Heavy duty training weekend

115 days, 19:16.21 to the start.

This weekend counts as a brick. It was 85 degrees on Saturday. We were skiing 16 days ago, so it’s time to try a brick. We’ll go bike/swim.

I threw T in the Truck, and off we went to Scussett Beach. The primary reason was actually to do some Geocaching. I scouted out about 9 possible caches, and it was time to finally drop off a Travel Bug we picked up ages ago. The Cape Cod Canal has a walk/bike path. There are miles of trail throughout the State Park, and there is the Mighty Atlantic.

We got there about 1:30, and headed straight to the beach. First, we walked out to the end of the jetty. Then, along the beach, looking for gems. When he was done looking for gems, I finally walked up to my ankle. Brr. I walked up to my knees, and the vicegrip of pain was starting to take its toll. However, I was starting to garner some attention, from the 150 people who were all fed up with the winter as well.

Couldn’t back out now. I took three stork steps through water about 2 feet deep and plunged. And then I porpoised up and out and about 50 feet up the beach.

I have been more comfortable. I checked the Coast Guard website, and the water temp was 42 on Saturday.



At least I didn't scream like a wounded bear this time.

After I strolled out onto the beach, and into the towel, we headed back to the Trucoma, ostensibly for dry clothes. I waited in the greenhouse front seat until I could feel my limbs again. Then I dressed and we grabbed the bikes for our Geocache adventure.

I swam a total of four feet, and biked three miles. We hit 7 caches, found 5, my gears broke, and we both wound up with flat tires. Timmy’s was flat on Sunday, you should see the thorn I pulled out of his tire. My flat was at the furthest possible point from the Trucoma we were going all day.


Well, at least I stopped shivering.

Monday.

Am I done yet?

So I go out, and half the bar is mixing it up.

A-hole’s friend has a bottle that Bouve disarms and throws down an alley. Then Bouve looks over his shoulder, and sees L go down under a pile of Vietnamese. So he sprints across the street, and dives into the pile himself.

Shit shit shit.

I get over there, and really have no clue what to do. My lifetime record of fighting is 1, 1, and 20. There are about 8 guys, piled on top of my bro, and his bro. Fuggit. I reach down, grab one of the guys, and lift him off the pile. My kid weighs more than he does, and he’s only 10. The guy I pull off the pile gets ready to punch me, and I get ready to be punched. Then, like the voice of a friendly god, I hear six magical words from behind my victim/assailant.

Dude. Not him. That’s the cop.

I look into his eyes, nod, and the guy just kinda melts away into the crowd. Wow. Before this magic can end, I start throwing Viets around like dwarfs in a Melbourne bar. Bouve is only about two layers deep, and we both uncover L.

Who has become the Filipino jackhammer. On this one guys head. The guy who touched his princess. I watched him piston at least 7 shots straight down on him, and the guys only cushion was pavement and broken glass. That, and the puddle of his own blood that was gathering quite spectacularly.

Bouve somehow grabs him, tells him he may have gotten the best of him, and it is time to go. So we recross the street, and head to the bar. My initial instinct was into my car, out of town, then out of state. But there is nit of a problem. The unconscious guy is about 3 feet from my bumper. So we go, but not before we see A-hole’s buddy from before, the one with with the bottle, just start kicking the guy in the stomach. God only knows why.

We hide in the back of the bar, high fiving each other, laughing, and do a head count. Eventually, and I really mean eventually, about 25 minutes later, the street is awash in carnival red and blue lights. Most of us pile into the party in the back room, start whistling a jaunty tune, and examining the drapes and neon beer wall art. The cops come in, ask the owner what happened, and he asks what happened to whom? I love Omerta.

The cops tell everyone to clear the street, but Ahole’s buddy is clearly an idiot. He tries to leave the bar no less than four times; past three of Providence’s finest. They finally get sick of his crap, and get ready to throw a Rodney King on his ass. Until one notices the blood on his shoes. You know, the blood the Filipino Jackhammer left in the street. He goes into the back of cruiser, and realizes he does not have the friends he thought he had, so he rats out Jackhammer in a heartbeat. Who we have cleaned up to the best of our abilities. The real cops take Jackhammer outside, and into another cruiser.

