace.

I think I felt the earth move.

So, big thanks to Phil Shama of Shama Cycles for persuading me to reduce the size of my cranks on Carmen Tequilo, the tri-specific bike in my garage-mahal. It totally changed my pedal stroke and positioning on the whole bike, enabled an efficient, circular pedal stroke and markedly reduced the fatigue of riding 100 miles. Seriously, every part of the bike fit better and every party of the bike worked better with my body just by putting on a shorter crank that fit my anatomy better. It was remarkable and I cannot overstate how much Phil's expertise helped me out. Phil is the Jedi master of all things crank and bike related.

What?

Why are you snickering and looking at me that way?

Of course I was talking about a bike. What did you think I was talking about?

Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice

Coach Kris tells me I need to train in the heat.

Which means that yesterday was a perfect day to train for Ironman Cozumel: hot, humid and windy as hell.

Niiiiiiiiiiiiice.

So, Coach Liz, my local IM COZ peep, and I went out for a two hour tempo ride in the middle of the day. I drank buckets. I sweated buckets. And it was the perfect conditions to simulate Cozumel.


Niiiiiiiiiiiice.


Nearly 90% humidity. Upper 80s for the temps. And winds gusting above 20 mph.

Niiiiiiiiiiice.

I'm so lucky to live where I can get such wonderful training.

yeah.

Love that.

Ride Like A Vehicle

OK, I'm as big a militant as anyone about how bikes are vehicles, but dude I saw riding his bike on the shoulder of the HARDY TOLL ROAD this morning needs to exercise some judgment. For those of you who don't know, the Hardy is Houston's answer to the Autobahn--six lanes wide, limited access, and no effective speed limit at rush hour.

That reflective vest you were wearing won't save you when the Yuppie in the BMW irons you out at 90 mph whilst fiddling with his Ipod.

Still the point is well taken: if you want to be treated like a vehicle, then ACT LIKE A VEHICLE. Obey the traffic laws, place yourself in the lane like a vehicle, signal, and keep your head on a swivel. Check it out:



Hat tip to Devin Wilson for posting the link on Facebook. Let's be careful out there.

Hot n' Sweaty Southern Fried Triathlete

So, it's Wednesday. Which means its time to start thinking about this weekend's bike. I may not be able to swim, but I can get efficiently from T1 to T2, especially when its flat like Cozumel. I want to get me some o' that bikey awesomeness this weekend. Liz and I are considering another hot Galveston ride on Saturday, but it would be better/safer if a few other folks came with us. Anybody in Houston wanna come out to play?

Tale of the Tape

For lunch, I ate a potato bigger than my head smothered in ham, turkey, bacon, cheese, butter, chives and sour cream.

I started drinking beer at 4:oo--having waited a whole hour and a half.

Beer and birthday cake.

I'm wearing a bad Hawaiian Shirt, baggy khaki shorts and baggy boxers.

Did I mention they were baggy, even roomy or airy?

Very unlike my garb this morning.

72 miles of cycling in the liquid air on the coast: four hours, 18 mph average, balls hot, average heart rate of 148, intervals above 20 mph.

Did I mention "balls hot?"

Balls.

Baggy? Roomy?

Yeah. Ow.

A perfect end to a week with twelve and a half hours of training.

Three swims totalling 7000 meters.

Three runs and a brick including a 10.4 mile run with a heroic negative split.

Six hours on the bike.

I am so not ready for Ironman yet. Not even a pedestrian "just finish" effort.

But I think I can see it from here. Bring it on Coach Kris.

Lollygaggers

The Almighty hates Texas triathletes

Anybody out there a fan of "Bull Durham" like me? Do you remember the scene in the locker room where the coach starts to berate the players for their lack of effort?

SKIP

    What're you laughing at?!

  
      SKIP
    You guys lollygag the ball around
    the infield, ya lollygag your
    way to first, ya lollygag in an'
    outta the dugout.  You know what
    that makes ya
     (beat)
    Lollygaggers.

