I Train Alone

Faced with a void of original thought, people seek the quotes of others to add authority, intelligence, comedy and reverence to their musings. John Bartlett made a familiar fortune this way. The only original quote I can find from him though is, "I have gathered a posie of other men's flowers, and nothing but the thread that binds them is mine own.” It lacks mellifluousness.

Borrowing quotes to bolster your ideas is akin to doing cover tunes. Don't take my word for it though, listen to Celine Dion singing AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long." This should be enough to start a petition to outlaw such activities. I'm printing up the "IMPEACH DION" bumper stickers later this week.

Maybe I'll make my fortune and rewrite Ol' Papa's The Old Man and the Sea, Puccini's Madame Butterfly and Miller's Death of a Salesman. In my versions Santiago gets the monster fish to shore unscathed, Lt. Pinkerton comes back sans new wife for Madame Butterfly AND their son and Willy Loman doesn't commit suicide. For any book signings whose name would I scribble?

Since this is supposed to be an endurance-themed blog and this morning I'm searching for any original thought over a chasm, I'll take the easy way out. To bolster the fact that I normally take the easy way out I'll quote Julie Corey. You know her, she had the audacity to write in my 1985 Yearbook, The Beaverian (we were the Beaver River Beavers!), "I'll never forget you, the guy who always took the easy way out AND got away with it," the chiding continued, "I know you've got a lot of potential in life but whether you use it or not is entirely up to you!" Even though I'm hoping she is a janitor at a circus I have dedicated my 2009 Ironman Canada race and training to her. Perhaps I'll affix that quote to the top tube of my bike and read it when I'm in my box of pain. I'll probably just sit up though.

"And let us run with patient endurance the race that lies before us," is the quote from the Bible, yeah that one, from Hebrews Chapter 12 verse one. I suppose it adds some spirituality to our endeavors and gives us explicit approval from an authority figure to go train.

"Yeah, God's got me doing some cruise intervals today and then tomorrow He's got me doing 10X100's in the pool on the 1:20. What have I done to incur His wrath? How about a recovery week big guy?" Truly He would be God's gift to coaching.

William Shakespeare seems to endorse some judicious use of speedwork in King Henry VIII, "We may outrun, By violent swiftness, that which we run at, And lose by over-running." What is in a name? That which we call a disc wheel by any other name would ride as sweet. That sound you hear is the Bard doing a flamenco dance in his grave.

Twain must've been a triathlete. That is to say he wasn't a solid bike-handler, "Get a bicycle. You will not regret it. If you live."

With all apologies to George Thorogood which of course extend to the Destroyers, nee the Delaware Destroyers, I train alone...not exactly happily, because isn't George really pouting here? He wishes to drink with someone as I usually wish to be training with someone so I've bastardized his song to fill the lack of original thought...sorry:

I train alone, yeah, with nobody else. I train alone, yeah, with nobody else. Yeah, you know when I train alone, I prefer to be by myself.

Now, every morning, just before breakfast, I don't want no coffee or tea. Just me and my good Accelerade. That's all I ever need. Cause I train alone, yeah, with nobody else. I train alone, yeah, with nobody else. Yeah, you know when I train alone, I prefer to be by myself.

Now, the other night I lay sleeping, and I woke from a terrible dream. So I called up my running coach, Jack Daniels, And his partner Steven Pre. And we trained alone, yeah, with nobody else. We trained alone, yeah, with nobody else. Yeah, you know when I train alone, I prefer to be by myself.

Well, the other night I got invited to a party, but I stayed on my trainer instead. Just me and my pal Computrainer, and his brothers FDJ. And we trained alone, yeah, with nobody else. We trained alone, yeah, with nobody else. Yeah, you know when I train alone, I prefer to be by myself.

Well, my whole training group done give up on me, and it makes me feel so bad. The only one who'll hang out with me Is my dear old Yellow Lab. And we trained alone, yeah, with nobody else. We trained alone, yeah, with nobody else. Yeah, you know when I train alone, I prefer to be by myself.

Thanks to Kevin Walter for training with me yesterday and for Kitima for training with me today.