Now is my time to shine. I’m pretty sure I am the soberest natural born citizen in the building, so I start talking to the head cop. I ask if L is being brought in for public drunkenness. They say no, assault. I ask them "On whom? That guy the Ahole's buddy beat up? Come on, look at him, he’s gotta be 60 years old, he’s drunk off his ass, and he weighs about 110. WE call him the Filipino Houseboy for god's sake. I don’t even think he was out there." I play him like a trout, with little or no open concern for L, but, five minutes later, L is back in the bar. Buying drinks for us now.

Word on the street is the punching bag spent a week in the hospital, and the Ahole’s buddy did three months without bail. Dumbass.

Man, this story goes on forever

Ok, so to review.

I’m in a sleazy, shithole dive. Bouve just made a grown man cry. And then everybody laughed at him. A bunch of strangers think I’m a cop. I still don’t know how that held up when everything else was exposed.

Bouve’s best friend is passed out on the bar. Did I mention I always thought L was meek & mild? Or that his 18 year old daughter was working the party in the back that night, as a waitress?

We go back to drinking, and A-Hole’s buddies are now friendly towards us, I have no idea why.

There are a bunch of drunk Vietnamese guys in the corner. Young enough that they were probably born here, or came over very, very young. They are disturbing L, who is finally awake, by badmouthing his adopted country. L is now building up a head of steam, with nowhere to release it. So we do what comes naturally, and buy him drinks. His daughter goes out for a cigarette and hey, guess what? L’s gets a chance for his catalyst to explode.

Two of the Vietnamese guys were out there too, and apparently started touching her. She comes in pissed off, and tells a friend. Who tells two friends. Who tell 2 more friends. Who tell L. Who goes outside.

This is just a typical bar fight story; move along if you are bored. The kind of bar fight I have almost always successfully avoided, with good reason.

Well…

Normally, not my problem, I’m not in high school, I don’t need to see this shit. Until Bouve hears “L’s mixing it up outside” from a stranger in the bar.

His best friend, his brother in arms, his foxhole buddy. A 55 year old guy Army sergant. Pavlov just rang Bouve’s bell.

Bouve HAS to go. Shit shit shit. Now I gotta go too now. Just to keep a voice of reason out there. Good frigging luck.

Praise Vishnu this just got interesting, to me.

Just a story

So I had a special, special evening with my brother-in-law Bouve a few years ago. Many of my best campfire stories involve Bouve in one form or another. This is one.

We had a nice Christmas celebration in beautiful, downtown New Beffa with the in-laws. Bouve & I only snuck across the street to the bar twice, leaving the women to fend for themselves. You know the drill. 47 women, 2 men. We become ghosts, or drunk & obnoxious. Drunk & obnoxious doesn’t sit well at the Christmas meal, so we fled.

Things wrapped up, and Bouve says “Hey, my Army Buddy owns a bar, let’s go see him, and L” (another army buddy, one of his closest friends, a plus fifty, 5 foot 1 Filipino who loves the USA more than orgasms; his name is withheld to protect the guilty as hell)

It’s a Saturday night, family night is over, and we hadn’t hung out in months, so of course I said yes. We drive over to Providence, and walk into this tiny, dark, dank bar. The first thing I notice is the ceilings are about 3 inches over my head. And greasy.

The second thing I notice is L, head down on the bar, asleep.

There is some sort of party going on in the back room, so we belly up to the bar. Bouve is in his element, and we start pounding drinks. His buddy, the owner, gives Bouve a job to do.

Apparently one of the regulars is a complete douche bag, and about 4 years behind on child support. Bouve is an MP in the RI National Guard, just back from Iraq about 5 minutes, as is the owner. L had gone to the First Iraq war. They all look the part. I look like me.