That's one of the big differences between me with a coach and me without a coach. When I was following "Coach Greyhound" I lollygagged for a week or two after a race effort. Coach Kris is not so down with the lollygagging.

Apparently, he's all about the gagging without the lolly part, because yesterday I had the Eurobrick from hell on the schedule, and this only a week after a long half-iron effort.

Why "from hell" you ask? When it is well over 80 degrees in your garage before you open the door at 0530 in the morning, when you start riding your bike before sunup in hopes that you'll be running before Satan quits for the day because of the heat, when you are dripping down onto your top tube one mile into your ride in the dark, when your heart rate jumps into zone 5 while running at 10:00 pace, and when the dogs that usually bark at you don't even lift an eyebrow because it's too hot to give a sh!t, you are in hell.

Or, perhaps it's just Texas.

But hey, our Starbucks will stay hot in the car all day long. So, we've got that going for us.

Which is good.

Why "Euro" brick, you ask?

Well, it's not because "Le Tour" is on, although I am again addicted to the spectacle, suspecting all along that much of the athleticism I am watching is about as authentic as professional wrestling. (Side note on stage one: I have serious reservations about anyone who beats the best cyclists in the world by more than 20 seconds in a 15.5k time trial. If you see a performance far outside the bell curve, you should suspect pharmaceutical intervention. Just as Barry or Roger.).

But I digress.

My brick Saturday was a Euro brick because I was in metric, not by conscious choice.

My Garmin Forerunner 305 went missing over the Buffalo Springs half-iron, and I did not want to replace it before the Garmin Forerunner 310xt comes out on July the 20th. I spent all this effort to hook my old Polar up to Delilah, my new road bike, so as to have data to crunch, because every good triathlete knows that if there are no numbers on Training Peaks, the workout did not happen and it provided no physical benefit.

In all that effort, I somehow got all the units set in Euro numbers instead of good ole American miles per hour. (Of course, we know that's why Lance won all those Tour victories. He trained in miles instead of doing baby Euro, metric centuries. Ever hear of a Canadian tour winner? Non! Coincidence? I think not.)

Anyway, there I am sweating over my bike and riding the first 45 minutes of my ride before the sun even peaks over the horizon, and I'm just waiting to see what my pace and distance are like. I'm giving it my all, trying to maintain a good cadence and level of effort, just anticipating first light when I can see the pay off. Then, all I see is . . .

KM/H

Ugh.

And after two hours of incalculable, metric suffering, I pull back into the garage, and throw on my running shoes. Last minute, I reach into the bento box on Carmen Tequilo, my tri-bike, still crusted with mud and ill-used from her half-iron effort, in order to grab a spare gel pack for the suffer-running to come. Low and behold, what do I find?

Il y a Monsieur Garmin, n'est-ce pas?

Oui. C'est vrai.

So not only do I not know how I rode in the Gulf Coast Stank we call "air," I know exactly how slowly I ran for the last 55 minutes, and exactly how high my pathetic little heart rate was for all that.

I decided to take a "heat discount," by walking in the last five minutes, for which I received the "no lollygagging" e-mail from Coach.

Okay, I get it. Mexico in November=Hot. Houston in July=Hot. Pefect bank of Ironman I have here. Seems like I should at least get a toaster or something for opening up an account in this blast furnace.

Perhaps I Should Just Sleep In My Bib Shorts

Coach Kris regularly works with athletes at the Olympic Training Center, and he had athletes in the ITU peloton after the Cap Tex Tri when he came to Austin. This inalterably means that I, with three years of experience in triathlon, must be the oldest, slowest and least exciting athlete in his "stable."

Query, is the old bucket o' bones that chews clover out in the paddock, that one horse who gets no stud fees, still considered part of the "stable?"

But I digress.

Today points out the difference between being a full time athlete and an age grouper with a full time job. Last night was an hour bike workout with some accelerations up to and past the anaerobic threshold. It was 96 degrees at 6 p.m., and my water bottle of electrolyte replacement drink and ice very quickly turned into a salty, sticky, hot toddy without the alcohol.

