The German

TWEET! (My best attempt to phonetically sound out The Wife's high-pitch, shrill whistle).  It is loud. Really loud.  It is fantastic for getting the attention of The Children as well as The Dog.  I have heard it once before during a race where blew up, every time I would start walking.  It is as much annoying as it is motivating in a strange kind of way.  TWEEET, TWEEEET!  There it is again.  Honestly, when it comes out at the end of a race, my thought is a giant middle finger pointing back at it.

"Damn you woman!" I only had about 800 meters left of what was supposed to be the best race of my life before for Kona heat took effect and kicked the ever-living crap out of me.  It is hot in Kona in case you were wondering.  Like sit-in-a-sauna-with-a-towel-over-the-thermometer-wearing-long-underwear-and-a-swim-cap (I hate that guy at Lifetime that puts the towel over the thermometer too BTW) kinda hot.  Sunburned as a redhead without enough SPF 100, my hat was wonky - angled to fend off the scorching sun, shoulders slumped and red as a boiled lobster, hands sticky from sloppy Gu skills, blistered feet scorched by the molten steam rising from the golf course grass, mind grumbling about poor life decisions involving exercise, and probably smelling like stale urine (learned how to pee on the bike), I shuffled toward the finishing chute.

Raised on the North Shore of Oahu, Hawaii (Waialua High class of 95, damn right!), but a captive of Iowa since college, The Honu 2016 was finally my chance to return home to Da Islands to race.  Ever since starting the triathlon journey, racing back home had always been on my mind.  In 2016 I finally considered myself in good enough shape to take the plunge and race back home.  I pulled the trigger and even convinced a crew of landlocked Midwestern fellow Haoles to come along for the fun.  Trained and emotionally motivated I was absolutely going to crush this race.  Like crush it.  As in a cockroach under Tita's slippah, kind of crush it.  You know, cross the finish line, smack The Wife on the butt, crab a cold brew and walk off into the sunset, crush it.  Well I was the cockroach under The Honu's slippah on this day.

TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET!!!  "Heard you the first two times woman!" Seriously, she had to have been suffering from sun stroke or something if she though I had anything left to give this stupid excuse for a race.  The swim was awesome (in the bay of Hapuna State Park), bike awesomer (up to Hawi and back), but then the dick-face, psychopath, race director dude decided to run us on a golf course that felt more like the inside of a rice cooker.  Hot as Pele's breath, as humid as the inside of a festered blister, stale as spilled beer sitting in a drain, with every bit of energy being absorbed by Menehunes (Hawaii's version of Leprechauns) grabbing your feet, as you navigate the roller coaster up-downs of a golf course, the run was brutal.  The race dudes make a big deal about the "Hell's Kitchen" part of the course where you run down a hot-ass road lined with lave rock, but on this day, it was the best part of the run.  You were off of the f-in grass and there was actually a breeze, oh and the cute Red Bull girls were handing out Red Bull.

We were now past all of that, trudging on home on the nice flat open golf cart path with but a few hundred meters to go.  "Suck it up buttercup, you survived and beat your friends, especially the shit-talking U.K. Dave.  Not such a bad day after all."  I started getting my mind right realizing I hadn't died and was finally at the finish.  "What's your finish line celey  going to be?" Expectations were high for an awesome finisher picture after my finish at The Legend (See picture 3) that made the next year's athlete guide.  "Cartwheel, somersault .... ohhh maybe do The Legend?"  "Yes, yes, The Legend it would be." The Legend was going to be my signature move kinda like Jan Frodeno grabbing the finisher tape and yelling as he wins every damn race he enters. "The Legend will look cool with the floral finishing arch."  "Maybe order that picture, make a poster and hang it above the bed."  Straighten hat - check, zip up singlet - check, make sure run bib is visible - check, looking perty for the finish line photographer dude.

TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET!!!!  ""Seriously, thanks for coming and cheering, love you lots but you haven't ever even attempted this distance, I would like to die now so if you can quit whistling that would be great." TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET, TWEEEEEET, TWEEEEEET,TWEEEEET!!!!!  BITE ME, BITE ME, BITE ME!!! "Don't think they have had a Dateline episode of a wife that went missing in a tropical paradise that was caused by whistling yet ... hmmm, maybe a justification or temporary insanity defense would work."  "You've never raced this distance, you sat there sipping Mai Tai's all day, now you are presumptuous enough to want me to go faster?!"  "What in the hell is wrong with this woman?! Maybe, she ate Granny's special cookies again?" Orrrrr...... maybe, just maybe, The Wife was trying to tell me something.

Thump thump, puff puff; thump thump, puff, puff; thump, thump, puff, puff.  "What in the hell?!"  SONOFA!  The Wife WAS trying to tell me something.  I look to my right and I'll be damn, the German dude who seesawed with me at aid stations who I thought I had dropped with a mile and a half to go, was back!  Not just back, but fixing to race kind of back.

"Ah, let him go, clear the way for a good picture, do The Legend and go have a beer."  Thump thump, puff puff; thump thump, puff puff.  TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET, TWEEEEEET, TWEEEEEET,TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET!!!!!  Damn it!!!  The Wife would never, ever, ever let me live this down if I just let him go.  Pride coupled with the distinct possibility of being publicly shamed by your significant other for the rest of your life can be a powerful motivator.  Let's be honest, choose not to race ole boy and she will probably put "The Wussy Who Didn't Race" on my gravestone.