Scared Rabbits

Thanksgiving Eve. Pitch black. Low sky. The wet snow waltzed in the night and the dance floor was a slushy mess. With trail shoes strapped to my feet I forged westward with the snow stinging my eyes. My headlamp beams bounced off the precipitation like a car with its high beams on in a snowstorm.

People were out today and so were the animals. The tracks in the snow looked like they had played an epic game of football. It was hard to tell but it appeared that the dogs, deer and rabbits defeated the hominids 27-24 on a last-second field goal by Thumper. That dude can kick!

Trudging on past the stadium I did scare a hare. It's tail bobbed furiously in flight from me before it ducked into a bramble. It reminded me of my basketball coach in High School that would occasionally admonish us to stop "playing like scared rabbits."...always thought a scared rabbit would be difficult to guard; maybe a caffeinated squirrel could get the job done, but even so I think the scared rabbit would pour in about 30. He should have told us to play like scared rabbits.

Pinheads, pundits and talking heads droned on all day about how the night before Thanksgiving was the busiest party night of the year. I took this into consideration at all road crossings. I had to work Thanksgiving but was already looking forward to the comical, usually drunken aftermath. One Thanksgiving I sat in a deserted parking lot in the early morning hours probably trying to figure out that pesky last word on the Jumble when a disheveled youngster approached me.

"Dude, do you know the number to a cab company."
"Sure, DUDE, 2323232."
"Sorry, I mean officer. Thank you sir," he said and trundled off with phone in hand. He made it about 15 feet and turned and yelled.
"Where am I?"

It was that part of the run, oh about 45 minutes in, when the mind got bored and tired. Was in fact my iPod collection the most eclectic ever? If I were to put it on shuffle at a party would people stop eating their pigs-in-a-blanket in wild-eyed amazement at its sheer genius? Would they wonder, no, demand, to know who put together such a collection as they slammed their Champagne on the table? Who indeed would put Josephine Baker, Mozart, Fuel, Johnny Cash, Simple Minds and the Outfield on one mix? No one but me, that's who! I am great!

I snapped out of that long-run-induced delusion long enough to realize that my iPod mix wasn't better than anyone else's and that mine was probably quite boring and if played at a party it might clear it out quicker than a backed-up toilet. It reminded me of a quote from a buddy of mine.

"Remember you are unique. Just like everyone else."

Monster Run

With the hill beneath my toes I took off just before dusk. The sun was shallow and weak at my back sending a few weak sorties at the rear of my neck. Ra's light was dominating its heat. My visible breath shot out in front of me every six footfalls.

A blinking light on my forehead was a brilliant hood ornament. It is still unknown how the large white pickup truck didn't see me until a few yards away. Betcha he was short fella.

Deer in the cornfield to the left of me and cows in the lea to the right of me. Shots fired in the distance...hopeful that Mr. Hunterguy can tell the difference in the low light. "Honey, this venison tastes just like beef."

Turning right I pass a Christmas tree farm and the road rises above my toes. In the absence of fitness little inclines are the Matterhorn.

Something runs up behind me in an almost-sneak attack. I turn like the victims in monster movies before the devouring: mouth agape; eyes wide like white Frisbees; hands raised to my face like in Munch's The Scream. What would get me tonight? Zombie Pit Bulls? Vampire Holsteins? Crazed robot Christmas trees? Bigfoot? Was it the Yeti, Sasquatch come to feast upon me, leaving nothing but a bloody pair of Reeboks and a blinking light attached to my hat sans head?

No, it was a dried leaf somersaulting between my feet on its way to the ditch. Whew, that was close.

Darkness landed just across the farmer's fields and the clouds looked more sinister than just a few minutes ago. I turned my light to a steady stream and out of the corner of my eye, just down a side road I caught a fluorescent-yellow roller-skier and his buddy, the-almost-invisible-cyclist coming my way. I passed the intersection as they stopped, scratched their noodles and pondered their next move.

My run was over at the mailbox and I scooped out a few catalogs and slid my way up the icy driveway. My lower stomach was chilled nicely where my jacket was a bit loose.

