We’ve been busy. Not doing Triathlon stuff.

I threw T in the truck, and we road tripped huge the day he got out of school.

We went on a Mighty River Trek. We drove through 17 states, only 6 on the same roads, and did a big circle route down to the Mississippi in Mississippi, up to the Missouri, and up the Ohio, back home.

We swam in all three rivers; I stood with one foot in Old Man Mississip’ and one in the Ohio, at the same time. I plowed the Trucoma through the Big Mo’. We ate "Throwed Rolls" grilled bologna in a restaurant, camp food, fried chicken, and bugs.and a gallon jug of sweet tea. Celebrities dropped like flies, and a tree fell in my driveway at home, where I could do nothing, (Thanks Mark for moving it)

We went to Memphis and avoided Graceland like it was Neverland, but did see a cool statue of BB King. We went to the top of the Gateway to the West, (the Arch),

in St Louis. We saw the Louisville Slugger plant, and Churchill Downs, got hazed as a tourist, and drove down Mohammed Ali Blvd. And we spent a fantastic day at a water park on the Mississippi just outside of St Louis. We Geocached in 5 or 6 different states, much to T's chagrin. Got a parking ticket that was spotted from the top of the Gateway Arch, and a speeding ticket for 56 in a 45 coming off the highway in Cairo Illinois.

Good luck collecting that fine…dick.

We are back, and fine, and I am finally rested from it all.

Getting ready!!

32 Days, 21:20.13 to go.

And I am more serious about the training this year than I have ever been. About frigging time.

I’m over training the bike this year, because Bridgewater may as well be West Memphis Arkansas when I want to find a hill. I figure if my bike ride is longer than the actual course, it all washes out in the end. I know I am just kidding myself about this, but it’s still a better plan than I have historically been executing.

I finally replaced the battery in my odometer, and it was almost a mistake for the first few rides, because I have seen my speed, both top, and average. I’m averaging 1?.3 MPH. I’m almost Lance-like in my efforts.

Today I did something different. I brought the MP3 player. Completely illegal. They will penalize me if I use it at the Timberman, but I was in a mood.

I had forgotten about the power of good music. And, the power of crappy music as well. I figure the time I make up will more than compensate my penalty minutes.

Once I have the soundtrack down, I will repeat it constantly until it is ingrained into my soul. The same way I still feel like I should be doing a flip turn at “back to school, yeah” in Zep’s “Whole Lotta Love” and picking up my head to “Looooooooove ba boom ba boom” and climbing out of the pool at “I wanna be your back door man”. If I can time this so that I am climbing hills to the sounds of AC/DC’s “You Shook Me” I’ll be golden. And if I can time The Proclaimers for the last hill, I’m gonna soar.

Not today

Part one of training...talking about it.

There are reams of articles out there about triathlons. How to train. How to pace yourself. What to eat, when to sleep, how to evacuate and keep going.

None of them touch on the most important part. How to brag about it, yet not sound like a complete douchebag.

People act impressed when I casually slip into the conversation that I am competing in my fifth tri this summer. Some of them actually are. I’ve learned there are three different classes of people who I can discuss it with. I’ll mention one today.

Other triathletes, and to a lesser extent, marathoners, and their family support groups. They either get Team Angry, or are angry.

Either way, we can schmooze for hours.

“Hey, don’t you love starting the swim in the last wave?” “I swam right over that fat guy at the first turn!”

“My transition would’a been 1:15 at the Middleboro race. but my wetsuit got stuck”

“Oh god, that second hill at Timberman went on forever…I passed 8 people on the way down though”


"Yeah, my kid, niece, and nephew all do it too. They are studs"






“I’ve seen the Hoyt’s 12 times now, they are everywhere!”

“A buddy of mine is doing Placid this year!”

“Oh, you run Boston? That’s cool. My little sister is afraid of the water too.”



“Wanna see my scar? Yeah, my time sucked that year, but I finished.”



