Stochastic Utterances

Xterra Richmond

2010-06-24T18:32:00.013-04:00

Last weekend Kitima and I ventured down to Richmond Virginia so I could do the Xterra Eastern Championships. I qualified by entering my credit card number and personal information online. and accurately hitting the "submit" button.

This race is funner than a clown on fire. It is a triathlon for sure but mix in some adventure racing, (dis)orienteering, obstacle course negotiating, Muddy Buddy and parts of the swim that were more like a run and parts of the run that were more like a swim and you get an idea about what this race is like. The shit-eating grin is included with your entry-fee.

This was my third Xterra race and my dirt-education continued over a course with a 1,000-meter swim, 13-miles-or-so mountain bike ride and a 10k trail run.

Interesting setting for an Xterra as the James River bifurcates the urban jungle. The race course meanders along both banks and over several bridges.

Kitima didn't race but was in full pro-triathlete stalk mode. Below she has hearts floating above her head as she poses with Melanie McQuaid. Yeah, Mel's racing a 29er now.

Kitima got a shot of Conrad "the Caveman" Stoltz below as he entered T2 all alone. How fun must it be to enter T2 without any bikes in it? I've entered T1 without any bikes in it but that's a different story. She saw him reach into a NASCAR cooler with Jeff Gordon's number on it and take off on the run with two bags of ice...brilliant as it was 100 degrees and humid. Well that was the high...it was only 80 degrees to start the race at eight and was a mere 95 degrees during the run. Yes, even Stoltz is riding a 29er now.

Who knew the Caveman was a NASCAR fan?

Below Conrad exits the water. In the background you can see a pedestrian bridge suspended from the Robert E. Lee bridge...yes, you are Dixie. The pedestrian bridge is the start of the bike course and the home stretch of the run. Please to note the boulders, old cement bridge abutments and various foliage that make for an intersting swim; not pictured are pieces of submerged reinforcement bars.

I went off in the last wave. The swim immediately dragged you left as the current was slow and persistent. The water was murky and tasted of manganese, mud and blood. About the time you see the first rock isle you start to encounter lichen-covered boulders just below the surface. At first I tried the stumble-and-jump method of traversing them but then opted for the serpent-like slithering method. Think crawling on your stomach during Army boot camp under those low-hanging barbed-wires. After reaching Belle Isle in the middle of the river you ran for a 100 yards or so and plunged back in for the return trip. More slithering, some swimming and some current negotiations and I was back on the Northern Bank. Angela Schnuerch is pictured in the foreground above in her Full Moon Vista kit. She was suffering from a nasty stomach ailment but still raced and had a blast.

My fat head ruins Kitima's shot of the venue. Take notice, or not, of the shirtless guy digging deep into his tri shorts.

Kitima continued her stalk-mode by chatting up mountain bike and Xterra champ Shonny Vanlandingham. Below they laugh about my chances in the race.

Kitima: "Do you think he'll finish last Shonny?"

Shonny: "Oh? You think he'll finish?"

Both of them: "Bwahahahahaha!"

Below Conrad is infringing on my woman. Kitima doesn't seem to mind.

Kitima: "You know Conrad, Kevin and I aren't married yet."

Conrad: "That's not all tri chamois down there sweetheart."

Rolando and I freshly marked. He's rocking the old-school Train-This top. I'm wearing a Jacquemart Andre Museum shirt--possibly a first in the recorded annals of t-shirt wearing during a triathlon event.

I stand, somewhat effeminately, next to my ride. I beat it like a red-headed stepchild and it asked for more. I didn't have any. Stop by Geneva Bike Shop and they'll sell you one. Tell them I sent you and they'll charge you double and possibly hit you about the face and head.

Here Rolando is concerned. Should we have eaten Mexican and Sushi leading up to the race? Should I have swum prior to this event? I haven't run in months, will this be a problem? Did I leave the iron on? How will recent European fiscal policy reversals effect current U.S. Keynesian fiscal precepts? Damned if I know but that cerveza grande didn't help us.

On the bike course I was having more fun than a tornado in a trailer park. You first crossed the suspended pedestrian walkway and descended a spiral ramp (seen below) onto Belle Isle where you got into some rooty, twisty singletrack. You could here "woo hoos" all around you. After that you crossed another bridge and then got off your bike and shuffled up several flights of stairs and began the meat of the course. It was mainly singletrack with rock geraniums (not quite a rock garden), steep and short climbs, steep ramps, tunnels, narrow and elevated bridges and always plenty of roots. There was a section were you descended sharply and got to ride up some stairs onto a wooden walkway. A mountain bike bystander shouted at me in a thick, southern, drawl, "I see you! Good hustle! Come on now!" The weather claimed many and accidents claimed a few more. One man decided that crashing wasn't enough but instead decided to crash into a briar patch while landing on his backside. Incredible writhing and coprolalia ensued.

Above is a shot of one of the spiral bridge descents.

Melanie emerges from a brush with the troglodytes in a race from a previous year. You got to spelunk in the tunnels twice. Insanely fun as you had to choose either the two outside, angled and wet high lines or take the low middle line and plow through the several inches of water and gravel and hope you made it through. Either way it was a literal shot in the dark. I said "beep beep". It did echo. I took the middle line as the splashing water was cooling.

I latched onto a 50-something year old guy that was ripping the legs off some of us young whippersnappers. His shins were carved from marble. His quads were made of piano wires. I believe he said his name was Thor Merckx. We started chatting as I hung onto his wheel. He would shout out proper lines to take ("stay left kid" or "watch out for that ledge kid") and when I asked him if he was going to take the sharp turn and ride up the steep ramp he said, "Hell yeah! Let's go!" He cleaned it. I ran into what can only be described as a prop from a Three Stooges movie: a piece of lattice wood sticking out from the railing with a nail on the end at knee-level. So of course I focused on this and didn't clean the ramp. Damn you tetanus!

After this I had about ten minutes left of the ride. I wasn't doing too great from a performance standpoint: bad body composition and heat will slow you down. I continued my sodium (Kitima, a.k.a. the salt Nazi had me on a raceday regimen) intake and tried to get some more calories in to start the run.

When I saw the weather prediction my raceday goals became: 1. Don't do a death march on the run. 2. Don't get sunburned cracka!

I got out on the run and had to make up for not taking in enough calories on the run and by mile three felt great and started picking some people off. This is largely unimportant though because you could come in dead last at this race and still be smiling.

"What's next?" I kept asking myself laughing. Below you'll see someone running along the massive rocks of a dried-out portion of the James River. There are a few spray-painted arrows on the rocks but you have to negotiate the cracks/chasms yourself and be an accurate appraiser of your ability to jump after a few hours of swimming and biking.

Above a runner picks her way through the riverbed.

The "Mayan Ruins" above greets you on the run course. Even though I was dying and it felt like someone opened an oven door I couldn't wait to scale it and keep on going. Everyone else seemed to feel the same way. All the competitors I ran into were extremely easygoing and cool offering encouragement whether passing or being passed. Xterra's motto should be "Tri-douche free racing." If you've ever done a road tri, especially an Ironman, you know what I'm talking about.

I wasn't feeling so fresh and springy as this runner was during his trail run race that was held the day before on the same run course as ours.

This gives you a better idea of scale. I don't know how long the crossing was but at the end you have to ascend a rusty, iron ladder that is tethered by one tired bolt that was installed in the late '50's...1850's that is. It creaks to add to your doubts.

Rolando, Kitima and I have already put this race on our calendar for next year. This is, if you couldn't tell, THE funnest race I've ever done.

King of the Hill

2010-05-31T18:22:00.006-04:00

Not the animated series formerly on Fox. The phrase takes me back to any number of late '70's snowbanks in Upstate NY. Do you remember the children's game? The object was to remain atop a hill, snowbank, junk pile, knoll or summit while all of your buddies would try to knock you off by any means. Elbows, kicks, eye pokes, groin punches were not only allowed, they were highly encouraged. We played in the winter as if snowmobile suits, knit mittens, wool caps and bread bags over our socks would protect us. The cold sweat redolent of frozen fear still hangs in the back of my nostalgic nostrils.