Best part of the run was climbing the stairs that was redolent of cooking beef. I could see Kitima through the warmly lit kitchen window whipping up some culinary masterpiece as her new hooded grill vented furiously. It looked warm inside. She smiled and waved.

Roy G. Biv

The darkness entered surreptitiously; slightly more detectable running towards the East. It sucked what little fall color remains. Mostly the flaming colors of kamikaze leaves strewn along the outsides of the gun-metal gray gravel of the trail. It rested like wet, day-after confetti. Roy G. Biv was definitely getting ready for his off season.





A woman in white approached. Was she running? Walking? Or walking until she saw someone. She was walking a small collie and her puffy, down coat made her look like an ambulatory marshmallow. Hot cocoa would be nice now I thought.





Where the trail traversed the roads, several dark and angry cars blurred by. Sight was losing out to hearing in a battle of the senses.





I crunched my way to the turnaround artificially imposed by my watch, artificially imposed by my brain. The screeching of wet bike brakes announced the presence of some cyclists up ahead. They entered from the road, made a sweeping turn and headed into the darkness with only a blinking red light proof of their existence.



The run reminded me of many Andrew Wyeth paintings; devoid of vibrant color. The above painting is titled Winter 1946. Kitima and I have hats like his. Yes, with the flaps. Laugh if you must.

Apollo: Greek God of the sun

"What are you going to do about the balloon portion?" Kitima said clearly and loudly at three in the morning.

"Wha?" I mumbled and probably spittled.

"What are you going to do about the balloon portion?"

"What in the hell are you talking about?"

Kitima's somniloquy was concerned about how I would handle the balloon portion of the triathlon.

"Go back to bed."

"But you need to fix the rubber part," she said and then she was out.

If she had an anxiety dream she'll have to explain herself...her blog is here: http://train-thisironman.blogspot.com/

I got out on the LVT today on my cross bike for a short bit. It was again in the mid 40's but the sun was out and it was one of those fall days that people like to call "crisp". After a few minutes I realized I'd put on my balaclava but failed to put on my helmet.

Oh my god. What will happen? Will I suffer a devastating brain injury? What will people say and do? Will people point, mouths aghast? Will I be admonished by a parent? Oh sweet baby Jesus what shall become of me! Should I stop and walk my bike? This is worse than smoking!

After a few seconds I regained my sanity and continued on, cursing the pussification of our society. That got me thinking about, "when I was a kid." Then of course I remembered my bike: The Ross Apollo Racer. Yes, you should give the title its due reverence and capitalize each word. Mine was a yellow one-speed with a two-tiered banana seat in order that your passenger could see over your head. I didn't own a helmet until I was in my late 20's. Took my bike over some sweet jumps, off a diving board, down snowy hills, over snowbank ramps, you name it and wiped out often and hard. It taught you quickly how to fall and more importantly how to land. Damn I miss that bike.

A short ode to Apollo both bike and God: Tis Apollo comes leading/His choir; the Nine/The leader is fairest/But all are divine.

After a short ride and some bikes of days gone by reminiscing (could someone please cue that "Memories" song...you know, "of the way we were" song...forget it if you can but it is in your craw now) I transitioned into a short run.

Down the path I could see a horse approaching. I love horses; don't have much to say about the entitled people in the saddle though. A fiftyish woman of silver curly hair looked down and said, "Wowwwww, you look just like Spider Man," and continued on without acknowledging my light and airy "Good morning."

Spiderman? What the...?

I looked down though and got it. I had black tights on, a tight black top, a black skull cap, black gloves and black Oakleys on. I was upset at the lack of a witty response on my part and doubly upset when I realized that it is the off season from serious training and the tight black top wasn't supposed to be tight. Frick!

A Thousand Words

Today it was in the low 40's with a cold breeze coming from the west. Le Grande Orange (all due apologies to Rusty Staub) and I went out on the Auburn and Lehigh Valley Trails. Please to note the Mellow Johnny's water bottle purchased in Austin, TX.

Signs, signs, everywhere there's signs...blocking up the scenery...