Shower, recover, sleep and prepare for 2 hour morning ride.

Yeah. 2 hours. With some anaerobic intervals just to make it fun.

Do you know what time you have to get up to ride two hours before work? Even when the car is fully packed with bike, helmet, shoes, pump, nutrition, hydration, and a partridge in a pear tree? You seriously start to think about sleeping in your bib shorts just to save time.

After I've been up awhile, I pretty much slap the Dunkin Donuts man around so he'll be sure and get up to make the donuts.

But it was an awesomely fun ride, notwithstanding the heat and humidity before sunrise. Imagine trainer ride in a shower with a fan and you've pretty much got the conditions down pat.

Then, shower, eat, recover . . . and instead of a nap and a massage like Coach Kris' good athletes, I get a full day of legal luciousness. Mmmmmmmmm, just love that desk and the telephone and the computer and Westlaw. Good times.

Then, this afternoon, it's the track workout. Yeah baby. Same day as the two hour ride. Why this afternoon instead of after dark? Well, I'm glad you asked. See, my other jobs are dad and husband, and we have tickets to Swan Lake tonight at 7:30.

Now, I love Tchaikovsky more than is probably healthy. Having been a horn player, I've actually performed the music, and its great fun. But something tells me that I'm going to have to paint eyeballs on my eyelids tonight when the lights go down in the theater. And tomorrow may well involve a case of the Ironman flu--the better to get my swim workout at noon rather than before dawn.

The army may do more before 8 a.m. than most people do all day, but Houston area triathletes truly do "own the night."

Welcome to the Jungle

Welcome to the jungle

We got fun 'n' games

We got everything you want

Honey we know the names

When you're training for Ironman, Saturday morning is always time for the long ride. As I have chronicled, riding on the streets in Houston can be a bit of a struggle as slow-witted pachyderms in their SUVs and Pickup Trucks compete with you for habitat. But this particular Saturday, I only had one SUV that refused to yield place, and that probably out of ignorance or inattention rather than malice. Today's jungle excusion was difficult for a different reason.

In Houston, you know that the day is going to be a challenge if the windows are sweating with condensation before the sun comes up. This means that, in contrast to the interior of your home, which feels like a low-humidity meat locker, the outside environment is doing its best to mimic Equatorial Guinea. At 0530, when you stumble out to get the paper, the humidity clamps a hot, wet washcloth over your face, and you're cast into the sauna.

Perfect training conditions for Ironman Cozumel, to be sure, but unpleasant to say the least. Coach Kris ordered up a 2.5 hour ride followed by a 15 minute brick run, ordinarly plenty of work but nothing to write home about. This day, however, the sweat was dripping and flying off my bike helmet before I'd even made 15 minutes of work. And by the time I was running off the bike, the sun was in full force. I wimpered my way through the run-off (read "shuffle off") and headed for the AC. I had drunk 1.5 litres of fluid during the ride, and consumed 2 litres of fluid in the hours afterward, but there was little evidence of it. I was wrung. out.

But there was more jungle to come--actually the wildest and jugleiest jungle of them all. For you see, it was the day before mother's day, which means shopping is required. And this particular day, the recesison was nowhere in evidence. The traffic jams and parking lots were such that you would have thought it was the last shopping day before Christmas, except it was a billion degrees outside.

Yes, those of you with weak constitutions might want to skip the rest of the post, for Greyhound went shopping.

Even more, I took two girls shopping: Superpounce and her newly-teenaged friend Mini-KT.

OK, to say that I went shopping is to exaggerate, like many of the feats described herein. But this is my blog, and I at least get to be the hero of my own narrative. Actually, I mostly functioned like an undercover, surveillance detail from the NSA--watching from a distance and loitering outside stores as Superpounce and Mini-KT texted me about where they intended to shop next.

Between Aeropostale, American Eagle, the Food Court, and Justice, we were able to spend a little time at Macy's in order to find someing Mom-er-iffic for today.

And I survived the jungle by making it much of the way through the Weekend Journal.