Back to present day and an offroad triathlon dubbed the King of the Hill Xterra. It is so-named due to a hill on the run course the likes of which would of made the novel Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton a one-page piece of micro-fiction.

Tucked in between Philadelphia and New York City in the Garden State I took a solo road trip (Kitima was in California for the Tour) for my first triathlon since 2008 due to a nasty bout of plantar fasciitis.

I stayed at the Courtyard by Marriott and tri-geeked up the room a bit.

Transition space is easy to come by with 114 racers.

I believe it was Niels Bohr who proved that red bikes are faster than all other bikes of any other color.

After a beach run of a couple of hundred yards (Hasselhoff eat your moobs out!) we did two laps of a swim course with three buoys; half-mile total!

This was the start of the mile and a half climb. It started out with double-track but once on top it got into some howlingly fun single track with some baby-head rock mini-gardens. I gave my bike all it could handle as I'm more than a seatful (yeah, I've been doing pushup...that's not a typo...I only do one a day) and it didn't flex, misfire or let me down.
Sorry for the bad shot (can't rotate it with this program). Every Xterra has the obligatory and hysterical pushup contest. I counted for a contestant. The guy with the red head band won but his pushups were not of marine caliber...he was short-arming all of them.

Another Xterra favorite is the best injury contest. You have to show and tell the crowd how it happened. "I was just going along when a mighty Redwood branch fell from on high the victim of the same bolt of lightning that struck me. If I wasn't riding a carbon bike who knows what would have happened..."

I didn't crash; took the swim easy but still came out in good shape; handled the bike course and it's steep climbs well; ran better than I have in a few years but did walk up The Hill and did a bit of a ski-turn descent in order to avoid a Laura "half pint" Ingalls tumble down the grassy steep.

I thank Kitboo who has prescribed some super-secret bike intervals for my improved climbing...if I told you anymore I'd have to squirt Infinit in your eyes. I placed 37th out of 109 finishers and 8th out of 19 in my age group. Not exactly the king of the hill but not the court jester either. Since I hadn't raced in a while I took it conservatively during the race and spastically during the transitions.

Afterwards I took a few plunges: pool, hot tub, repeat.

Made it to some Italian place (not hard to find in NJ) and had penne with prosciutto. Had a blast...next up is Xterra Richmond with the illustrious Rolando and legendary Mike F.

Everything is Epic

2010-01-12T12:56:00.003-05:00

My sister sent me a link to her blog and indicated that she went on an epic trail run. The link is here: http://runeatdate.blogspot.com/2010/01/what-does-not-kill-you-makes-you.html

I clicked with trepidation as it seems all participants in endurance sports have become parrots lately. They blurt from their caged perches "Polly wants an epic" and "HTFU" and little else. Luckily my sister did engage in something epic and I had to take my eye-roll back, but there should be a panel of hardened, wizened and skeptical endurance athletes that will rule on your event's level of epicness; if any.

Sitting here from atop my throne of vocabularied accusations I remember my overuse of the word. I once wanted to engage in something called Kevvy's Epic Training Week in which I was to engage in all sorts of swimming, biking and running; all of the epic variety. All were welcome. It was epic in it's failure and participation. I haven't uttered the word seriously since.

The first time I noticed the word was in 1986 during a 300ZX car commercial. Here it is: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wHvm-dMUaFo "Germany...yeah. Now that would be epic." That is definitely the coolest use of the word ever.

A professor in college once went on and on about Homer's Iliad and Odyssey being among the first written epics. If you've ever attempted to read them you'll understand the word is being used properly in a double context as it serves as a noun and adjective.

Defining what is and isn't epic will be difficult and that is why I have appointed the panel. Don't think a 5k is capable of being epic? Not usually but if you ran it during a double-mega-hurricane while robot pit bulls chased you while you ran sub-seventeen minutes on a broken femur then you just might be allowed to say the next day at the water cooler that your Save The Homeless Dandelions 5k race was indeed epic but let's not get carried away. Doing an Olympic-distance tri in a slight drizzle isn't...well you know what it isn't.

Today I went on a mundane trail run in Mendon Ponds Park. I didn't need to HTFU and nothing about it was epic. I fought through the lack of epicness and still had fun.

"Why are we stopping? Are you tired already old man?"

Ordinary trail signs.

Your average hill.

Decent trail conditions.

"That's all you got? An hour? Kevin, your suckiness is epic!"

Screw Shoes

2010-01-05T14:37:00.006-05:00

The title isn't a polemic against shodding your feet. I'm pro-shoe...used to be amateur-shoe but I've lost that status: shouldn't have taken those payments. I'll get into the nuts and bolts of some economical running shoe traction in a minute or two depending on your level of comprehension; the amount of your outside distractions; my ability to momentarily capture and imprison your attention.

After working all week in this raw and foul weather I developed quite a grudge against winter. A decree was uttered in Kitima's direction, "That's it! When I retire we are moving to D.C., Austin, TX, Bora Bora, Tahiti (the home of Tahitian Treat by the way) or Warmsville, California." Kitima greeted this proclamation as she does all of them without lifting her eyes (which I could hear rolling) from the computer and cheerfully saying, "Oh, okay." She must be thinking, "For crying out loud, what's he bellowing about now?"

I made up with the season this morning by running up Stid Hill. There were four inches of the white fluffy over a thin base of packed ice, leaves and stones. Snow globe precipitation was falling. Bristol Mountain's snow making machines were droning in the distance sounding like a formation of B-24 bombers.

No one had been on the trail so Scooby and I blazed up the seven switchbacks and hit the somewhat flatter trails on top. The snow pack increased and we were post holing quite a bit as we turned around and made our way back down. I fell twice; once after stepping on a baby's head-sized stone and once after a hibernating and well-hidden log took on my toe and summarily defeated it and everything else attached to it. This was the first time since my plantar fasciitis problem that I have been able to run over an hour.

Below is a look at the bottom of my screw shoes. Kitima was looking for better traction on the snow but didn't like Yaktrax or any other similar products so she crafted a pair of high-traction winter trainers using the tried-and-true method of affixing sheet metal screws to the bottom of her shoes. I followed suit and you'll see my handiwork below. I usually have 15 screws but spit one out on today's run.

We used 1/2" long hex-head sheet metal screws. You can't feel them while running and I've had no problems driving with them but I wouldn't try it if I were you...you don't drive so well. We bought a driver/bit for our electric drill and had at it. It is incredibly easy to do. A trained monkey could build a pair in several minutes if trained monkeys ever ran trails in the winter and needed traction and were too cheap for Yaktrax.

They work well on everything except asphalt and concrete so if you are on a trail that traverses a road be careful. They sound like tap dance shoes on the road so feel free to tap your little heart out and do those wild, gyrating moves with your arms and hands. You know the kind...think Fred and Ginger. For those of you who need a hint it is Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers not Fred Flintstone and Ginger from Gilligan's Island.

Christmas Ride

2009-12-29T17:25:00.004-05:00

Medium-rare is the mountain bike ride that is fueled from the carcass of an eight-pound rib roast with a horseradish and garlic crust. Kitima spends most early December mornings like G.I. Jane grunting through a regimen of one-armed pull-ups and no-armed push-ups in an effort to be able to hoist the annual hunk of bovine flesh from fridge to counter to oven and out again. Now I know why meat has to rest.

On the Eve and on Christmas Day we went over to Dryer Rd. Park. The first day we met her friends Mary Ellen and Chris, who, like us, got up at the crack of eleven. There isn't a dawn at noon.

The trails were medium-packed and like riding on a tremendously long and twisting pair of white corduroy pants with a bizarre pattern; possibly factory seconds. I found myself trying to identify tires from the tracks left behind. This could be a trivia game for the gal and boys back at the shop.

"I'll take cross tires in the mud for $400 Alex."
"The tire shown here, know for it's prowess in the slop, is only available in tubulars."

Being Thai I wonder if Kitima is having thoughts of the Bridge Over the River Kwai as she rides across this span. Is this Western Thailand? Is it the Burmese Railroad? Is that a Brit manning the TNT plunger?

Safely across she gives the thumbs-up.