"You sir are an athlete, a real athlete, you do NOT get passed in a race with now 200 meters or so to go. Pull up your skirt and race!"  "Sigh ... fine!"  The race was on!  A smile suddenly took over my face.  My knees began picking up and my arms started hammering away, just like those stupid plyometric drills back in college.  Probably looked a little like Ace Ventura, Pet Detective as he raced to the imaginary endzone in his tutu.  "Woohoooo!"  Yup, that just came out of my mouth.  Neck-and-neck; shoulder-to-shoulder; stride for stride.  There was no freaking way this cat was passing me.  From floundering to floating in seconds.  "Don't EVER try to pass me at the finish dude! (Just ask The Cyclone at my first race)."  Little friendly flick of the elbow and peak over to my new sprinting pal.  We were at Bolt speed, no doubt.

We now had everyone at the finishing shoot's undivided attention.  A sprint finish was in progress, you would think a gold medal was on the line, not mere personal pride.  Two middle-aged, spandex clad lunatics reaching for every last bit of energy they had to best the other for nothing more than bragging rights. We were moving.

The cement golf cart path turned to that squishy, spongy grass as we entered the finisher's chute.  Pretty sure I had him at that point when suddenly ...  "where in the F did my legs go?!"  "I can't feel my legs!!!"  I could see they were moving but they became as limp, freshly boiled chow fun noodles.  My body began slowly shrinking, like that trick where you walk behind a wall and slowly lower yourself so it looks like you are going down a flight of stairs.  "Oh no, this can't happen, what in the hell....."  Finishing banner, smiling faces, shocked faces, grass, more grass, sky, finishing arch, sky, grass, dude that was supposed to catch me....  I was tumbling like a drunk sailor who just came ashore.  Silence.  Fuzzy turning to focused.  Slowly as my ass sat steaming on the sweltering, stale, prickly golf course grass, everything came back into focus.

"CHEEEEHOOOO!"  Sometimes you just got to let it out.  Goosebumps and an overwhelming sense of emotion came over me.  Suddenly, all the pain, misery, self-doubt and bad shit from the day faded away into euphoria.  "You alright?"  Volunteers rock and this one was making sure I was still alive and not needing carted off.  "That's relative ain't it?"  He chuckled, helped me to my feet and sent me on through to get that coveted finishers medal, t-shirt and hat.  You can't talk your way into them giving you those, just ask U.K. Dave's Wife, she literally bonked and passed out with about the 70.1 mark and the finisher people wouldn't give her any finishers swag even as she was being hauled away on an ambulance.  I spotted my new sprinting pal, gave him a bro-hug smiled to myself, pretty sure I held him off.

"Did you get him?" "Huh, what, who's that?"  The Wife!  It wasn't "good job, are you alive, are you alright, can I get you anything?"  Nope, the only thing she cared about was whether or not I beat The German.  "Duh!"  Was all I could muster.  It wasn't until later that night that I was able to pull up the final results and see that yes, yes indeed, we held off what will soon be known in infamy as The German.

Top 10 Newbie Lesson's Learned the Hard Way

Being a newbie is tough work. So much is going on that it seems impossible to have every possible angle covered (don't worry you wont cover them all). You've been so focused on nailing the workouts you have on your calendar that some of the small things that can make a big difference slide right by. Well, some make an actual difference while others just keep you from some good old fashion newbie embarrassment. So, here are a few tidbits of wisdom (or words of warning) handed down by a fellah who learned them the hard way. That is right, yours truly has screwed all of these up at least once (a few, twice, because I'm a slow learn).

1. Drawers Under Drawers. No, you don't wear underwear under your bike shorts or tri-shorts (yup, they makes these and they are a solid investment). Companies spend a shmeer of money researching, manufacturing and marketing shorts that are gentle on your private bits. Drawers under drawers creates extra friction, especially when wet on race day. The results are open wounds in areas where open wounds are not an acceptable conversation starter. Don't trust your shorts? see #7 for a little extra protection.
2. Foggy Goggles. Overpriced sprays, spit, blah, blah, blah. None of that crap works. Foggy goggles make the miserable experience of learning to swim laps even more miserable. There is however, a Mediocre Age Grouper guaranteed solution freely stolen from one more experienced and wiser than myself. Johnson & Johnson baby shampoo. That's right. Slather a lil bit of that on the inside of your goggles, rinse it out and you are guaranteed not to fog. You may wish your goggles fogged when you are surrounded by a thousand flailing arms and legs and unknown dangers lurking below, but this one is guaranteed! The key to clear goggles is baby shampoo.
3. Scout. Grab a delicious cup of joe and drive the bike course before the race, Ride the run course (without the cup of joe) if possible. You may not like what you see but it is better to know before you go than to blow up. Each race puts a course map up ahead of time for a reason and it is not because you use it on race day (race courses are well marked and staffed with volunteers, only made a few wrong turns thus far). Scout it out.
4. Artistry. Let the volunteers mark you, they are trained professionals. The line really goes faster than it looks and you don't want to be that newbie fool that puts their race number where their age goes.... Just saying, its embarrassing.
5. Bowels. Don't eat crap before race day. That delicious sounding baked greasy pasta aka EL DIABLO ... leave it alone the night before race day or you will have a sudden uncontrollable urge to poop at the wrong time! Two minutes is a respectable pit-stop time but it screws with your race PR.
6. Feeding Your Face. That honey and water nutrition plan that you read about in the magazine slipped into your race packet, DON'T try it for the first time on race day. It is hell-a-tempting to try a new brilliant idea that is all but guaranteed to help you crush the field but don't, just don't. Try it out training for the next race, nothing new on race day. Nutrition takes as much practice as every other discipline.
7. Lube. Vaseline, Vaseline, Vaseline. You cannot use too much Vaseline. Your nether-regions will thank you. If the thought crosses your mind to invest in this magical product, it is made by Unilever, (UN) on the NYSE.
8. Toe Jams. Don't go sockless for the first time on race day. While the pros and more experienced fools make it look like a great idea, hamburger feet is what results if your tender footsies are not adequately trained to endure this torture. Quick little tip, slathering NewSkin liquid all over your feet helps reduce blisters. That being said, work your way into it.
9. Porta Potty. Hit the porta-potties early and stay ahead of the migration from transition. You don't want to be stuck waiting in line minutes before your wave is set to start. If the expo area is not too far away, those are usually the hidden race day gems. They tend to be empty and cleaner. Not one to toot my own horn but this may be the best advice you ever received.
10. High Fives. High five a kid every chance you get. It's like a secret turbo boost. It makes you smile, relax and realize that triathlon is so much more than your race. Plus, they say smiling lowers your heart rate during exercise. Can't hurt, spread the love.