She Told Me Her Name

She finally told me her name.

She shall be called, "Delilah."

She is the nubile, young object of the songwriter's obsession. "Oh, what you do to me." When you love her, you don't mind the laughter of your friends because you know that "none of them has felt this way" and "a thousand miles seems pretty far, but they've got planes and trains and cars; I'd walk to you if I had no other way."



But she's more than that--more than just a willowy, young thing.





She is a temptress of Biblical proportions who will have her way. Sampson, shorn of his locks, will become as weak as any other man if he abandons himself fully to her wiles. It matters not if you can slay thousands of Philistines with the jaw bone of an ass. Delilah will empty you.



She is Delilah.



Let it be written.

Let it be done.

One Thing

Sometimes you need that "One Thing" to help you keep it all together. It might be completely psychosomatic, like Dumbo's feather, but it still works. As long as you hold it, the rest of the chaos doesn't seem so troubling.

When I went to bed Friday night, I knew only one thing about the coming weekend---I was going to ride my bike Saturday morning for three hours. I had a brand new bike that had never been ridden, the weather was dry (for a change), and the rest of the weekend might well be given over to managing an emergency legal project with too many cooks in the kitchen and lots of moving parts.

But they can wait. Saturday morning for three hours is mine. And that helped a lot.

And The One Thing did not disappoint.

I had spent stolen hours during the week putting her together with the help of Phil Shama of Shama Cycles. Even though his main line of business is selling and fitting high end, custom bikes to people, not giving over part of his shop to instruct a cheapskate in how to assemble a bike, he believes to his core that sustainable and profitable businesses are built on relationships. So, when I asked, he was pleased to show me some wrenching basics and talk me through assembling the lions' share of the parts and components.

I was also pleased to buy the components needed to finish the bike from him, as well as a bike fit, and likely anything I'll need for either of my bikes well into the future.

The bike is an all carbon, RS2 from from Pedal Force with a SRAM Red Gruppo, SRAM S40 wheels, and weight weenie pedals, bars and stem I got from Shama Cycles.





The bars are particularly nice because they are narrower than most stock bars and fit my torso and shoulders better than any bike I've ever ridden.



By the end of the week, we had a bike that weighed only slightly more than 15 pounds--barely legal.



But we also had a deluge of rain so I couldn't ride it, and we had an appellate emergency in Corpus Christi that threatened the entire weekend.

But three hours on Saturday morning were mine. The weather was cold and very windy, but riding the new bike was still a pleasure. She responded immediately to the pedals without feeling whippy, and gave a great feel of the road while still feeling smoothe. The SRAM wheels sliced the wind and dampened the road vibrations. The SRAM Red shifters and compact cranks were magical, clicking precisely into the chosen gears and making me feel I had power to burn.

Phil's bike fit was also perfect. And at the end of three hours the bike was still charging to the top of hills instead of throwing out an anchor to stop me, and I was fresh enough to keep going.

And I will keep going, as soon as I save some defendants from a bandit trial judge in South Texas.

But now, what to name her. She won't tell me her name yet, but as you can see, she's nearly all black, sleek, with red accents, climbs and accelerates like a bird of prey, and is silent as a whisper on the roads. But what is her name?

980 Grams

"Holy Crap."

Yeah. Thanks Coach Kris for that John-Madden-like command of the obvious. "Holy Crap" was his expert analysis of the Ironman St. George bike course. That's the triathlon equivalent of "Boom. He's a really big pass rusher." Obviously, I'm just yanking his chain. I'll need someone who knows what they're doing to get this flat lander prepared for a mountain stage to be followed by a marathon.

But in addition to Coach Kris, I have another secret weapon that I'm going to roll out later this week. She now has crank, fork, seat post, saddle, wheels, brakes and cassette installed. And what's more I got to do it myself--well mostly myself except where my ignorance cried out for help--at the Cycling Valhalla known as Shama Cycles under the tutelage of Phil Shama, bicycle customizer extraordinaire.