At the top of Owl's Maze I attempted a reverse-fakey-butt grab-arbor-vert-Superman. It ended tragically. The bike was fine.

Here I am about to launch into some epic air; at least ten feet but the Thai camerawoman (I won't mention any names) suffered from premature aperturation.

PA, Part Deux

2009-11-18T19:31:00.005-05:00

We started with a day at Seven Springs Ski Resort. Kitima is chugging up the steep road that leads to the cross-country trails on top where we cruised around and hit a few rock gardens.

Here Kitima bombs down a trail named Dirt Surfer at Allegrippis which sounds like something you might pay a prostitute to help you perform.

The next day we met a gang of riders at Allegrippis. There had to be around 15 of us at the start. After a short warm-up period on the trails someone shot an imaginary starting pistol and off we went. I sat in with a group of seven or so. It was like a pace line on the roads. A fun, but unsafe, way to ride single track. The leaves had left so you could see our colorful line snaking through corners, climbs and switchbacks. It reminded me of a dragon float at Chinese New Year.

Before I knew it Kalten was down in front of me. I took the low side of the trail, narrowly missing him and a mighty oak tree (it really was just a sapling, maple probably, but by next week if you ask me it will have been a 300-feet tall redwood). A few behind me weren't as lucky. After about an hour I got dropped from the front group once the trails went uphill a bit. Kitima consoled me later with a chilly ale.

Armed with a map by senior cartographer Jim C. (at a price of one Lake Placid 46er ale) we headed over to Rothrock State Park. He didn't have to but Jim added that the map "wasn't drawn to scale." Notice the "beer taps" on the far right of the map.

On the way to the Ridge Trail I splashed around a bit.

We found the beer taps after a few wrong turns, nebulous directions by some locals and plenty of expletives by me. After that we could've used a trail side brew.

A few logs greet you as you start up the Ridge Trail.

You didn't think you'd go to Rothrock State Park in the Keystone State and get away from some stones. There were rock gardens, rock ramps, rock stars...Fred Flintstone would love to ride here.

Kitima strikes a pose.

Innocent start to the trail. One of the most fun trails I've ever been on. The logs and rock gardens are unlike anything I've been on before. I'm already scheming a trip back in the spring to ride more of the park.

Ridge Trail seems to point uphill through a series of burned-out trees from a fire a few years back. It has an apocalyptic feel to it...something out of Cormac McCarthy's novel The Road (also coming to you in theatrical form at the end of November). Do you remember art class and drawing in 3-D? This trail is a line approaching, but never reaching, a vanishing point.

The Serendipitous Scout

2009-11-10T18:36:00.003-05:00

"I have two bikes for you," Jim said motioning with his head towards the door leading to the basement stairs and away from the new bikes. He was already walking as if this proposal had never been rejected.

I left Kitima with Matt to discuss the best way to go about embellishing her current mountain bike. Matt had his bike on hand as a show and tell centerpiece and she was taking notes, pointing out parts, asking questions and the last thing I heard from her was a protracted, "wow!" as some carbon doohickey or expertly-machined gizmo was pointed out and explained in detail down to the last gram.

The steps were narrow and creaky and reminded me of the wood on a light-colored spruce violin my fat music teacher used to play in high school. We would taunt his classical sensibilities with requests of The Devil Went Down to Georgia and refer to his Stradivarius as a fiddle.

The planks were smooth from years of tiptoes but were arrayed at odd angles like something out of M.C. Escher's (no he wasn't a D.J.) print Relativity.

At the bottom of the stairs a gallimaufry of odors enveloped us. I smelled rubber, bike lube, mustiness, an aging fontina Val d'Aosta (peculiar, as I hadn't noticed any Wheat Thins upstairs in the shop) and something redolent of a sweaty leather Brooks saddle circa 1972? I took a deep breath.

Before me were what seemed to be an infinite amount of bikes. Most were hanging from the rafters but a few were standing at attention, with others more casually leaning against the rough rock foundation. It was hard to discern though from the sole 20-watt light bulb performing an anemic, Cimmerian, light-unfantastic aria.

"Here they are," he said pointing at two bikes hanging from the ceiling like a fisherman-landed shark strung up on the pier for that hackneyed photograph. If I ever catch a shark I'm going to lay it flat on its belly on the dock as I straddle it while hanging onto the dorsal fin with one hand and grasping a cowboy hat high above my head in the other hand. I think Shark Rodeo was on ESPN 8 the other night; I love the ocho!

Most of the bikes were used, that is they all came with a soul. It seems odd to me that the addition of a amiable ghost of rides-past reduces the value of a trusty steed. Suddenly I felt like I was in an animal shelter and wanted to take all of them home.

One was a 29er full suspension. It is identical to my current ride but a year or two older.

"Who wants a backup ride that's the same as his current one though?" Jim said at some point as I was staring at The Scout. Both were Jim's bikes.

The Scout is made by Origin8 but they do not have models called The Jem, The Atticus or The Boo.

Harper Lee would be proud to know that The Scout is steely, black and strong.

Jim listed the parts spec and I heard some of that, he spoke of the price and the company and I heard less of that. I must've looked like one of those fishes from the bottom of the ocean with huge eyes.

We ascended and for some reason I felt lucky not to have a case of the bends after lingering in the subterranean bike shelter.

I'm going to pick up The Scout in a few weeks after they doll it up and I get back from Allegrippis Part Deux.

Allegrippis

2009-10-26T19:43:00.011-04:00

After much hype, kudos and fanfare from several people who rode the Allegrippis mountain bike trails at Raystown Lake in Central Pennsylvania Kitima and I headed down for a weekend.

What is an Allegrippis? A new plier-type tool from Sears? Someone who complains all the time? The phonetic spelling of a one Mrs. Ally Grippis? Not close. It is a Native American word variant of Aliquippa which is a Delaware or Seneca Indian name that is a title of a female leader. This was after Queen Aliquippa, pictured and sculptured above. She had a friendly meeting with then-Major George Washington who quipped in his journal, "I made her a Present of a Match Coat and a Bottle of rum, (the latter) which was thought much the better present of the two."

The extent of Queen Aliquippa's and George Washington's riding ability are unknown. I imagine they rode oaken hard tails and during especially grueling rides in the spring they would suck sap from the sugar maple trees as Gu gels were still a few years off from being invented.

In only four-and-a-half hours we made it to Huntingdon, PA and the luxuriously-appointed Comfort Inn along the banks of the Juniata River (Juniata is loosely translated from the Native American Seneca language as "swiftly-running Yoo Hoo").

We met some friends at the trail head parking lot on Sunday morning. The lot was packed; always a good sign. It was sixty degrees and sunny and off we went.

I'd heard that the trails are one continuous pump track but thought that was a healthy chunk of hyperbole. After a short ride down the first trail my suspicions of rider-embellishment were starting to be realized until we hit some whoop-de-doos. It turns out that the trails are comprised of serial whoop-de-doos and banked turns. With nary a root or log in sight it was like riding on a carpet.

The first thing you notice is your constant, silly grin. Then you notice everyone elses' silly grins and then you think you are going to go hoarse with all the "Woooooooos!", "Woo Hooooooos!" and other similar exultant monosylabbic shrieks of glee. If you ride you will feel a good 20 years younger...unless you are 19.

Our friend Mike turned to us and said wryly after our first dose of fun, "You didn't think I'd take you just anywhere did you?"

It definitely is like a pump track but faster and without the gerbil on an excercise wheel feel. It has oodles of flow and as our friend Rody said, "It makes you want to go faster." You bury yourself trying to get to the next set of whoop-de-doos. There are over 30 miles of trails. We did 17 miles in two hours.

It is equal parts surfing, downhill skiing, boogie-boarding, Parkour, sledding, and riding a rollercoaster. You can take the rollers any way you like. Big air, small air, no air. I grabbed some extra-medium air at one point and landed sideways on the uphill side of the trail and burped all the air out of my front wheel. At least I missed the tree.

The trails are smooth and reminiscent of a sine wave. The line could be used to represent the scale of the trails' rollers from the side or map it's serpentine wending from overhead. For those who haven't flexed their cerebrum in the mathematical gymnasium of trigonometry since high school I give you the sine wave below. Drum roll and please hold all applause until the function is complete.