Bonus Material - Sober. Do NOT start talking about next year's races with other triathletes while intoxicated. You will regret it!

Party on and enjoy your season!

Trilifealte. Trilifeawhat? Tri-Life-Alete!

"Trilifealete" (tri-life-alete) - "An age-group endurance athlete who is equally defined by familial and/or employment responsibilities."

It is 5:00 a.m., your alarm clock is blasting its annoying anthem as you cuss out loud trying to figure out the simple math puzzle you voluntarily asked for in order to turn it off, all so that it would really wake up this morning. The Spouse is snoring, The Kids are snoring (one of them in your bed with his damn toes in your nose all night), The Dog is snoring louder than anyone else in the house. The sun is not yet up. Hell, roosters are not even up yet but you my friend are awake (sort of) because this is the only time you will be able to get your workout in today.

You would love to workout after work when the sun is out and weather is nice, but alas, your after-work schedule includes - 5:30 p.m. baseball game for The Oldest; 6:30 p.m. soccer practice for The Youngest; dinner to cook; yard to mow; dog to walk; a few random work emails to reply to that can't wait until tomorrow; laundry to fold and put away; house to pick up (meh this can probably wait); days happenings to catch up on with The Spouse; Kids to herd into bed; and a 9:30 p.m. bedtime for you unless of course you have a second workout for the day that you have to squeeze in there somewhere.

You do some simple math, trying like hell to figure out a way to push snooze and sneak nine more precious minutes of fake sleep out of your night. Lets see, quick piece of toast and cup of coffee - 10 minutes safe bet; 13 minutes from my door to pool; workout says only 50 minutes which really means an 1:10:00 because it was written for some freak athlete that you are certainly not; 20-30 minutes to shower and get presentable for work; protein shake packed so no need to account for post-workout breakfast; 8:00 a.m. work meeting that you should probably prepare for since you didn't do it yesterday afternoon because you hustled out the door for the group workout instead; you could cut the workout short but that is not even a consideration because you only have 209 days left until your A Race. Conclusion - Damn it! No snooze for you! Go brush your damn teeth because you have stuff to do!

The workout, YOUR workout is not some 45 minute preppy-ass class at an overpriced gym surrounded by yuppies in matching outfits. Nope, its a do-it-by-your-damn-self workout that probably includes staring at a black line at the bottom of a cold pool assisted by more toys than a frustrated housewife; an hour-and-a-half in your basement on your pedal bike that you spent more than you did on your first car; or a lonely hour run with just you and a sidewalk, dodging ice booby traps and grumpy neighborhood dogs. You didn't download this workout for free from the internet either. You pay a coach twice what you pay in gym memberships a month to plan and track your progress and write up this sadistic crap just to make sure you are ready when the gun finally goes off. All of this you KNOW is money well spent.

Once your motor is going, you crank out the workout with images of greatness pulsing through your brain. Your efforts are rewarded with a rush of endorphin's comparable to what a drug addict experiences with each fix. Unlike drugs though, each post-workout high is actually better and more fulfilling than the one before it. This leads you to call what most people call insane, "fun." With images of your next inevitable personal record blurring your vision, you gulp down your organic, GMO free, gluten free, muscle rebuilding, turbo charging meal replacement and away you go on another day in the life of a Trilifealete.

That's right, you read that right, I didn't forget to spell check that - "Trilifealete" (tri-life-alete) - "An age group endurance athlete who is equally defined by familial and/or employment responsibilities." Parent, spouse, athlete - Trilifealete. Son/daughter, sibling, athlete - Trilifealete. Parent, entrepreneur, athlete - Trilifealete. Substitute in whatever describes you, but the term "Trilifealete" truly sums up the life of an age group endurance athlete. You don't get to ensure optimum hours of sleep every day. You don't get to sit around with your legs in some air compression contraption after each workout. Your "recovery" days could probably qualify as an actual workout for some people. You don't care though. You live for this stuff and thrive on the never-ending whirlwind of professional and personal life activity, all while training your body to swim, bike and run in a single day, distances that "ordinary folk" don't even do in a week.

Your passion and your lifestyle allows others to make a living feeding, catering to and capitalizing on your obsession. Equipment, more equipment, coaching, race entries, travel, lodging, specialized travel and lodging, nutrition, the list goes on and on. An entire thriving industry has been built on your efforts. Triathlon Business International estimates that the consumer triathlon market in the United States is a 2.8 BILLION dollar industry. The value of us Trilifealetes is best demonstrated by the recent purchase of World Triathlon Corporation by Dilian Wanda Group for $650 Million. That doesn't happen if you don't exist. They don't make money on professionals. Hell professionals aren't professionals without us. It's the hundreds of thousands of Trilifealetes that spend their hard earned money chasing their next endorphin high that makes this world go round. So, this holiday season while you are Googling the latest and greatest gear to add to your Christmas list, STOP. Stop. Take a moment. Step back, give yourself a pat on the ass and soak in the fact that you are a Trilifealete. You make this world go round. Everyone in it owes you a ginormous "thank you." Without you, they don't exist.