He may be having second thoughts about letting a two-left-handed, all thumbs, wannabe back in his sanctum sanctorum, and he may never do it again, but I am so thankful that he is tolerating my questions and showing me the ropes. If true business is built on relationships, I know which bike shop will be getting my dollar for all the tires, tubes, bottles and assundry items one needs to purchase over time.

I feel like the sorcerer's apprentice--learning a trade for when this law stuff peters out. It was fascinating to fit together all the shiny new components and to marvel at the amount of technology that -- let's face it -- goes into a toy -- a play thing for the well-heeled professional competing for the "ultimate prize."

Then we ordered some special bars, carbon pedals and carbon bottle cages to finish her out on Wednesday when I'll try my hand at installing the SRAM Red derailluers, shifters, and cables. **drooling here**

Phil--who is also an extraordinarly knowledgeable bike fitter--also did a preliminary fit.

The 49 cm, all carbon, road frame fits like a glove. And it weighed in at . . .

980 grams.

Yes, that's less than 1 kg for the frame. Any lighter and we'd be talking about some theoretical, subatomic anti-matter that has negative mass.

Now . . . this climbing rocket of a bike, plain black carbon with red accents and bar tape, needs a name.

The Continuing Saga . . .

I've received several inquiries along the lines of "what ever happened in your cage match with Officer McBreakfast Taco. Those of you who are new to the blog can follow the link to get the details about how a Deputy Constable tried to bully me off the road, and when I stood my ground and later complained to his superiors, backdated a ticket which I beat in court.

Since my last letter outlining what the Texas Transportation Code requires concerning the rights of cyclists, I received a form letter reply, this time signed by the actual, elected constable. It said:

Dear Mr. {Real Lawyer Name}:

Our department is in receipt of your letter dated December 22, 2008. The policy of this department is that all deputies handle citizens in a respectful and courteous manner. We appreciate your concerns regarding this issue.

Sincerely,
David Hill
Constable Pct. 5 Montgomery County

While I am sure they "appreciate" my concerns, I'm not sure they believe them. Nor do they "appreciate" that what I'm really concerned about is having the law properly enforced.

Soooooo . . . one more letter on my scary lawyer letterhead, this time insisting upon a face to face meeting with the elected constable himself:

Dear Constable Hill:

I am in receipt of the attached letter in reference to the incident on April 19 in which Deputy Constable Williams, himself in violation of the law, tried to bully me off the road. He maintained that cyclists were to remain out of the active traffic lane of FM 149, and later backdated a ticket to that effect. The D.A. properly dismissed the ticket.

In your letter, you maintain that “[t]he policy of this department is that all deputies handle citizens in a respectful and courteous manner.” Nowhere, however, in all the correspondence regarding this matter, has your office stated whether it is the policy of the department to protect cyclists’ rights under the Transportation Code to use the roads as all other vehicles. Nor has there been any commitment to train Deputy Williams and his colleagues concerning what the law requires.

I therefore request a meeting at your earliest possible convenience to ask you in person what the policy of the department is to be. Are cyclists to expect that the traffic laws will be enforced as written? What is the policy of the department to be concerning officers who fail or refuse to conform to the law? I will be calling to confirm this request when I receive indication that my letter has been received.

Very Truly Yours:

{Real Lawyer Name}


I will get my meeting. When I do, one of two things will happen. If things go well, I will be sweetness and light and offer to light a candle rather than curse the darkness. I just want officers to know how bikes are supposed to use the road. I am even willing to create and conduct, on my own time, training for law enforcement officers concerning what it's like to ride on the roads and what the laws actually require of motorists and police officer.

If things do not go well, then those of you in the peanut gallery who are lawyers already know the implications of "policy" type language in a demand letter.

I hope things go well. I am ready for this to be done.