Is that Dana Sharp speeding by?

Gratuitous action shot!

Wangum Road crossing...Wangum?! Damn near killed 'em!

Perfect location for a break au naturale.

The Lehigh Valley Trail trestle straddles the Auburn Trail.

Aero geese forming an echelon.

Historic sumpin' or other.


Self portrait.

I ran into Kitima (in orange), Natalie (in yellow) and their friend Annette.

Looks like they are leading Kitima "the Thai Rocket" Boonvisudhi out for a sprint finish

Best part of a cold ride is that your post-ride drink is chilly.

Sending a Message

When I found out that every five minutes someone is diagnosed as a Drunken Party Whore (DPW Syndrome) I knew I had to raise awareness. But how? How could I, one person, help in this monumental task? Then it hit me like the credit card bill the month after signing up for Ironman--I could get sponsors for IM Canada in the effort to eradicate DPW Syndrome. You, my dupes, err, donors, would give me money, lots and lots of money. Twenty cents on the dollar would go to the Help Find A Cure For DPW Syndrome Right Away People(or HFACFDPWSRAP for short). The other eighty cents would sponsor me and my new carbon bike and race wheels, I mean, would help send a message to all the participants and spectators at IM Canada '09 that DPWS must be stopped in our lifetime. It doesn't just strike the "lower people", no sir, that's George W's daughter in that picture above. If it can happen to her...

Between now and through IMCAN I intend on wearing the symbol of HFACFDPWSRAP--a red drink stirrer/straw twisted to look like those ribbons of other fine fights against, you know, whatever. I will wear it proudly on my training gear and on my race kit in Penticton. With a donation you will receive one to wear proudly. I will also only accept drinks at aid stations from my special red plastic cups that you normally get at the local keg party.

DPWS afflicts millions of women between the ages of 18-30ish. Although the "W" in Whore isn't gender-specific no men have ever come forward seeking help from the People. There isn't a cure but the disease can be managed through copious use of Advil, RU-486, Aciclovir, gynecologic visits, emergency room stomach-pumpings, and orders of protection against certain "hookups" that just won't stop calling. A booklet is also being published to give tips on how best to complete the morning after "walk of shame". These things, like my trip to British Columbia, cost money.

For your generous donation you will feel like you are really making a difference. You will feel like you're a people-helper. You will be giving back to the community you've stolen so much from and you'll really be taking it to the next level and stuff. You will feel so much better than everyone else you just might go out and buy a Prius or what-have-you. If you feel that way for sponsoring me, just think how self-absorbed, self-satisfied and self-indulgent I'll be and whatnot. Does Spiuk make an aero helmet in XXXL?

I called the national spokesperson for HFACFDPWSRAP Anita Hardman who is herself struggling with the disease. After admonishing me for talking too loud on the phone and calling before noon and waking her up she had this to say, "We'll be happy to sponsor you if you'll just stop shouting into the phone...mama's got a headache sweetheart...man I could use an eye-opener. We'll even bus up some people currently suffering from DPW Syndrome to cheer you on at your event. Mind you, they won't get there until after they get up, around the crack of one p.m. but you'll really see and feel their pain at the bar later when they are doing jelly shots off each others' stomachs and making out with each other while drunken meat heads shout and drool. It'll rip your heart out."

Miss Hardman assures me that even four dollars a week is enough to give taxi fare to a young lady that wakes up after a night of partying and can't quite remember where her car is.

So please help sponsor me. It's for a great cause.

Showcase Showdown

I rocketed out of bed this morning like I was shot out of one of those circus cannons that deposit you onto a cargo net in the distance. I couldn't boot up my computer fast enough. It was six a.m. I checked my email inbox but it wasn't there. Maybe it was in the other email account--not there.

This had to be an oversight. I knew Obama had won the election. News clips of ecstatic followers nearly passing out from excitement flashed on the TV last night from Chicago, Harlem, Los Angeles etc. The reaction was reminiscent of people on the Price is Right when they win the Double Showcase Showdown so I knew good things were in store for me today. On the other hand the McCain supporters had that "I just overbid" hangdog look about them.