Bouve’s job is to tell the A-hole that he is RI State Police, and he is being arrested for child support violations. My job is to get his back. Everybody else’s job is apparently to watch and laugh.

A-hole has 2 buddies, his brother, and some other guy.

Long story short, Bouve rides him like a drill sergeant till he cries. No shit. He tells him we are state police, his kid’s eating generic saltines for Christmas while he’s out drinking, and a lot more effective stuff, and the guy eventually cries. I stand there and give his buddies the stink eye, and tell them that there’s nothing for them to do here, and they should go concern themselves with something else while my partner discusses the situation with him.

The upshot of this story, other than don’t ever get into a psyche-war with Bouve, is that half the bar now knows I am RI State Police. Which, of course, I'm not.

The rest of this soon

It's about F-in' time

124 days, 19 hour, 52 minutes and 34 seconds to this year’s Timberman.

Timmy and I just did our first bike ride of the year. My legs are atremble, and not for my favorite reason.

At least the winter wasn’t spent in hibernation. Just in an activity that is all gravity and aerial couch riding. Skiing every weekend was great, and my legs aren’t the flab they could have been, but they aren’t the shape I’m gonna need. We took one weekend off from total physical activity, for Zombie Jesus Day, and I was already feeling like a slug.

Well, I did. Tim had his first travel soccer game of the year last weekend, a 2-2 tie in a sub freezing, lateral rainstorm. He had an assist, Go TIM!

Actually, I kept pretty busy this weekend. I spent yesterday being Captain Planet with the Pack 88 Cubbies, and had the first official firepit of spring yesterday. Earth Day cleanup wasn’t too bad; the boys stayed pretty focused, filled about 10 garbage bags at two separate sites, and only poked the dead rabbit we found for about 25 minutes. This morning we knocked out two Geocaches that have been irritating me, and only got lost in the woods for about 15 minutes.

So training today consisted of driving the bikes to the gas station in the back of the Trucoma and filling the tires, grabbing a couple bottles of water, and hitting the road. Today was basically an equipment check. I shook the mouse turds out of the helmet, made sure the brakes work, and that the gears aren't frozen.

On a side note, as glad as I am that my old school bike has 15 gears, for me that is overkill. I only use three. Top gear, almost exclusively. Seventh gear, eventually, on long, gentle slopes, and the all popular first gear on steep hills, or when I am almost dead.

The tale of the bloody stump occurred in seventh gear. More on that later.

Turning right out of the driveway is downhill, thank Odin. My legs were already tight at the end of the driveway. We went over to the local college, and circled around the campus a few times. I let him chose the trail. Somehow, he created a mobius strip of a bike route. I swear we went down hill for the entire ride, praise Jebus. If I can recreate that for my first run, I will be golden.





Timmy's Bike Route



Now, if I can get a decent leg rub, I will be in Valhalla.

And so it goes

So, I collapse, rest for a short while, and then we decide it's time to support the team. Pretty much everything else is a haze. The bike route is about 22 miles out, then back again. Plenty of time to catch K and root him on and get back for Jay's run.

I say hi to the family, don't listen as Dad tells me to train better next year, and drink some water out of the special “Finisher” water bottle. Then I take some time to ride the endorphins, wander around, bask in the glow of being done and alive, and to suck down gallons of free Red Bull, yogurt, Dunkin’s coffee, more Red Bull, bananas, Red Bull, pizza, and Red Bull.

Mmmm, Red Bull. Delicious athletes crack. My heart rate is about 346 by now.

Anyone who has seen me at a business Expo knows the free stuff frenzy I work myself into. Two years ago I got 85% of Timmy’s birthday presents at an expo. All my pens advertise people I have never met. I own 36 flying disks (A/K/A Frisbees, tm.) promoting everything from accounting services to male enhancement remedies. You get the picture.