Spring Classic

***This post must be read with the accent and inflections of Phil Liggett, Paul Sherwin, and Bob Roll***

Phil: In some parts of the world, the first signs of spring lead to thoughts of baseball, or cricket, or flying a kite in Hyde Park with the children. But not so for the hard men of the professional cycling peloton. Spring means hard weather and hard racing on even harder courses. These masters of the pave hurl their bodies into the breach and very often find out that Mother Nature is a hard mistress indeed. Cold temperatures, mud, water, and impossibly slippery and rough roads are the essence of the spring classics. And Mother Nature turns to glance over her shoulder as if to say, "are you coming or not?" And the answer is, "not."

Paul: Well indeed, Phil. As a fomer professional cyclist and member of that peloton I can tell you that back in the day, the thing that made cyclists like Eddy Merckx and Bernard Hinault so fearsom within the peloton was their ability to race all styles of races, not only the Grand Tours, but these Spring Classics as well. They're names, the Badger and the Cannibal, were not mere idle talk. They were earned here on the cold, hard pave before the flowers bloomed. Bob?

Bob: **huh huh** Lance is Awesome.

Phil: Yes, indeed, Bob. Lance is Awesome, and I'm sure that if he were here, he would be loving this cold and wet weather and dominating the field. But Lance has chosen not to race today, in order to let some of the other riders have a chance. Tell me Paul, how would you describe the conditions and how does it feel to ride a bike out in weather like this.

Paul: Well, Phil, the temprature is one thing, but the wind and the damp make it feel ever so much colder. This morning in Galveston, the hard riding age groupers of Houston Racing Triathlon club were tuning up their machines for a cold, wet, and windy ride along the coast. They have been heard to say, "there's no such thing as bad weather, only inadequate equipment." So, toe warmers, hats, gloves, tights and jackets were common currency of the day. And yet, there is only so much warmth one can purchase with one's equipment. By the time one reaches the finishing line, the extremeties are numb, and it is only one's zeal that keeps one going. Bob?

Bob: **huh huh** (hands gesticulating wildly) Lance is AWESOME.

Phil: Yes, indeed, Bob. Lance truly is awesome. Was Lance at the training ride this morning Paul?

Paul: No, Phil. Notwithstanding his awesomeness, Lance was not there. And its a good thing too. The wind this morning was cold and fearsome, cutting directly across the course that runs along the ocean. The effect of all this is that one feels as if one is riding into a headwind all day long, both ways on an out and back course. And since these are American triathletes, they do not draft. It is a point of honor not to take aid from domestiques or from . . . uhm . . . physicians . . . er . . . Italian obstetricians . . . who happen to train lots and lots of cyclists.

Bob: But the Awesomness, it was like . . . (WAVING HANDS) . . . LANCE . . . it was . . . . **hyperventilating**. . . A-W-E-S-O-M-E

Phil: There there, Bob. So, who was you pick to win today's stage, Paul?

Paul: Well, really, Phil, the whole point is that whomever shows up on a day like this, early in the spring, in adverse conditions, and puts the time in is a winner, in a sense. They're all putting deposits in the bank on which they can with call later in the year.

Phil: Well, I quite agree, Paul. But I'm going to pick Robbie McEwen to win the bunch sprint at the end. And you, Bob?

Bob: Lance. 'Cause he's **whispering** awesome.

Phil: But I thought we already established that Lance is not here.

Bob: Are you saying Robbie McEwen in absentia is better than Lance in absentia?

Phil: I would never say such a thing, becasue if I don't kiss the Patron's ring, I won't get any more interview time. But, it's a flat course and a sprinter's finish so--

Bob: Get thee behind me, Satan. Lance. He's awesome.

Did Clark Kent Take Naps?

This week, Coach Kris must have decided that I don't shower near enough, nor do enough laundry, nor change clothes with enough frequency, because today I get a lot of practice in all of these disciplines.

Coach Kris bellied up to the Ironman bar and ordered me a drink, saying, "make his a triple." The day started at LA FATNESS for a swim that left my ears ringing--work set consisting of 2x700m negative split each and descend. The fat, hairy, swim-trunk-festooned late-sleepers must have wondered why the skinny, hairless little man was weeping on the side of the pool. Then . . .

Shower, change clothes and repeat.