Rody (pronounced roadie) stands with his newly built bike in front of a group of admirers below. The man in the green t-shirt couldn't control himself in the presence of Rody's impressive fully rigid, 29er with Rohloff hub so he started drinking quickly to reduce his custom-bike induced delerium tremens. If you are equally impressed check out his works of functional and rideable art at http://groovycycleworks.com/default.aspx Mike and Rody's son Kalten said this group worship happens wherever they go. It happend at least twice that I saw in two hours of riding.

Part of Raystown Lake below. For some reason I'm sporting an explorer pose, perhaps Vasco da Gama with a touch of Henry Hudson. In any event parts of the Lake are seen from many of the trails. This place is begging for an Xterra.

Kitima and Mike on the Doe Trail.

After a few minor adjustments Rody catches up. He slapped the bike together that morning. I had problems with the hotel's waffle maker that morning.

Mike, me, Kitima and Rody's son Kalten. I had three heart-attacks trying to hang onto Mike and Colton's (teenager!) wheels. While I was chasing them Rody and Kitima went on another trail that was all downhill, complete with valets, aid stations and a refreshing pine scent.

Typical trail below.

Kitima rippin' it up!

Kalten: the baby-faced assassin. He tore up the trails like a hobo on a ham sandwich.

Mike on his Rody-built steel hardtail with frame couplers, Rohloff hub, killer snake paint job, and 650b wheels.

"You've got to ask yourself boys...are you a buck or are you a doe?"

Below are several videos of varying cinematic value. Enjoy. We are planning on going down again in two weeks so if you are interested...

Whiteface: Because It's There

2009-09-01T10:24:00.004-04:00

In 1923 British mountaineer George Mallory was asked why he wanted to climb Mount Everest, "Because it's there," he replied. Good ol' George died on Everest later the next year and his body wasn't found until 1999.

Now Kitima and I don't confuse what the Tibetans call Qomolangma with a summit of 29,029 feet with the height of Whiteface (what the Tibetans might call Palevisage) at 4,867 feet but we were going to top with our road bikes nonetheless.

On the way up we stopped by to take my mom out to lunch and then hit the Lowville Cheese Co-op for provisions. Our summit attempt would be fueled by "Grandma's Donuts" (Kitima one; author two) complete with an ingredients list that contained mashed potatoes. Below Kitima and her bovine friend.

The route is eight miles long at an 8% grade and climbs 3,500 vertical feet. To put that in perspective that would be .00000028 miles towards the moon.

We started around six o'clock about an hour after the summit road closed to car traffic. We reached the toll gates three miles into our climb. It indicated a summit temperature of 42 with winds over 25 mph.

"That's got to be Celsius," I said looking through my rose-colored glasses.

The ride was peaceful on the ascent. Only an occasional grunt was heard going into the stiff headwind. Before the ride we thought we might want long sleeves, "Nothing we can do about it now," Kitima said.

Took this while I was riding, excuse the lack of focus.

The summit loomed in the background. Every mile we'd get a "Rough Road next three miles."

"That's a lot farther than three miles," Kitima said pointing at the summit in the background.

This was the penultimate switchback. Lake Placid in the background.

A rocky set of steps leads to the true summit.

We take a few short minutes to savor the summit. The winds really whipped up so we descended. The road was rough, dark and steep. I stayed on the brakes not wanting to endo into a pothole at 30+ mph. I overheated the brakes and promptly flatted. Luckily I heard it.

Since the day was getting colder and darker I told Kitima to go on ahead and either drive up to meet me after the repair or I'd catch up. I fixed the flat fast and took a good 20 lbs. of PSI out of my tires so I wouldn't get another one. It worked wonderfully.

I shivered all the way down. I couldn't keep my teeth from chattering and I bit my tongue. To avoid biting it again I thrust my tongue towards the back of my bottom teeth and descended with my mouth open. My fingers were numb and my neck muscles seized up. I finally made it down to the car where Kitima had just finished loading her bike. The car was on and the heat was cranked and she told me all about her frigid descent.

It took us a while to warm up. She was still cold after a long, hot shower and a bowl of soup at the Brown Dog Cafe. We feasted on a Bison Ribeye like Vikings although I think Leif Ericson would have suffered the descent with less whining or would have at least packed a cycling jersey or arm warmers.

Cranky Monkey

2009-08-26T15:51:00.005-04:00

"Mr. Chartrand! I've got something for you!" said the representative from the 40+ year-old Sport class race in Quantico Virginia. "This is from almost all of us."

"Oh thanks," I said as he handed me my ass.

Two 9.5 mile laps of a mountain bike race on the Marine base. You know, the place where Jodie Foster is jogging at the beginning of Silence of the Lambs. The course was hard-packed sand with plenty of climbing (suspiciously it also had plenty of descending and some flats), ample obstacles and, in my age group, 25 guys faster than me and four slower.

The air was hot that day my friends. I was sweating like an idiot in a spelling bee. Eighty-five plus and humid. It was like breathing broth.

On the first climb of the day I was Icarus. My waxed-feathered wings melted and I was tumbling as some speedy-guys from the wave behind me passed (I think one guy was on a single-speed recumbant). Looking around I noticed I wasn't appreciably closer to the sun than anyone else so I pedaled onward.

Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, or a MTB race. Although sober I felt it would be in my best interest to avoid heat stroke so eight miles into my 19-mile race I decided I would DNF; I would slink off unnoticed to a shady spot under a tree and near the food...if anyone asked I would complain of some mechanical issue, "damn kanootin valve blew again!" and throw my bike down in disgust as I ate my entry fee in pizza.

I rounded the turn towards the end of lap one and Kitima, Mike, Erika, Marian, and little Fabiola were cheering me on, encouraging me to "race the next lap" since I'd apparently gone so slow the first time that everyone noticed (Yeah well those four guys behind me in my age group noticed my dust!). I stopped, muttered about it being hot (what a sterling wit am I!) and soldiered on.

The rest of the race was uneventful, excepting the man who stunk of rotten curry. He was a bit of consolation though as I caught him from an earlier wave...I think he must of flatted twice.

I was racing with Rolando who started two minutes ahead of me. I thought I saw him on the first lap but after checking the race splits it must have been a mirage...the Mirage del Magnifico!

Next up: Suicide Six relay with Kitima.

Hardcore 24

2009-07-14T12:10:00.013-04:00

"G.B.C.!" yelled a disembodied voice from the pitch dark trail at three in the morning. A headlight from the passing bike bathed the wet grass in an arc for a second. Flat on my back in my tent next to our pavillion I looked at my watch and calculated that I had a little over an hour to sleep until I had to get ready for my next lap. A cold front rolled through and I shivered in my sleeping bag.

My tent and our pavillion.

Our campsite sat on the inside of an elbow of trees along the run-in to the start/finish house and each rider on my team yelled "G.B.C.!" towards the guys resting, eating and drinking to remind the next rider to get over to the start house for his next lap in case his caffeine-addled brain had been left revving in neutral. After the sun set I took the G.B.C. acronym cry as sort of a snooze alarm set for around an hour. Later in the race it became a tri-syllabic pep rally for the Geneva Bike Center team that I was on.

The Hardcore 24 race started at noon on Saturday atop of Gannett Hill in Ontario County Park in South Bristol or Northern Naples depending on if you are a Hatfield or a McCoy. If you can count past the sum of your phalanges without removing your socks and mittens you can probably decipher that it is a 24-hour mountain bike race. I discovered that possessing a mountain bike and signing up for a mountain bike race doesn't make you a mountain bike racer.

I started the first and only dry lap of the 24 hours as a motor bike led us out on a short promenade around the park to string us out before heading into the mostly single-track course. Into the woods we went. The course was fast. Passed some; some passed me and I handed off to Kurt with a touch of fists.

Part of the peloton before the motorbike led us out.