After you take that moment, buy the hell out of that new gear, renew your coaching program, get your Trilifealete spouse that new VO2 analysis, sign up for your next big race. Let's be honest, they are necessities and our sport depends upon us!  When you are done with that, march your ass to the basement, mount your trusty stead and work off that Thanksgiving gravy. Here's to the Trilifealetes!

PS: I'm trademarking the hell out of "Trilifealete" - all rights reserved Mediocre Age Grouper, 11/28/15 :)

That Feeling You Get...

Sometimes pictures describe things the best.

First Race - The Run - A Strange Thing Happened

"Where is he?" "67 seconds."  "Right where I want him."  Some old dude was chatting with his pal on the other side of the fence in transition about the guy he was apparently about to hunt down on the run.  "Oh you go get him toughy" I thought to myself as I attempted to steady by wobbly legs long enough to get my tenny runners on for what I perceived the march of death.  Yet another poor life choice for stoopid me.

Did you know you can't wear headphones during the run on a triathlon???  No seriously, not allowed, can't even try to pull that off.  It is not like every road race out there where they say "no headphones," but everyone but the Kenyans wear them.  In triathlon they actually mean it.  They will pull you off the dang course!  Know that that means?  You have to listen to everything else going on around you the entire time you are running.  Pure torture!

Dongalongalongalonga, random scream, music, loud speaker dude saying something about something; it all kind of blends together for a strange yet mysteriously energizing mash up.  I couldn't feel my legs leaving transition.  I'm pretty sure I floated and sure as shit had no idea how this run was going to go.

Running sockless for the first time ever was surprisingly liberating.  "OK, shooting for 8ish minute miles here, we got this.  Breath and settle."  "Cadence, cadence, cadence, breath, breath breath."  "Ah this aint so bad, might even think about picking up the pace here pretty soon."  Passed a couple of nice people, got passed by a couple of devil worshiping commie terrorists, but hey yo, there's mile marker 1! Mile 1 check point: 7:25 ... WTF?! No stoopid, that is too fast, reign er in." (I know, sad right?) "I CAN'T be going that fast, I feel like a slug and can't even feel my legs."

So it turns out that there is a fascinating phenomenon that occurs after you have rode your legs numb at around 18-20 mph on the ole pedal bike.  When you suddenly stop traveling at that speed and attempt to run, you feel like you are creeping but are going much faster than you anticipate.  Nobody wrote about that in any of the magazine or online articles I studied in my free time!  Now, I could have pulled in the reigns intentionally, which would have been the intelligent thing to do, but then again, this was probably my calling, and I had put the survival mode behind me and it was now time to yet again show the triathlon world what a "real athlete" could do.  I glided on....

"I may just be Prefontaine reincarnated.  I really don't see what the big fuss is all about. I mean after all I am freaking cruising here people, that's right, fasten your seat belts."  ....  "Hmm, its kind of hot." "What is that sharp pain suddenly shooting through my entire lower body?"  "Who freaking shot me with bird shot?!"  The, I totally could have been an Olympian had I started this sport in my prime, I must be Prefontaine reincarnated feeling apparently disappears at oh, we will be generous and say at about mile 2ish.  AYEEEEEEEEE!  My quads and calves suddenly woke up and let me know they are there and that they are not happy with the foolishness I was putting them through. "Holy crap, I have to pee too!"  Do you stop and pee, keep going, what is a fellah supposed to do?

"Try to pee as you run" I thought.  Read that somewhere .... Burning sensation ... Nothing!  It's harder than one would think.  In fact, to this day, impossible for me.  I mean come on, a fellah spends his first 13 years of life (don't judge!) training himself not to pee his bed at night.  The bladder muscles just don't turn around and untrain themselves!  "Ah go ahead and stop by the port-a-potty or even one of these nice camper's spots."  "Feel free to walk."  "Be gone devil self-talk!"  Walking is for ... well you can't walk!  Thump, thump, thump, gasp, wheeze, snort, farmer blow, wheeze.  "Ohhh, hey, what's that?"  A little rubbing in my arch.  Things just went from bad to worser in like a quarter of a mile.  "Ok, how about whoever shot my legs with the birdshot put some buckshot in that same gun and just end this misery for me it right here and now.  This was a turrible idea!"

Heading to the turn-around to start the 2nd and final lap - "Oooh look, the turn round."  I catch a view of The Kid and The In-Laws.  "Huh, they did make it, that's pretty cool!"  High fives for everyone!  At that point a strange thing happened.  The muffled mash up of announcer, music, screaming, and wheezing, suddenly focused into spectators yelling positive words of encouragement to those of us dumb enough to participate in this sadomasochistic ritual that is triathlon.  These people, including my family members, were taking time out of their days to line this damn park road and root on their friends and family members that were stoopid to pay money to participate in this lil event.  It was a sudden but stark and undeniable realization, so much, it hit me with goose bumps and a wave of unexpected emotion.  "Drop the hammer son!"  A sudden burst of energy came out of the now clear blue sky.  It was crazy how I had suffered through well over 2 hours of torture and seeing and hearing people cheering me on and everyone else on the road suddenly transferred into nitrous oxide in my "go tank."