Mid day will be strength training with the Serbian Overlord, MIKI, whose kettlebell routine was rejected by the Obama Administration because it did not meet the guidelines for humane interrogation under the Army Field Manual. Then . . .

Shower, change clothes and repeat.

AND, in the evening, it will be time to bike a little. Not too much, just enough to get another set of clothes really sweaty so that I can . . .

Shower, change clothes and repeat.

Meanwhile, I am turning an Audi into a locker room, because there are no more telephone booths in which to change back and forth from Clark Kent to Superman, I'm getting frequent flyer miles on my washing machine, and I'm wondering where I can get back that hour of sleep I lost this weekend in switching from normality to Daylight Sleepiness Time.

Do you think Clark could nap in those telephone booths?

My Poor Little Soldier

I swear to you this just happened not more than 30 minutes ago. I could not keep my eyes open after my windy ride, and just as I'm about to sleep it off, Superpounce wakes me up and asks me if a friend can come over "when I'm done with my nap."

**blink**

Yeah. I guess that would be now, wouldn't it?

Anyhow, first day back on the tri-bike in months, and as I'm getting ready this morning I remember, "drat, I'm out of lube."

See, my favorite anti-friction lube is made by Brave Soldier. Well that's not exactly true. My favorite lube has nothing to do with triathlon, but rather with one of the few activities for which I'd cancel a bike ride.

Anyway, Brave Soldier stays in place, works all day, and has a brisk, mentholy kind of feel that makes my little brave soldier feel all cool and comfy. (But fair warning, I'm not sure how pleasant that would feel if, say, you are the kind of triathlete that does not have a brave soldier, but instead (not to be indelicate) has a more "open" system).

But I'm out of Brave Soldier anti-friction cream, so I just HTFU and go.

Well, not harden, actually. Not literally. That would be very counterproductive. I Just stop complaining, slather on a little body glide, put on my most comfortable bib shorts, and get after the ride.

But I discovered something quite unpleasant during the ride. Again, it was my first time back on the tri-bike in months, and the first time in the aero position in those bib shorts. And much to my horror and discomfort those shorts get all sorts of folds and creases in the aero position right where I have all sorts of folds and creases. And my brave little soldier's base did not have any Brave Soldier to smooth things over.

Then, my riding companion and I discovered that part of the reason we were going so well on the way out was the massive headwind we would face on the way back. And me without a full night's sleep and dehydrated and underfed with an unhappy little soldier. But Coach Kris said 3 hours on the bike, and 3 hours of honest work is what I gave him. It was just a lot harder than the effort he had asked for, or that I intended to give.

But now my nap is over, and being dad replaces all the Ironman athlete fantasies of the morning ride.



After rides like that, you wonder, "who was that guy who ran a marathon off the bike last June. He sure looked like me, but it must have been someone else."

Slippery When Wet and Reader Poll

When I woke up this morning I thought I had the flu.

Or maybe I had been in a prize fight and had been pummeled so convincingly that I had no memory of the event.

I had noticed a little stiffness in my neck when I lay down last night, but upon waking, it was seriously one of those "WTF?" moments.

(For those readers of a more refined and gentle nature, "whiskey tango foxtrot" or "wow, the flubber")

I didn't have any of that awful disc pain referring to arms and legs etc. from when she who shall not be named sabotaged our SOMA bet by goading me into over training and rupturing my widdow neck disckies. But all the stability muscles that hold up my gigantic brain-filled dome, along with the lower back, were in painful seizure and rebellion. It was half-way through my swim this morning before I even figured out why. The puniest, most inconsequential little bike topple had given me a mild case of the whiplash.

Yesterday morning, doing an easy spin around the park, I forgot to keep the rubber side down. Actually, there was a very thin sheen of water on the road, enough to bring the oil to the surface, so that the smoothest parts of the pavement had the friction coefficient of black ice. Combine that with some fairly slick, high mileage tires and an effort to slow prudently at a stop sign, and there was nothing to be done.