Towards the end of Kurt's first lap the rain came. We touched up and off I went. I am positive that he mumbled that old King Louis the XV line, "Apres moi le deluge!" I ignored the 18th century prophetic utterance and attributed it to an active imagination and some rumbling thunder overhead. About the time I made it to the lookout over Ski Valley and Camp Cutler the clouds exploded, imploded and I was definitely incommoded. Roots crossing the trail acted as wooden dams for a time but they wouldn't hold and the trail became a series of terraced, muddy, waterfalls. Glasses were useless and the phrase, "here's mud in your eye," took on a heightened level of personal meaning. Robert Plant started to sing to me, "If it keeps on rainin', levee's goin' to break." I slipped through my first lap in a Led Zeppelin-induced fugue state as Mark Hartmann blew by me on a descent. He wore a yellow rain jacket and looked like the Gorton's Fisherman on EPO.

Curt and I before the race.

We had a four-person team but Curt and I had the honors until around 6:30 when Jim and Chad showed up...they claimed work responsibilities but I suspect they were sitting at home looking at the Doppler radar on their computers, slippered-feet up on the couch, sipping hot cocoa, laughing wildly with Cuban cigars in their mouths, donned in warm, dry bath robes or smoking jackets and as soon as the front passed they made their way up to the Park. When they arrived the rains had gone, rainbows sprouted up, the trails started to dry, unicorns frolicked in the meadows and naked women were handing out free carbon hardtails.

No one said there'd be mud.

There's a sweet ride in there somewhere.

Voila! Une velo!

"I didn't think I could get mud in there!"

Gratuitous action shot. Mountain Dew commercial here I come!

Finishing up my third lap after the thunderstorm. I was so happy to get off the bike that I almost overcooked this turn coming into the start house.

Curt finishing up his second lap and wanting to go for athird. "I'm in the zone!" he yelled but der Kaiser, a.k.a. Chad, orders him to stand down and let Jim Hogan take a lap. Chad's order stood and he and Curt leg-wrestled about it later.

The rest of the race was part camping trip, part buffet, part rock concert and part intervals. My tires were ill-suited for the mud but I did manage a few night laps. My last lap ended just past dawn as sleep deprivation caught up with me and I found myself crashing for unknown reasons. Jim's morning was finished soon afterwards leaving Chad and Kurt to finish up. I felt like I let my teammates down but did manage five laps in my first 24-hour race.

Camp Soggy Bottoms

Apropos of something: Performing Stevie Ray Vaughan's Couldn't Stand the Weather.

We managed to get second place in our age group. I felt like Phil Jackson the basketball coach who has won 10 championships. He's had teams with Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen, Shaquille O'Neal and Kobe Bryant. Charlie Brown could've coached those teams to victory. I suppose if you pick the right team any manner of hardware could come floating your way.

GBC second in the geezer division.

The Midnight Rider, Chad, getting a prize for the fastest night lap.

The Hartmann's getting first in the two-person division.

Connor and Brenda help Curt with his trophy.

"Maaaaaaaaaattttttt! Why is that guy looking at your butt?"

I had a blast and can't wait to do another 24-hour race. I'll definitely try to sleep and eat more. I couldn't ask for better and more experienced teammates. They did an excellent job in horrible weather and gently provided great advice.

If you are interested in this race I can't recommend it enough and you can find information here: http://www.thehardcore24.com/ As a bonus I wound up winning a sweet, $180 cycling jacket.

Kitima took all these photographs and at the end of the race cooked up some excellent pork satays (meat on a stick) for dipping in a hot and spicy peanut sauce. She's got the bug and is scheming to form a team for next year.

My next race is a six-hour race in Harriet Hollister Park. Not sure if I'm teaming up with Curt, Kitima or going solo.

Seven Springs MTB Rides

2009-06-05T19:54:00.003-04:00

A few days before we were to head down to Monogahela Valley to visit Kitima's parents, Kitima got a hot tip from Suzanne at Geneva Bike about some sweet mountain biking over at the Seven Springs Ski Resort.

"I've never heard of this," she told me, "and I learned how to ski there." she said with her eyes looking up and a slight mist appeared in her eyes. She was no doubt reliving her old snow bunny days. If you listened carefully you could here Glory Days by Bruce playing softly.

So we loaded up the bikes and headed south towards Pittsburgh. We stopped by a suburb and hooked up with Kitima's old friend from medical school. Rani is one of these larger-than-life personalities; a born raconteur. She is a trauma surgeon in Pittsburgh and when we went out to dinner she said, "I'm picking up the check and there is to be no further discussion about it." So Kitima and I ordered dessert.

The next day we headed over to Seven Springs and decided to ride the cross country trails. We wanted to work the desserts off, earn our vertical feet and save a buck as it was free. That coupled with the food her parents sent us off with that morning were going to make this an inexpensive proposition. I did however buy a three dollar root beer.

Starting from the bottom of a ski hill there isn't much warmup. We chose a few trails and climbed for thirty minutes and made it to the top without anyone collapsing. We unfurled the world's worst trail map. Kitima was sure it was crafted by 15th century cartographers as it didn't show trails where they should be and numbered trails emerged that weren't anywhere on the map.

"The only thing this map lacks," she said, "is drawings of sea monsters at the edge of the known earth."

Other than that the trails were outstanding. The first day we mostly bombed around intermediate trails but I did get out on a few black diamonds to keep it interesting.

Here is Kitima atop trail #10 in front of some interesting arrow pointing skyward. I chopped off the business end for some reason.

The sign reads, "for experts only" and was an ingenious trail design. These little spurs would take you over some pretty technical stuff but return you to the intermediate trail so riders of differing abilities can ride together.

Kitima took a pass!

Kitima going aero on a hydra-bike. It was our second day and I jumped on the 24 hour course that was well marked for a while until it abruptly ended at a brand new road. Kitima trolled around near the summit and vanquished a trail that had gotten the better of her the day before.

We'd love to get a bunch of people to head down there with us. We can all crash at her parents' house...the home cookin' is exceptional...let us know.

Riding with Kit Boo

2009-05-24T19:32:00.003-04:00

Rumors of Ernest Hemingway's demise are greatly exaggerated. Here he is researching his sequel to Old Man and the Sea called The Really Old Man and the Lake". It will be even shorter than his novella. The revised first line will go like this: "He was an old man who fished alone in a Lund rowboat in Mirror Lake and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish."

After my brush with literary greatness Kitima and I went out for a ride after the rain stopped. Last things first: Kitima polishing off Papa Bear. The last 12 miles were into a fierce headwind.

Instead of the out and back on Braselton we opted to climb up Whiteface until turned away at the toll booth. She donned her Cheetos jersey.

Time for some nutrition...candy cane flavored Infinit.

Descending into Wilmington. Lots of Tri-Life folks out and about today. Apparently they can't ride to the right of the white line.

Still fresh and climbing out of town near Jack Rabbit Hill.

Later we ate at Nicholas and we are crashing out tonight. Tomorrow she is running and I'm going to get up early and climb all of Whiteface before the gate opens.

Ice Cream Alley

2009-05-24T09:50:00.004-04:00

Yesterday Kitima and I fit in one loop of the bike course and headed back to our place. I took a three-hour nap. After two hours though I don't think it qualifies as a nap. It is sleeping.

We met up with Bill, Sharon, Jeremy, Glen and Rich at the Brew Pub and were lucky enough to beat the Tri-Life gang so we didn't have to wait at a table. We discussed with Rich, who had just done his first century ride, the finer points of chamois butter. I suggested the Euro version, or as I like to call it, the "party in your pants" version.

Jeremy did the ol' "drop the grape" scam on Kitima at dinner. It was awkwardly executed but for further details ask him...I'd like to keep this blog's rating at PG.

Thoroughly stuffed we hobbled into town on tired legs. Not too tired for ice cream though.

Glen was psyched enough that they had the rare flavor "coffee coffee buzzbuzzbuzz" that he called his wife, another fan of the flavor, and did sort of a "nananabooboo" to her.

Instead of sitting on the side area with benches we migrated towards an alley/driveway replete with crumbling pavement, industrial kitchen exhaust fans and window-mounted air conditioners. Every fixture seemed rusty and dripping with a rusty, oozing liquid. Bill and Rich stretched out on some steps and actually made concrete look comfortable. Jochen found us and we all discussed the finer points of euthanizing deer, where to buy on sale bike clothes in Placid (Placid Planet), Sharon's new bike, Hannah's need for aerobars and Jeremy's upcoming shopping spree at EMS.