Cadence picked up, a little more pep in my step.  A big fellah was just entering the road ahead of me, on his first lap.  SMACK! Yup, I smacked his ass!  "You got this big fellah!"  No idea what he said back, maybe a "thank you" for the ass grab, cuz I wasn't waiting around.  I was on to the next group. Two older ladies, for sure into their 60's, shuffling side by side having themselves a good conversation and a different version of a Sunday drive.  "Looking good ladies, looking good."  A chuckled "thanks" was their reply, but with each bit of encouragement I gave out, I got a little extra boost of energy.  It was weird, no doubt, but suddenly the death march had turned into something fanfreakingtastic.  "Here we go SUJO!"  The Wife was coming toward me with a look of "I freaking hate you for getting us into this crap" but she was flying.  I'd like to think my holler got her moving a little more.  Oh wait! "Ah crap, don't let her catch you man, you'll never hear the end of it!"

Remember ole Iowa State Tri Club dude that glided away from me in the last couple miles of the bike, after looking for his computer?"  I finally caught up with that bastard on the run, mile 4ish.  "Feeling good, feeling fine" ... ahhhh still have to pee!  That little rubbing, yup that turned into a nice big ole blister, I could feel it growing with every stomp of my feet.  "That's OK, good thing I'm tough." "Don't do anything new on race day."  I swear I read that somewhere ... probably should have listened.  "Good run man" the kid said.  Was I supposed to say something back?  How can he even talk?  I'm about to die of running induced asphyxia (pretty sure that is a real thing).  "Thanks" I gasped.  I tried to pick up the pace just a little bit to go past him but the little bastard stayed with me.  "Come on man!" I thought.  "I have to pee, I have a blister, I just want to finish!"  "You are making me kind of race here."

The Cyclone pulled away from me a bit right around mile 5ish or so.  Right hand turn, entering the dirt path and field before the finish.  I could hear names being called of those that finished.  Arooooo, Aroooo, Barwooooo!  Oh snap, the Father in Law has the Fat Beagle on the home stretch.  Mustering what I thought to be every extra bit of remaining energy I gave them the thumbs up and a smile as I rolled by.  The Kid and Mother in Law were there too.  More high fives.  The Cyclone was in sight.  Satisfied with just knowing I was going to finish, I smiled to myself until .... "You aren't going to let a Cyclone beat you are yah?" I hear a stern male voice ask. Sonofa.... The Father In Law was calling me out!  Oh now it is a pride thing.

We were on a dirt trail now in the trees, finish was in sight.  So was The Cyclone!  He was just right there.  But the pain, holy crap, the pain.  Did you know your lungs can actually catch on fire?  Oh they can, I know this to be a medical fact because mine were a roaring bonfire of flames.  Get out the fire extinguisher cuz the nitrous oxide is about to get lit on fire!  I'm pretty sure I hammered out a 4.8 (I know, I know, there is nothing impressive about that) 40 yard dash to finish that damn race.  Barely able to breath, heart rate of I'm positive 200+, I nicked The Cyclone at the end by probably a Chinaman's ... well it was close, but I got him!

Shaking, gasping, and wanting to die, an overwhelming wave of emotion hit me.  "Holy crap, I did it!"  I finished my first triathlon.  Seriously, it is impossible to describe in words.  Although this conversation gets kind of close to summing it up.  "So how was it?"  Smiling coach asked (It was that evil smile like the athletic trainers had when they were putting you through rehabilitation conditioning).  "That sucked!"  I took a bite of the worlds most delicious doughnut and sip of Coke, took it all in and then, "when is the next one?!"  It is truly a strange draw this triathlon thing.

Why I'm Never Doing an Ironman

"So when you YOU gonna do an Ironman?"  "You should totally do a full with us next year."  "So you signed up for next years group race right?"  Apparently, once you get involved with the punishment-drunk community that is triathlon, these questions don't cease until you finally cave.  I however, am stronger than the average fool and shall not cave.


I have about a hundred of reasons (some may call them excuses) as to why I will not partake in such foolery, some of which are legit and others are simply excuses.  Some of my favorites are: Cuz I don't want to; My wife won't let me; I'm too lazy; It's not healthy to put your body through that; and I'm not keen on peeing on myself for an entire day.  The most legitimate excuse however, is simply "it's a long ass day, and I don't want to do it."

To prove my point, I decided to log everything I did in a day/night, as the rest of the Friends partook in their group foolery; Ironman Cozumel.  Here is how it went.