I was slowing and probably moving at less than 10 mph when the back tire came around, cut in line, and decided it would like to proceed first down the road--sideways. The bike, Jessi S. Cannondale, and I slid down in a delicate heap. I landed on my bum and side, pretty well kept my chin tucked, and skidded along the slick roadway for a bit. No cars were behind me (thankfully) and if my head hit the pavement at all, I don't remember feeling the blow through my helmet. In fact, it was so inconsequential, I just picked myself up, remounted, finished the ride, and thought nothing more of it.

Until this morning, halfway through the swim when I finally went, "DUH. Neck hurts. Bike wreck. Nobel prize for medecine."

But I finished my swim.

And I hit my splits.

Because Coach Kris wrote it down in the plan; let it be written, let it be done.

Because that's the Ironman way.

Or at least it's the highly anal, lawyer-guy way.

To be completely safe (and to keep doing my bit for the economy) I should probably replace my skid lid, just in case it did whack the pavement as my head snapped back. So, again, if you ride a bike, it's time to weigh in:

What's the awesomest, iron-worthy, most legendary, bitchin' bike helmet on the planet? High viz is a plus because many of my rides during the week are before dawn.

Reader Poll: Greyhound ISO Cycling Shorts

Well, after reading my last post, Coach Kris brought his keen insight, experience, and professional knowledge to bear on my arse problem.

Four words:

cycling shorts
chamois butter
DUH!

OK, so that's five words, but I had gotten into the habit of riding only in tri-shorts in part to "toughen up" and in part because I don't like the cycling shorts that I have. It is probably long past time to spring for some new bike shorts. In fact, doing so is probably patriotic: doing my part for the economy.

So, here's the question to you, gentle reader. What are the best, most comfortable cycling shorts in the known universe and the best chamois butter to go along with them? If you ride a bike, weigh in. But, that said, as much as I respect the "woohah," "bajingo" and "vajayjay," I'd especially prize the opinions of those readers who have "junk" that needs to fit down in all that lycra, chamois and butter.

I'm just sayin.

Iron? Pfffft.

So, yeah. There's a bike leg in Ironman. And I haven't ridden since, oooooohhhh, October. So I got out on the bike for the first time in the last couple of days, and although they say "you never forget," my legs were not down with the whole bike thing. It wasn't so much that they hurt, but more like they had a "Scotty" moment.

"Scotty, we need more power."

"I cannaugh dooooit, Cap'n. Thah't's uhllll she's goht. The dilythium c-r-r-r-r-r-rystal-l-l-l-ls r-r-r-r-r-r dooon."

The pain involved with biking this week was not "Peter Pain," but you're in the right zip code. After biking Wednesday morning, Coach Kris had me on the trainer this morning, and my arse did NOT like it one bit.

Owie.

I used to be a hardass. I rode both my Ironman races in tri-shorts. You could say that ALL of THIS MAN was made of Iron.

Now? Not. So. Much.

So, yeah, the MS150 is in 72 days, and I've ridden a fraction of the distance with no great comfort. This is going to leave a mark.

Get Up, Stand Up

Just a quick update on the traffic law Mensa candidate from Montgomery County and the post-dated traffic ticket. I now have pretrial setting on September 3, 2009 and I have managed to get the case transferred from Precinct 5 where Officer Williams works to Precinct 1 where the supposed violation took place. We'll see if the prosecutor actually wants to try this case. If so, we'll go. If not, the next step will be pressing charges against the officer and throwing him into the disciplinary system for bad law enforcement. If I had done to him what he did to me, I would still be in jail.

Alas, Officer Williams isn't the only Mensa candidate among the rank and file of Texas law enforcement. I was recently interviewed by the local paper along with another cyclist who actually was harassed and received a ticket from a rural sheriff while competing in the Texas Time Trial Championships. Check it out.

Imagine that Roscoe P. Coltrane pulls you over during the bike leg of your next triathlon. Unbelievable.

****Breaking News Update****

The story has now been picked up by one of my favorite cycling blogs. Check it out here.