We all ambled back to the cars except for Glen who jumped into the street and did some intervals. If you listened closely you could hear him saying "buzzbuzzbuzz".

Wallyworld is closed

2009-05-22T13:13:00.004-04:00

If you are a Seinfeld fan you remember the episode where Elaine dances: horribly and replete with thumb thrusts and spasmodic kicks. Jerry finally calls her on it.
"But I love to dance," she said.
"That's not helping!" Jerry admonishes.

I love climbing on my bike. Not sure if I've got some subconscious tic going on with a stray left elbow or wayward tongue jab but if I do would someone let me know.

This morning I headed out of Lake Placid and descended the hills into Wilmington, hung a left and started climbing the Whiteface Mountain Highway. It was cool and cloudy: arm warmer weather.

About fifteen minutes in I hit Santa's Workshop. It was desolated. I think the elves had to take a few forced weeks off due to the economy.
"All I want for Christmas is the ability to climb."

I continued to climb until I arrived at the toll booth and I saw the sign prohibiting bicycles. The polite toll booth lady informed me I could only climb it before nine in the morning or after 5:15 at night. I had to turn around.

"You made it up the steepest part," she said with that infinite cheer of a Disney employee.

Off I descended and then made the ten or so miles back to Placid climbing the hills that are on the last ten miles of each IMLP bike loop.

The Au Sable river was loaded with people drowning flies.

I'm thinking that if you do the Whiteface Mountain bike race you might want compact cranks or at least a 27-tooth cog in the back. Bring your road bike or descending will be a bit dodgy.

Kitima got back from her ride and now we are off to scope out some lunch.

Placid Digs

2009-05-22T09:26:00.003-04:00

We got into Placid last night around eight. The ride was uneventful except for some foul watermelon, a brief RV convoy and a few loud and fragrant "berry burps".
We are staying in town at an apartment on Mirror Lake that is owned by one of Kitima's friends. It is on Main St. and there isn't a need for a car...other than moving it from one parking lot to the next. I don't know how new this is but all parking on Main St. is now metered.

Kitima takes in the view on our second story deck. Is that a loon? No, just someone from Tri-Life.

We didn't bring our wetsuits but the water didn't seem insanely cold.

This is looking back towards the IM swim start.

If you wanted to get up you could've seen the sunrise.

We went to the Downtown Diner for breakfast. I had the chocolate chip pancakes and Kitima had eggs Benedict...probably no need for gels on the ride now.

Kitima is doing one loop of the course and I'm riding over to Whiteface for a climb. I'll snap a few photos from the top and post them later.

Juicy Lucy

2009-05-08T21:08:00.010-04:00

Lucy (may she rest in peace) was an amiable prostitute that used to ply her carnal trade on Monroe Av. under the professional title rhyme of Juicy Lucy. She was by all accounts successful at her chosen career.

Gary Fisher is the man behind his eponymous bike company. His company having recently been purchased by bike giant Trek you could say he is also an occupational sensation.

I recently purchased a Gary Fisher Hi Fi Pro 29er full suspension mountain bike. It is a fun ride.

I'll let you, gentle reader, have some merriment listing common attributes that would make a prostitute and a mountain bike worthy of kudos (see sentence above to get you warmed to the task). As I age I find double-entendre humor a lazy literary device. Get a few beers in me at a party though and I believe it to be the height of oral hilarity (the last two words would send me reeling in a buffoonish pratfall into the french onion dip).

To assist any dim readers who haven't bunny-hopped to any conclusions the nom de bicyclette is Juicy Lucy.

Several pictures from it's maiden voyage are below.

Post-ride at Ontario County Park or as the cool kids say, "The OCP"; sounds like a show on the Fox network.

The overlook at OCP. That's route 33 below. I'll be doing a review of the bike soon.

Stid Hill Pics

2009-04-17T09:08:00.006-04:00

Someone left a walking staff at the trail head. I briefly considered bringing it along to tilt quixotically at my metaphoric windmills but concluded it would be detrimental towards climbing.

One of the switchbacks on the ascent.

Time to climb. Why o' why did I eat all those creme de menthe brownies this winter?

It is a multi-use area. I heard one gunshot but wasn't sure if it was in anger. Don't wear your brown Carhartt cycling jacket in here.

Bristol mountain's trails reminded me of several skunks' backs. You could probably grab your crud skis and hit some sweet spring corn snow. If you were willing to walk to the top.

In the top left of the horizon you might be able to make out Canandaigua Lake. Or this picture might remind you of a Rorschach test. Do you see the lake or an old woman eating a carrot? How does that make you feel?

After getting a bit lost on top of the hill my ride wanted to rest (yeah, right, my ride). In the background just above where the hill starts to slope downward is where we were.

They felt twice the weight when done. Some of the trails were more for boating and I was doing more pushing than riding to keep the trails from too much damage. I was out for almost four hours and only wiped out once. Plenty of deer, partridges, monster woodpeckers and even a skunk were keeping me company. I continued to hear a rooster crowing the entire ride and can only conclude it is a killer rooster and it was stalking me. I did not hear any banjo music in them there hills though.

King of Torpor

2009-04-03T10:06:00.003-04:00

I've retired my faithful, almost-10-year-old, yellow lab, Scooby from all runs effective immediately. In human years he is 62 to 70 years old depending on your math, your philosophy on remainders, divisors and quotients and what doggy website you happen to stumble across.

Scooby can't hack even a thirty-minute trot at a noodling pace. His embarrassed countenance is painful to watch. "I used to be able to do this Kevin. Sorry to have let you down. Remember our epic three-hour mountain bike rides on Stid Hill? Those were the days."

So Scooby is getting his American Association of Retired Fidos card (AARF!) and will be relegated to woodsy ambling.

As I'm reading Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling I filter life through it as I normally do when reading. Green Eggs and Ham by Seuss was an interesting seven-week phase for me. Do folks see the world through the written word as they leaf through a particularly challenging and provocative issue of People magazine? In any event the quote to sum up this oncoming doggy demise is: He had fought with that subtle power that invents everything, with that watchful opponent that never takes a nap, with that old man who outlives everything--time itself.

Ol' Soren was a hoot huh?

Scooby's drop in performance seeped into my Id, Ego and Superego. I am currently the only person in recorded history to suffer from plantar fasciitis (I've checked with the paleolithic cave drawings in Lascaux France and, near as I can tell, a few folks had some iliotibial band problems and one fella had "bow and arrow elbow" but the rest, completely free of PF). Also if I've missed someone who has had it, my pain is exponentially more excruciating. Scientific fact.

So I wonder how many more seasons of racing do I have. Is this the injury that makes me a little less active? Will I throw my back out the following year after forcing me off my mountain bike? Will I snap a femur while filming a Mountain Dew commercial? Will I continue to ask myself questions in an annoying manner that is ineffective from a literary standpoint?

I'm 41 and only have a few seasons left at this kid's game. Soon an injury will coronate me the King of Torpor. My throne a leather-clad recliner where I'd rule majestically with a remote control as my scepter. My high-definition TV an infinite court jester. Instead of a regal fur coat of 600 marten pelts and 1,000 ermine skins I would be sheathed in a Snuggie! With sleeves I tells ya! A side table would be stocked with the latest snick-snacks. If by some misfortune (heart attack; stroke; choking on pork rinds) I should perish in my throne there would be no need for a chalk outline of my body as the perimeter of my bloated corpse would be outlined in Cheese Doodle crumbs.

You can see from these past ramblings that Kitima was gone for ten days in the Galapagos. That kind of travel is not for me and good ol' Mr. Sunshine had this to say about nature/adventure travel: People commonly travel the world over to see rivers and mountains, new stars, garish birds, freak fish, grotesque breeds of human; they fall into an animal stupor that gapes at existence and they think they have seen something.

So Soren wasn't a naturalist. Why didn't I go? I'm with Soren on this one: I am not concerned with this.

Soak Up The Sun

2009-03-17T19:35:00.002-04:00

It was a burnt-sienna sun simmering across a cornflower sky today. I know those colors because Steve Bingle sat next to me in the fourth grade and had the 64-color box of Crayola crayons with the built-in sharpener. That's too many choices for a ten-year-old.