• 6:40 a.m. ish - Gun starts going off for for pro field as I am sure the age groupers are finishing up their final colon-cleansing of the morning.  I remain fast asleep dreaming of apple pie and left-over turkey.
• 7:00 a.m. ish - Gun starts going off for various waves of age groupers.  I roll over and shush my alarm clock instead of dragging myself out of bed to get my run out of the way.  Roll back over and enjoy the comfort of my warm awesome bed even though the fat dog is snoring in my ear.  Sleep is grand.
• 7:30 ish to 8:20ish - Most of the crew exits the water from the swim.  I hear the water is super perty over there.  I however, am still enjoying a wonderful siesta as I listen to the wind howl outside.  It is a good thing I slept in instead of getting my run on.  It is cold out there.
• 8:30 a.m. -  Wake up have a delicious breakfast of eggs and granola and fix a cup of coffee.  Yup, the wind is howling, it is cold, boogers froze as I let the dog out. 
• 8:45 a.m. - Log on and check where everyone is at.  Everyone is safely on the bike.  Watch a wonderful episode of Jake and the Neverland Pirates in the background as The Wife and Oldest heads out the door for hockey practice.
• 9:30 a.m.ish - Friends are still pedaling.  Change a poopy diaper.  Research races for next year inspired by my Ironman dominating friends. (NO it will not involve a full - gonna do a few Half's though).  Come up with unrealistic goal to put on the Bicycle Betterment Bunker wall for the winter.
• 11:00 a.m. ish -  Friends are finishing their first loop on the bike (only 2 more to go) while Sunday NFL Countdown explains the finer aspects of the Lambeau Leap.  
• 11:15 a.m. - Friends still pedaling and probably peeing on themselves by now.  Finish catching fat dog that thought he should run off into the frozen tundra after going potty and resume game of rescuing airplanes from the knee hockey net with The Youngest.
• NOON - The Wife and Oldest are back from hockey practice.  Gather everyone up to head out to watch the new Penguins movie with The In-laws. Pro pal has finished her second lap and most of the Friends are fixing to finish their second laps here any time now.
• 12:45 p.m. - Dropped $70ish at the damn movie theater. WTH!?? maybe I should do an Ironman. Breaking the rules and still following the Friends during the movie.  The fellahs in the group have finished their second lap.
• 2:45 p.m. - Movie done, "medium" coke and kettle corn polished off. The stronger bikers out of the Friends are now starting the marathon.  Seriously, a marathon after doing all of that.
• 3:15 p.m. - Friends finishing up bike or on the marathon already.  Check fantasy football scores after early games (not looking good) get ready to run in the damn cold.
• 4:30 p.m. - Finish run in 15 degree weather with windchill of friggin arctic!  Sucked icicles!  Almost became envious of those doing a marathon in Cozumel until I realized they were going 3 times as far as I was AFTER swimming 2.4 miles and riding 112.  I'll take pneumonia instead. Quick gear review - Under Armour's new Coldgear Infrared Engaged gloves are insufficient for midwest winter running - hands froze.  Everyone is chugging along on the marathon.
• 4:40 p.m. - Hands finally thawed out enough to type ... half the Friends have passed the 21K marathon time check mark.  Is that halfway or what is that anyway?  Can't convert K's to miles.  Yet another excuse not to do one of these things.
• 5:00 p.m. - Core body temp finally returning to normal, smashing a huge plate of turkey and sweet potato sinfulness while watching the end of the Packers vs. Patriots game.  Friends still chugging along.
• 5:40 p.m. ish - Pro pal finishes 13th in the women's pro field.  Solid day, think I will have a piece of pie to celebrate.
• 6:20 p.m. - Sore gut from eating too much turkey after running.  How in the heck do they eat and run a marathon.  Nope, couldn't do it.  Trying frantically to find the finish line cam cuz a couple of buddies are crushing their PR's and are about to finish.
• 6:38 p.m. - Rolling out my sore legs from my measly hour, sub-zero run as the first Friend finished with a huge PR.  Don't think there was a finish cam and if there was I didn't find it.  Pretty damn inspiring though, must admit.
• 6:50 p.m. - Watched a back-to-reality, put-life-into-perspective, 60 Minutes segment on the Syrian war and the refugees it is affecting - Second Friend finished at the end of that segment. Solid day for him.
• 7:10 p.m. ish - got comfy watching TV lounging in my recliner, got up and checked Friends' progress, realized that The Brit finished.  Crushed his PR.
• 7:35 p.m. ish - Fourth Friend finishes as I'm watching the night game - Chiefs v. Broncos. Just 2 more to go on the course.
• 9:00 p.m. ish - Fifth friend finished somewhere in between here and last post.  Tough day for him but most admirable honestly.  Sucked it up, pushed through and finished like a boss!  Maybe I should go for another run.  Nope, its cold outside, but I'll have some ice cream.
• 9:50 p.m. - It's past my bedtime and the last Friend is still on the course. She will finish no doubt, but I have to go to bed if I'm going to get up and get my workout done in the morning.
• 6:30 a.m. Next Day - Slept in, failed to get up for workout.  Fail!  Checked social media to see pictures and posts of Friends that rocked it.  Everyone pushed through and finished and had awesome stuff to brag about.  Super inspired and happy for them.  Still not doing it.

So to sum it up.  All the Friends can keep up their awesome work.  I'll sit back and feed off their inspiring performances but don't plan to donate to the inspiration pool anytime soon.  Great group of bad mamajammahs, but I'll go ahead and answer the questions ahead of time.  "No I'm NOT doing an Ironman!" ... This year.

Attack of the Port-a-Potty

Port-a-potty, Kaibo, Johnny-on-the-Spot, Porta-loo, Outhouse - all are nicknames for those wonderful portable bowl movement receptacles we all have come to appreciate before every race.  Well, I have a new name for one in particular - Ambushing Assassin From Hell.  That's right, not many people have the unfortunate distinction of being jumped by a port-a-potty - I however, am one such sap.  As if getting worked over by a outhouse is not funny enough, it is the surrounding circumstances and self-talk that preceded said whooping, that really make this story worth writing.  They say in cycling "its not if you wreck, its when you wreck."  I now know this to be true but my first "when you wreck" could not have been more spectacular and entertaining.

Saturday, April 6, 2013, its the morning of the annual Final Four Party that we were hosting for the first time.   Got to get the workout in before an afternoon full of BBQ and beer.  It was an overcast morning, temperature in the mid-to-upper 50's, with consistent 16 mph winds out of the southwest.  There was an occasional gust of up to 34 miles per hour.  (They keep records of this stuff.)  Not a fabulous morning, but for spring time in Iowa, it was just nice enough to lure a fellow out for his first long weekend outdoor ride of the year.  The long winter mornings of sweating it out in the stinky hot garage rides or in the basement bicycling betterment bunker, had created a double-action, turbo-charged, bicycle propelling rocket legs and this engine could no longer be contained by four walls.  It needed the open road!