I am eventually sated, so we go. Walk back to the house, jump in the car, and try to figure where K is by now. We follow the crowd of bikes, make a few shortcuts, and head out to the straightway. Bikes galore. I’m driving, so EVERY biker we pass gets a honk and a wave. We spot K about 5 miles down the road, and pull to the side. Clamber out of the car, just in time for him to pass us before we are ready. Ok, that didn’t work. Back up the road, and this time gave us lead time. Out the car, onto the road, and there he is. GO K!!! Looking strong. He gives us a smile, and a wave, as I bring up the camera, and rip off 3 quick frames. Of my camera cap. Oops. Maybe I should have just sunk to the bottom an hour ago. Oh well. Lather, rinse, repeat. We did this a few more times, and finally got the picture, but it was time to go. Jay is up next, and traffic back will probably be more difficult than out.

I’ll say.

Five miles from the house, the roads are stopped. Of course. Duh. We inch our way back, stopping for all bikes, of course, and finally get to our street. Which, of course, is now clogged with the runners. I have to be the D-bag everyone is cursing, but really have no choice. Parking, other than on private property, is forbidden back about five miles. And our runner is in the car. I can’t do a U-turn. I can only follow the slowest runner back to the house. Fine with me.

We finally park, jump out, and run down the road, about a mile, to the starting area. With about two minutes to spare. K comes down the road, looking a lot better than I was, passes the chip to Jay and off he goes.

K recovers much, much, much quicker than I did, and it’s off to the free stuff again. We tracked down our few friends who were done already, or who were there as support and fans. We stretched, hobbled, feasted, and smiled. A lot of smiling. The rest, really a blur. Jay came down the finisher’s chute, and it was over. We went and had beers, and then I woke up on my massage therapists table two days later.

Bring on next year.

The Last Leg...

Charlene, my own personal demon, has started drifting closer as I progressed. Or I should say haven’t progressed. I have waved her away three times already. And now I have cramps in both legs.

She is the outward threat of my everlasting shame. I will finish this thing. I cannot let the team down, any further than I already have. Under any circumstances. Gotta pass the chip to Jay. I can die later. In private.

Hey, I’m at the turn! Is it Thursday? I cut it as close as is possible, actually hitting the buoy as I pass. One third of the way! My strength kicks in, the current seems to be going this way, life is good. I have passed Point of No Return now.

Wham! The thigh, again. I stretch it, and the calf goes. Shit shit shit. Opposing cramps, same leg. There is no middle ground now. I stretch one, the other one gains force. Not cool. With Charlene of the Green Kayak approaching, I know what a wounded water buffalo feels.

I go; I just have to swim through this. I get a little further, and the right thigh goes. I look up, and consider how nice it will be to die in my own back yard. There is no way I am riding out on a kayak, to DQ the team.

NO. FUCKING. WAY.

I backstroke for about fifteen feet; the first leg starts to loosen, just to tease me. Lone wolf Charlene approaches, I roll over, throw way too much energy into my retreat, the left leg duo-cramps hit, followed by the right thigh, and now my right calf steps up. This cannot be happening. It shouldn’t even be possible. I concede. The black cloud of shame approaches in the guise of a sixteen year old girl, and I grab onto the kayak. The nadir of my athletic life. I rest. She offers me the humiliation of a lifetime; a ride in. I grimace. I knead my traitor legs. Tell her no way, but thanks, evil temptress. Three of the cramps finally release. Thank Poseidon, I will not die here. Not yet. I regroup, start breast stroking, and it seems to have passed. I flee Charlene, and go.

The cramps start to become something to observe, from outside my body. With the frog kick, the cramps are not so bad. They alternate with every kick of the legs. Opposing forces. I consider naming them. I actually have a favorite, and a redheaded step child. The left thigh cramp is an old friend. It helps me move forward. I start catching people. I pass another kayak, with someone else hanging on for dear, dear life. I’m pretty sure I have reached Nirvana, because I am beyond caring about death. I look behind me, and it is only hyena feed behind me.