I was on the dusty and gray crushed stone surface of the wooded Lehigh Valley Trail heading west towards Mendon on my cyclocross bike when I saw them. From a quarter of a mile out it looked like a bike accident. Two bikes were off the side of the trail. One person lay on their back on a bench, surely with at least one broken femur, another was pacing across the trail no doubt suffering from a massive concussion. After a few seconds the situation was downgraded; it looked like maybe someone had a flat, they fought over the best way to fix it and were now in a cooling off phase.

As I neared I could see her long silver hair dangling over the edge of the wooden bench. A zephyr was teasing it. She was on her back with her knees raised bringing her ankles close to her back side. Her hands were clasped on her stomach. As I slowed I saw a relaxed smile and closed eyes on her 60 year old lined face. A straw hat sat on her chest.

I passed the two cruiser bikes with wide tires as they leaned on their kickstands. Not a piece of carbon on them. I'm guessing they were circa 1965. They had shiny metal fenders, chain guards, hers had a wicker basket and his had a metal thumb-operated bell. Both were, in a tribute to Steve Bingle's crayon largesse: a sun-bleached and age-faded periwinkle.

A small stream of spring runoff from the adjacent hill was bubbling across the path. The old man stopped his pacing momentarily and folded his hands across the small of his back and was studying something intently (as opposed to studying something without intent). Apropos of the former railroad line we were sharing he was donning a blue and white-striped railroad cap.

Not wanting to splash him or ruin his chances of spying on the Lock Ness Monster or some newly discovered species of slug I slowed more.

"On your right sir," I said hoping not to startle him.

He slowly looked up, smiling and had the same wrinkles his riding companion had. They had the scope and scale of having been earned together over the years.

"Oh, thank you," he said.

"I didn't want to splash you sir."

"Go slow or you'll get a rooster tail," he warned with an easy chuckle as I rode off.

It wasn't the first stream crossing of the day and I had plenty of mud on me and I was sporting a magnificent rooster.

Next time I see them I'm going to stop and visit a spell.

Ode to the Air King

2009-02-21T07:45:00.001-05:00

In a glitch my latest entry went to Kitima's sight. Check it out here: http://www.kitboochronicles.blogspot.com/

Existential Crisis

2009-01-17T12:22:00.005-05:00

The Swat of Death enveloped me at work. I wasn't in any danger (that I knew of) driving down Monroe Av. near Meigs St. The Rentway store seemed as benevolent as ever with its array of big screen TVs in the window and the 7-11 was downright inviting; beckoning me to enter, buy a lottery ticket and enjoy a diet Dew while perusing the latest issue of Monster Trucks Monthly. It was just a flash of mortality. A nanosecond of "oh shit, here he comes." They aren't frequent but several times a year I feel it. I never had these flashes at 17. If these flashes can be interpreted I will be felled by some head trauma from behind. In any event, Death seems to me to possess a tremendously large hand ala the "We're No. 1" foam hands. Death's is not made of foam though. His is iron.

Dreamland has me meeting my maker on a mountain bike. This would be an excellent way to go. I'm to plunge off a trail, out of control and rolling backwards, into a powerful, green-tinged river and will not surface, remaining clipped in until I'm swept over a massive waterfall. I'm not sure if a hardtail of dual suspension would be better for this. Tubeless would help avoid the dreaded pinch flats associated with landing at the bottom of rivers.

These visions are luckily rare. They dart across my psyche hither and yon, to and fro and remind me of trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to dial into the Dr. Demento Show or the King Biscuit Flour Hour on my red and silver transistor radio (it had a button for Tone...both high and low) when I was knee-high to a grasshopper.

Now this is America and I'm obviously supposed to take up with some young woman on the side or purchase the car to end all mid-life crises, the Chevrolet Corvette but I love my Kitima and Subaru models just fine thank you.

What is a 41-year-old to do? Buy another bike of course. I'm not one to huck myself off any ledges greater than three feet so a nice XC should do. Something to race and train for Xterra's with would be its main chore. I went to Geneva Bike Shop to talk about the dual suspension beauty you see below made by Gary Fisher. Mark Hartman is one of the gurus at the shop and it was obvious after, oh, 13.7 seconds, that he's forgotten more about mountain bikes, racing and riding than I'll ever know. He graciously explained things to Kitima and I. She also knows a thing or two dozen more about MTBing than I and before you knew it they were off and running talking about roll-off hubs and fork-this and crank-that. Hopefully my eyes didn't appear too glassed-over. All I could add to their conversation was, "I love bikes! They have two wheels!" Kitima patted me on the head. She's very proud of the progress I've made. "Yes, yes they do Kevin," she said in a tone that was at once impressed and on the other hand indicated I should be quiet and let the adults speak uninterrupted.

Sooooooooo, it looks like I'll be pulling the trigger on my 'Vette soon (Kitima too!)...'Vette might have to be the bike's name..."Death Bike" as a moniker doesn't exactly make me want to ride it.

Scooby's Trail Adventure

2009-01-01T19:05:00.005-05:00

This is Scooby our nine year old yellow lab. I've had him since he was the size of a toaster. He is a phenomenal trail dog. When he was a bit younger he could keep up with me for two to three hours while I was on a mountain bike. Other than getting sprayed by a skunk on Stid Hill several years ago our outings have been uneventful...well, there was that one time when he came charging out of some bushes in Tryon Park, slammed into my front wheel on my mountain bike and sent us flying. He made the wheel look like a taco and we walked on out.

A couple of days ago I took the ol' flea bag out for a trail run in Victor. Ten minutes in I hear a yelp behind me but didn't pay it any mind until I stopped for a break au naturale. It looked like a thorn tore the end of his ear wide open. He was bleeding like a stuck pig and as his ear flopped from his neck to his head he sprayed blood everywhere. He looked like a yellow lab with a cardinal's head.

I took him home and luckily Kitima had just returned from work. After trying to stanch the blood flow with pressure, unsuccessfully, she busted out her bag of tricks. I held him down as she quickly put in three stitches. I'm still impressed at how fast and confident she did this. Scooby didn't even flinch.

Below are a couple of pictures of the stitches...didn't think to snap a photo of when he was Scooby the dog of Horror.

In no time at all he was up and running and raring to go.

Below the good doctor takes the stitches out.

"When are we going for a trail run? Huh? Can we go? Now? How about now? I don't have the copay. Woof!"

Kitima and I dragged our buts out the door today in the 16 degree cold and Scooby was in his element. Below he is chasing tossed snowballs atop a snowbank. They must taste amazing.

Scooby and I below.

Doctor and patient all happy again!

The Problem With Pittsford

2008-12-30T15:01:00.003-05:00

Recently a woman was shot in Pittsford. Yes, that Pittsford. I can't recall a shooting there since that homicide some years ago when that elderly woman was gunned down during a robbery. Those are the only ones I remember since moving here in 1989.

I should've seen it coming though. The strange omens have been there. Like the premise of a bad Sci-Fi Channel movie or the plot of a mediocre Steven King novel, Pittsford must be built upon an Indian burial ground.

The first sign was when I got done swimming at the Nazareth Pool and walked into the men's locker room and was approached by a man as I was removing my jammers.

"Hey, do you want to see something strange?"

"Umm, you've got to realize that an ass-whoopin' often follows that line in a locker room."

He laughed, "No, not like that, look here."

He held up a pair of circa 1970 threadbare swim trunks torn completely from stem to stern. The only thing that would retain any of the wearer's dignity was a thin and see-through mesh.

"I caught it on the lane line and it ripped it wide open. Damn thing attacked me. Had to get up and leave before they called security on me."

Stage one complete: Inanimate objects attack. Break to commercial for Sham-Wow.