It was chilly, especially with the wind, but tough guys do what tough guys do, and I was one such tough guy determined to ride outside.  I was sure that everyone else was wither still snuggled up nicely in their bed or were pedaling comfortably on their trainer at one of the last garage rides of the season.  Wusses!  Decked out in tights, gloves, stocking cap under the helmet and a jacket, (tough but still have some remaining tropical blood in my veins from growing up in Hawaii) I headed out east and then north with the wind at my back.  I was freaking flying.  My turbo-charged pedal bike propulsion jets were stronger than ever.  The entire triathlon world better prepare to be left in my dust.  The first half of the ride was ego-inducing confirmation of my off-season forged, new-found awesomerness. (Sure its not technically a word but as you can tell it means a higher level of awesomeness than that which was previously attained).

When one pedals out to the north, one must eventually turn around and pedal back to the south in order to make a complete loop and arrive back at camp awesomeness.  I did that and was instantly reminded that riding outside meant riding INTO the wind as well.  The wind was so strong I couldn't hear myself think as it whistled through my helmet.  I couldn't even hear cars approaching me from behind.  "That's cool, that's alright, it's like running on a treadmill with 11 percent grade or something.  It's what tough guys do."  Tough, painful, but virtually certain to add that much more to my repertoire awesomeness.  During the winter I even read an article about riding in the wind and now I was able to practice my newly found expertise.  "Drop a couple of gears, keep the cadence up, head down and just brew ahead."  Brew I did ... to the tune of 6 mph!  "Whatchu looking at buddy, driving your mamsy-pamsy car up this here road?"  "That's right I'm tough, I'm out here pedaling my face off into the wind cuz I am one bad-ass triathlon rocking son-of-a-gun!"

The ride back home took twice as long as the ride out, but it didn't bother me.  In fact, it added that much more fuel to my unjustified, overconfident self-image of uber-atheletic awesomeness.  Toes were number, fingers barely moved, and snot dripped down my nose as my quads burned and screamed out in speed-building agony.  It didn't matter.  Everyone else was riding inside, munching on snacks, watching a movie, while rocking out to their favorite play list.  I, on the other hand was riding right into the eye of a freaking hurricane!  "Who's going to crack an hour on his olympic distance bike leg?!"  That's right I could do that right now if I wanted. (still to this day haven't come close).  As I cruised back into our subdivision, my head was so big, there was no helmet out there that could contain it

Once in the subdivision, the wind subsided thanks to the shelter of the surrounding houses.  Images of triathlon greatness danced through my head.  Shoot the lazy neighbors were probably just now stirring from their slumber.  Truly, I was in a class all by myself.  Gliding up to the stop sign a block from my house, I niftily unclipped and slowed from warp-speed to yield to an approaching SUV.  Up the road sat a lot under construction with a gray port-a-potty sitting immediately next to the south curb, door facing me.  A car was parked on the north shoulder of the street so the SUV would need to come out into my lane to get around the car.  The SUV driver and I made eye-contact and he waived me through.  Surely he recognized my pedaling prowess and yielded to my superiority.  "Yes, yes, I am awesome" I thought as I clipped back in and started to dance on the pedals on my merry way.

I hadn't sooner clipped back in and made my first, buttery-smooth pedal turn, when a surgically aimed wind gust burst forth from the south.  As if being directed by God Almighty to bring me crashing back down to earth, the gust grabbed the Crapper door, flinging it open directly into my path.  Like an alligator lunging out of the murky water to grab an unsuspecting wildebeest, the port-a-potty executed the perfect ambush.  I didn't even have time to emit the schoolgirl scream that spawned in my throat.  Brakes locked - two startled faces, SUV bumper, asphalt, sky, feet still in pedals, asphalt again - all flashed before my eyes for what little fleeting moment they were open. "It's not if you crash, it's when you crash" they say huh.  Well this one's a doozie!

The SUV driver and his wife's face is still firmly burned into my mind.  Eyes the size of Texas flapjacks, mouths agape, frozen in utter shock and surprise.  I'm not sure what part of my body hit the pavement first but I know for a fact I did at least a half somersault still clipped in.  It had to have been an epic scene.  Where's the camera!  That's Pulitzer Price winning shit right there!  A few awkward moments passed as I did an internal once-over making sure no bones were sticking out.  Toes - check; fingers - check; arms - check; knees - check; hips - check; pride - GONE!  My attention immediately turned to my precious bike.  "Please, tell me its not broken, please tell me it's not broken." Tires - good; gears - good; handlebars - little off centered.  Nothing major, all-in-all, she's good!

"You alright?" The SUV driver asked, still in shock. "Mumble, mumble, mumble." "Yeah, yeah I'm fine, thanks."  I muttered.  Wish I would have had something cool to say or jumped up and yelled "TADAAAAA" or done something awesome, but I had freaking nothing.  Image of awesomeness was in a gazillion pieces.  "Should have pedaled in the basement."  The couple had to have had an aneurism from laughing as they drove on down the street.  Physically fine, but ego and perception of awesomeness now on life support, I plopped back onto the seat and rolled slowly back to the house.

The Oldest greeted me with: "Your pants are ripped, what happened?  You crash?"  "Mhmmm, that's why we wear our helmets, now go pick up dog poop!"  Trying to sneak into the house unnoticed, I got a "How was the ride?" from The Wife.  "Funny you should ask ... Bet you can't do a somersault on a tri-bike!"