And the Hoyts.

And Charlene of the dead, of course.

The last turn comes up, and I swing wide. Cutting corners is for pussies. It’s all downhill from here. The current is pushing me wide, but I can do this. I can see the arch of the finish line, and it looks no more than five miles away. No problem, my cramps Joey and Harpo will push me there. I can spot my Dad from about five hundred yards out. I can tell they haven’t spotted me. At about two hundred yards, I pass walkers coming in. I keep swimming. At about one hundred, I start butterflying. Three strokes, just enough to make my point. I finally stand for a second, and peel off my hateful bathing cap (never could tolerate them, probably the cause of my troubles today), and dive in again, porpoising in to the end. I see K, and Jay, and everyone else.

Not all of them see me. I step up onto dry land, and the cramps make their final, spiteful visit. The run (HA!) to transition area is about one hundred yards, on soft sand and wet grass. I hobble and jog as far as there, and try to take off the chip around my ankle. Pride overrides common sense until K says he can and will remove it. So I let him. I mutter something like go Keith go, but I am done. I collapse backwards, curled up like a fat langostino, insensate in pain, with a huge SEG on my face. Done. Alive. Happy. Can't wait 'till next year.

Hey, let's go watch K on the bike!!!

My first leg...

This is the year T can’t make it, so we had reached out to a friend, Jay, to cover his portion. Keith took the bike. Jay’s gonna run. The Team Angry of prehistory. No team uniform yet, just me in my High School uniform, a fifteen year old black Lycra Speedo with a hole in the ass big enough to stick my leg through. Everybody else on the beach is in a wetsuit. Probably need them to account for the lack of buoyancy. My first college roommate once told me fat people swim better because they don’t have to struggle to float as much. I’m pretty sure I called him an idiot. Well, time to test that theory, Buddha, you fat piece of crap.

I look around, and wonder to myself who else in this crowd is approaching 40 and can still wear their high school uniform. Actually, probably all the earlier waves, but none of the Clydesdales. I look like a balloon animal with an elastic wrapped around the middle.

Before
We all congregate at the electronic starting gate, waiting to enter the water as a wave. I look up the shore, about a quarter mile, and see my parent’s house. I am pretty much in my own back yard here. There’s the family, there are the kids, there’s Meme & Papa. No problem.

The Clydesdales are sent into the water. I’m doing my stupid stretchy arm thing I do to loosen up when I am nervous. The countdown begins, and we are off. All right, let's go! I get whacked by three people within ten feet, and my old tournament animal instinct kicks in, and I swim over the next innocent bystander I see. Tee hee. Full contact swimming, almost as fun as water polo.

OK, I’m going fine. The rough water is a bit of a pain in the ass, but I’m doing ok. I look up, and the first turn is only about five hundred yards away. Head down, start swimming. I ease out to the fringe, and start swimming on the edge of the thundering herd. I look up, to make sure I’m going straight (where the hell are the lane markers?) about a minute later, and the first turn is…five hundred yards away. Damn, perspective sucks from here. Don’t sweat it, I’ll watch shore landmarks. There’s the house. It looks closer. Yay me. Ok, time to switch things up. After about five minutes, which should be about four hundred yards by now, I switch to breaststroke. I look at the first turn, which should be close by now.

And it looks five hundred yards away. Fuck! Am I swimming sideways? Well, at least I left a large chunk of the group behind me. Jay won’t be too far back when he starts the..

Ouch. Cramp. Left thigh. Ouch.

No big, I stop, tread water, and stretch it by bending over, into the water. It looks like a dead man’s float. It’ll be fine. Look at all these people pass me by. Better get going. The lifeguard in the green kayak starts to drift over, I wave her away. Thanks anyways Charlene.

So, on it goes. Twice more. At least I am making progress. The turn is finally about twenty five yards ahead. Literally behind the house. I spot a few of Dad’s golf balls on the lake bed. I keep going and WHAM! The other leg, calf this time.