Later that week I was driving home through Pittsford when I saw a mailman running down a driveway looking over his shoulder. I was waiting for a ferocious, drooling Pit Bull traveling at Mach I speed but what appeared flapping and running down the driveway in black-feathered barbarism was two enormous turkeys. Yeah, that's right, turkeys. And not like the jive-turkeys of the 70's...honest to goodness Meleagris Gallopavo; Wild Turkey...not the drinking variety either. I had a moment of wondering if I was seeing this or if I should check myself into the psychiatric center when I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw a woman laughing so hard as to compromise her continence. The Tom caught the mailman and began nipping at his elbow. The mailman put on a burst of speed and opened up a slight gap. He was half-concerned and half-amused. The light turned green and I was denied seeing the outcome.

Break to commercial for Cash For Gold

I combed the newspaper headlines for days waiting for: Turkey Massacre or Postman Makes Tetrazzini of Attackers.

They might have to add to the postal service oath: Neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor dark of night nor Wild Freakin' Maniacal Turkeys shall stay these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

So you see the signs were there all the time if you know what to look for. I'm going swimming in Webster for a few days until the craziness in Pittsford settles down.

Canary in a Coal Mine

2008-12-12T10:04:00.002-05:00

The trail was muffled from the night's snow-globesque snow. The trees were coated with a thin layer of what looked like icing...it reminded me of those Iced Animal Crackers or cookies. I'm never sure which is which. An involved, scientific and hilarious analysis can be found here: http://www.fhsu.edu/biology/Eberle/AnimalCookies.html

I took the trail out past Victor Hills Golf Club. There was about two inches of fluff but the crust underneath made steering interesting. You didn't so much steer as lean your body the way you wanted to go.

A red fox stopped several hundred yards in front of me. He was in profile but turned his head at my approach. He allowed me until 50 yards until he trotted off down an embankment scarred by the tracks of four-wheelers. "When I was your age kid, they only had three wheels and didn't have this fancy electric start. You actually had to pull a cord. Threw my back out during the big frost of '85. Damned thing froze up! You kids got it easy I tells ya!"

In the area of Rte. 444 and Dryer Rd. I saw an old caboose. I don't suppose they are making any new cabooses and this wood-sheathed car probably hasn't caboosed in some time. It was red and suffered some graffiti but it looked friendly and even though a sign cautioned about not trespassing and even cited the proper New York State Penal Law code (140.05) it is only a violation (less than a misdemeanor) and the next time I'm near there I'm going to take a picture and maybe get closer than I should. I suppose that citing the proper law code will keep people away.

"Hey Gladys look at that wonderful caboose!"

"Well, thanks, I have been working out--"

"NO! Up there on the tracks! Let's go!"

"Oh dear, we shouldn't, look at that sign. They cited the proper law code."

"You are right. They mean business, huh? Oh well, hey look a round leaf."

My back is my over-training canary in a coal mine and today I woke up and good ol' tweety, well, let's just hope he rests in peace. I was hoping the ride would loosen up the tightness in my lower back and alleviate some of the pain but afterwards I was walking around like Fred Sanford, pictured below:

I had, after consulting various online, offline and inline self-proclaimed experts, determined that I should have a recovery week that was precisely 2/3 of my last training week in hours. This was arbitrary and I'm reminded of the quote in Candide (sorry for another quote from that piece...I'm moving on to a Hemingway and am continuing with a Stephen King so hopefully this will be the last one), "I had no need of a guide to learn ignorance."

In the future I'll just go by feel or listen to Kitima who said, "That seems like a lot for a recovery week." She was right and my lower back confirmed it...I stumble off to the shower and bid you all adieu for a bit.

Voltaire on Iron-douches and mega-training weeks

2008-12-11T18:16:00.006-05:00

So I'm reading Voltaire's Candide. It sounds heavier than it is. If you have an afternoon and are feeling philosophical with a tinge of cynicism I say have at it.

One line struck me as being descriptive of certain Iron-distance competitors and their spectators: "Have they always been liars, cheats, traitors, brigands, weak, flighty, cowardly, envious, gluttonous, drunken, grasping, and vicious, bloody, backbiting, debauched, fanatical, hypocritical, and silly?"

Perhaps I'm still stinging from the umbrella jabs in the eyes at Ironman Lake Placid with nary an "excuse me".

The main thrust of Candide, revealed at the end, and please excuse this spoiler if you were just about to pick up your copy that the college bookstore wouldn't take back because of the excessive yellow highlighting, is that we need something to keep ourselves occupied physically in order to keep our minds off of the miserable human condition. We need to tend our gardens, so to speak, in Voltairease, so our brains don't wander and lock onto difficult and heavy philosophizing, causing cerebral implosion. Have you ever seen a bimbo or himbo watch Jeopardy?

Now I'm not quite as acerbic as Voltaire (I'm only 41 so give me some more life to live) to give an either "distracting inquietude" or a "lethargic disgust" choice on life but I do tend to my garden to lighten the load on the ol' thinkin' cap. My garden happens to be triathlon.

I find that a 20-hour training week does wonders for forgetting about mortality and possible after-lives. Will I come back in the next life as a dung beetle? During halves and full iron-distance races I'm reduced to just worrying about ingesting food and going as fast as I can to reach some sort of shelter. Sounds like Voltaire was on to something. I'm having an existential crisis right now so I'm going to jump on the trainer and do some intervals at FTP--that oughta cure me.

I Train Alone

2008-11-30T09:09:00.003-05:00

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

2008-11-29T07:06:00.004-05:00

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

2008-11-23T10:49:00.003-05:00

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

2008-11-17T07:12:00.010-05:00

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

2008-11-12T17:07:00.002-05:00

"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

2008-11-11T11:35:00.007-05:00

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

2008-11-08T16:58:00.004-05:00

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

2008-11-05T10:14:00.000-05:00

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

2008-11-02T19:20:00.000-05:00

"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.

The Literary Podium Favorites

2008-10-31T10:24:00.000-04:00

Mr. Tennessee Williams' FTP is unknown. He certainly didn't give any hints to it in The Glass Menagerie or in A Streetcar Named Desire. Blanche DuBois was uncharacteristically taciturn on the matter. In this undated photo of the famed playwright you immediately notice a comfortable, upright position, a voluminous, retro Bento box, an aero haircut and glasses for all occasions.

So it is the off-season and I'm plowing through some literature (The Picture of Dorian Gray by Wilde), some junk food reading (Insomnia by Stephen King) and a sobering treatise on running by a man named Jack Daniels. As I walked the flea-bag around a chilled Boughton Park I wondered what literary characters might be like as triathletes.

In the Clydesdale division my money is on Frankenstein's monster but only if he can hold up on the run and get an aero helmet that fits his square head and has cut-outs for his neck bolts. Does Newton make a boot with a lift? Did Mary Shelley have the back end of an Iron-distance race in mind when she wrote, "But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit what I shall soon cease to be--a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others and intolerable to myself." Ms. Shelley we have all been there.

Ol' F. Scott created a beauty in Jay Gatsby didn't he? Think of all the solitary training time, time away from that god-awful Daisy. Of course the millionaire would be on some custom tri-bike made of unobtanium, he'd have an SRM, Sidis, Rudy Projects, etc. He cheated his way to his millions though so I'm guessing you'd see him cutting the swim course, drafting on the bike and pulling a Rosie Ruiz on the marathon.

The main character in Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment is Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov. Spectator might have a tough time reading his last name off of his bib and shouting personal encouragement while on the run. The run would be his strength though as poverty and guilt have robbed him of his appetite and he has the lean body of a sub-three marathoner. Dostoevsky has suffered in his writing as many an Iron-head has, "“He longed to run away from the place as fast as possible. And if at that moment he had been capable of seeing and reasoning more correctly, if he had been able to realize all the difficulties of his position, the hopelessness, the hideousness and the absurdity of it, if he could have understood how many obstacles, and, perhaps, crimes he had still to overcome or to commit, to get out of that place and to make his way home, it is very possible that he would have flung up everything, and would have gone to give himself up, and not from fear, but from simple horror and loathing of what he had done.” Sounds like Fyodor completed Ironman Siberia.

Papa Hemingway didn't have many characters that weren't alcoholics. Seven in the morning start times are tough when you are rolling into your hotel room at five all silly on the grappa. The inevitable DNS's should be ignored as they would have the best parties after the race.

I'm off for a mountain bike ride later in Dryer Park and hope to avoid any Ethan Frome incidents.