Figuring (from everyone else's reactions) that great things were to be bestowed upon me by a stranger I made a mental list of what I wanted. Surely the Messiah would not let me down. Only he and maybe the Great Pumpkin could provide me with an Annual Training Plan (I kept checking for an email from Him with "ATP" in the subject line) that would make me swim like Michael Phelps, increase my FTP to well north of 400, and award me a VDot of 100! Of course if his tax plan were applied to triathlon achievement people on the current podium will have to donate a certain percentage of their achievement (say 5-10 minutes on the swim; 30 minutes on the bike; 30 minutes on the run) to people who were just too lazy to train. We need to spread the triathlon wealth around a bit.

Not finding Obama's email I went to the Erie Canal for a short run. Surely he would pop out of the bushes (political pun intended...sic on the non upper case "b") with a folder just for me and run with me a bit. He does have some Kenyan roots and he could imbue me with their secrets but alas he didn't show.

Crestfallen I went to Wegman's. Maybe Michelle Obama or Ol' Joe Biden would show up in the cookie aisle and give me my prize in the form of 2-for-1 Oreo coupons or pop up at the checkout with a bottle return credit. No one was in the checkout line except for a mom and her crying kid. What was he crying about? He got to ride in a cart shaped like a freakin' car. "When I was your age kid we didn't have fancy shopping carts..."

So I was going to have to do everything for myself. It wouldn't be handed to me. I wasn't going to receive a present that would make me dance about like I'd just won two new cars, a refrigerator and a trip to Acapulco.

The groceries came to 67.02. I didn't have two pennies...that would've been change I needed.

P.S. I don't vote. I believe that electing people for political office is akin to selecting the hair color of your prostitute. You make a choice you like but you end up being serviced harshly, lighter in the wallet and you'll probably catch some nasty disease.

On Venn Diagrams and Mountain Biking

"Did you guys see a guy on a hard-tail with a rigid fork wearing a red shirt?"
One of us said no, we hadn't seen anyone in the last five minutes or so while we had stopped to chat along the trail.
"Did you see anyone go down this trail?" he said pointing down Owl's Maze atop of Dryer Rd. Park.
I could hear Kitima's brain working and she could probably hear mine. You know how that relationship ESP can kick in.
Well if we didn't see anyone then we didn't see your boy go rocketing down Owl's Maze.
This man probably suffered mightily trying to learn Venn Diagrams. Perplexed he led his other four friends down the trail.
Kitima and I had bumped into Joel and a buddy of his while we were buzzing around the trails on Friday. I had just emerged from a two-week long sloth-a-palooza and was looking for an easy ride but Joel was selling a brand new trail.
"It's called Juicy Bacon."
I was sold but Kitima needed more convincing and Joel continued.
"It is like Ribbon Candy but faster and a bit straighter."
Kitima was hesitant since she hadn't been on her mountain bike in months but she finally agreed. I think because the name was a pork product.
Joel led the way. He looks a bit like Lou Ferrigno on a bike but the dude can ride...hard. I followed with his buddy Steve behind me and Kitima in fourth. The trail reminded me of riding down a steep and high half-pipe you'd find on a ski trail. You'd compress your bike in the trough and get a little unweighted on top where you'd turn. It was one of those trails where you heard your friends, and yourself, yelling "Yoo", "Woo", "Hoo" or "Oww, that branch punctured my spleen!"
Joel and Steve continued on after Juicy Bacon and Kitima and I headed back to the lot. We met up with the spokesperson from the Donner party a little later. He found his friend!
"You found him!" we said but he didn't look too happy.
"Yeah we found him but we lost another one."
We kept going before he started asking more inane questions. He was scratching his noodle hard.
It would be hard to find someone in there that day though. The trails were littered with dry leaves and it sounded like your bike was rolling over Rice Krispies and Pop Rocks. The wind was strong at the top of the trees so it always sounded like a jet was about to land on your Camel Back.
Kitima said something but I only caught a few words of it.
"Wait...your...loose...tighten...or...femur...compound..."
It probably wasn't important.