Moral of the story - when you are having a good ride, watch out for flying crappers and make sure to make your first crash is one to talk about!

Why We Ride On Roads

 HOOOOOOONNNNNNKKKKKK, VAROOOM ...  "Get of the road asshole!"  The stench of cigarette smoke and diesel exhaust filled my nostrils as the customary spring greeting was followed by the ever-familiar death stare and a middle finger disappearing into a cloud of diesel truck exhaust.  "Screw you lazy ass redneck d-bag, sorry you are in a rush to get to Walmart to use your cigarette carton coupon that expires tonight" I thought to myself, while not having the courage to flip him off back.  After all he was in a 2 1/2 ton truck and I was on a featherlight pedal bike.  Alas, it must be spring and I must be pedaling my bicycle on a road again.

Everyone seems to have an opinion about pedal biker's riding on the roads.  Many feel that pedal bikers should limit their pedaling to sidewalks and bike paths.  In fact, if we took a poll, chances are the majority of motorists who are not pedal bikers themselves, would probably agree with the aforementioned red Chevy diesel truck with license plate #____ driving jackhole that welcomed me back to riding outside this spring.

I can see where they come from, I guess.  But maybe, just maybe, it is due in part to not quite understanding the pedal biking community and the reasons why we do ride on roads.  Let's forget for a minute that pedal bikers have just as much legal right as vehicles to pedal their faces off on regular roads (see this blog written by a brilliant lawyer a few years ago); lets forget for a minute that it is actually illegal for pedal bikers to ride their bikes on sidewalks; and lets set out the top 10 reasons why pedal bikers ride on the road instead of trails.  

10.       Gnats.  These micro-nuisances splatter your face as they congregate in groups of a gazillion back on the bike trails, sheltered from the wind.  They will cover your body and enter every orifice of your face as you fly through them.  They really don’t have a taste but they certainly splatter across your sunglasses quite efficiently.

9.         Walnuts.  Walnuts litter many of the bike trails – hitting these solid turd-sized land mines at 20 miles an hour with 23 millimeter wide tires does not make for a good combination.

8.         Recreational Pedal Bikers.  Some shall call them “recreational pedal bikers,” have either had too much to drink at the Cumming Tap and are attempting to navigate their way home, or simply have the attention span of the aforementioned gnat and can’t seem to stay on their side of the trail.  This creates the peril of the not-as-unusual-as-you-might-think head-on trail collision.

 

7.         Runners, Joggers & Walkers.  Bike trails are not just for bikes.  Runners, joggers and walkers also use them.  Sometimes running, jogging or walking three wide, they don’t always comprehend the term “bike trail” means bikes are likely to go zooming by them.  The obligatory “on your left” will inevitably lead to a startled “oh my gosh” and a tinkle in the drawers of the elderly walking population.  I for one don’t want to be responsible for the pedal bike induced cardiac arrest.  

6.         Dogs.  Some find bike trails a great place to walk their dogs.  They are indeed a fabulous place to walk a k-9 companion.  Don’t get me wrong, dogs are awesome, but owner on one side of the trail with dog on the other and leash in between creates a convenient clothes-line effect for those traveling on a pedal bike down the middle of said trail.

5.         Squirrels.  These little schizophrenic bastards dart on and off of the bike trail unable to decide which side will offer them protection from the fast approaching unidentified pedaled object.  While in a car, you can simply cruise on by and over them if they fail to make up their mind fast enough, a pedal bike is a different story.  You will inevitabley slam on your breaks, swerve your ass off or otherwise engage in an ungraceful maneuver that nearly costs you your life in an attempt to avoid hitting them.  On the road, they are either already squished or safely in a tree, well out of harms way.

4.         Intersection Crossings.  Trails have intersection crossings about every mile or so.  Cars turn right on red even when the pedestrian light is green without looking for pedal bikers.  Almost on a yearly basis, this results in a pedal bike squishing.  More car v. pedal bike accidents happen at trail crossings than on the open road. Don't believe me?  This dude sets out a pretty good argument that you are actually safer pedaling on a road than on a bike trail. http://csua.berkeley.edu/~piaw/accident.txt

3.         Hills.  You can't train for a triathlon or pedal bike race without training on hills; you can't find real hills on a bike path that is laid out over an old rail road track.  To get hills a pedal biker must ride on the road.  It is that simple.

2.        Open Road.  Ever go for a run only to stop every block and wait for the light to turn green? Would you get on a treadmill if it stopped every 5 minutes and you had to restart your run? Would you lift weights if in the middle of the set you had to rack them and wait 30 seconds before restarting?  Would you do a "body-pump" or P90X if the instructor froze for 30 seconds randomly through your workout?  Probably not because that would certainly not be a good workout.  That’s what riding on most bike trails is like.  Hence, the open road is the only way to go.

1.         Because My Friend Saw This Along the Bike Trail Once.  I for one would rather get cussed at by a pissed off red-neck then get eaten by a Bobcat.  Judge me if you want...

                                                     (Picture courtesy of Mike Reagan)

If you are a pedal bike road rider hater and have read this, at least now you know why we do it.  You are certainly free to express yourself and your disdain for those of us out there just trying to get a good work out in.  Feel free to cuss, swear, flip us off, moon us and otherwise express yourself in a peaceful manner, but if you could at least avoid honking and buzzing us with your over-compensating noisy-ass exhaust trucks, causing us to almost wreck, that would be much appreciated.

PS:  The pictures used in this blog (with the exception of the Bobcat taken by my friend Mike Reagan) were freely borrowed from the internet and are the property of whoever took them and posted them out there for our amusement.