"I've run one in 29 different states so far. Someday...Hawaii"




I've seen this on the back of a lot of SUV's with bike racks






If you aren’t in the club, or very close to someone in the club, these conversations are torture. Which is why I usually have them in private areas, like at the soccer games, at Cub Scout jamborees, and in crowded elevators. Just to get the second group going. The looks we get from the others is worth it all.

Wannabes.

Vegans are idiots

T is now a Webelo 2. His crossover picnic camp out was this weekend. Not this weekend

The cookout was great. 200 people, 5 guys rotating on the grill, hanging out, talking, feeding the masses.

The 'dogs were a little late arriving, so we threw the burgers on early. Since we were feeding an army, we went a little cheap on the burgers. I'm pretty sure they were 54% lean.

We were going great, fighting flames six inches above the grill itself, and moving those burgers right along. Pretty much no complaints, we kept burgers coming as the line went by, no bottleneck. We had the dogs on one grill, the meat disks on the other.

Our grill

Until, that one asshole who shows up at the party. You know the one. The birdlike woman with a hair across her ass. She had a vaccuum pack of hot dogs in one hand, and some very suspicious looking burgers in the other.

"Excuse me, can you put these on the grill?"

My supressed reply was "Get the hell outta my kitchen" The actual one was "Watcha got there?"

"Turkey dogs"

Okay. I'm fine with that. Could be a Kosher thing. I can respect that.

"Yeah, give them to Mr. Ken, he'll squeeze them on."

"Aaaand, could you cook these for me?"

Now, at home, I will cook vegetables on the grill. Real veggies. Asparagus. Peppers. Onions. I'm gonna try artichoke sometime soon. But, she hands me a Boca Burger. I'd sooner cook a turd. I smile. I look at her. I ask, knowingly, "Boca Burger" She squares her shoulders, and says "Yes, of course. Can it be medium?"

At this point, I glance at the flames, which were still way, way beyond any point Denis Leary would consider safe, and say, "Hell yes, glad to do it for you" What I don't say is that her precious boca burger is about to be baptised in gallons of flaming beef suet.

The soy scab came off the grill a few minutes later, and I swear, she said it was great.

I have an omelette for her next.

I'd rather be running, up hill, in the snow

Holy F-balls, what a white bread display of modern day entertainment.

I watched Idol tonight.

The show didn’t disappoint, because my expectations are so low anyhow. It’s a completely artificial contest to prop up completely artificial singers, on the straightest, narrowest, middle of the road careers path possible. No Keith Moon, John Bonham, or Janis Joplin to be seen, that’s for sure.

When a 5’2” emo pansy boy tries to take the stage with the likes of KISS, or another little poofta takes the stage with Carlos Santana, it says more about the Knights in Satan’s Service than it does about Fox TV. The list of vanilla, tofu, lame assed has-been sell outs is scary.

Cindi Lauper.
Lionel Ritchie.
Rod Stewart.
Steve Martin.
Queen.
Queen Latifa.

Rock bands and stand up comics should be put out to pasture after three years. Once they lose their edge, or are paid to use their songs to sell Cadillacs, it’s time to go. Rod Stewart was so drunk, or old, they only showed close ups for .3 second clips, then pulled back to the nosebleed seats, or focused on the band. I watched him stumble at least twice. He sounds like he gargles jacks every morning. I also half expected to see Britney waddle across the stage today lip synching to her latest abortion.

Will someone let the entertainment industry know that there are only a handful who age not only gracefully, but continue to amaze. Frank. Paul Newman. Willie Nelson. Johnny Cash. Dangerfield. There might be a few more, but I can’t think of them. The rest...no. The list of has-beens is endless. Oh Mighty Isis, I even include Paul McCartney in the latter group.

People wonder why my Trucoma radio is tuned to talk radio, or books on tape. It’s because I don’t understand rap, and everything else is so inoffensive, and I couldn’t care less.

Until it is forced upon me. Then, I get….

Pamela Anderson isn’t going to boink me anytime soon

My own person health care professional counsels the proper nutrition includes smaller portions. I figure this works on cholesterol as well.

So I feasted on an all natural, free range omelet this evening.

Since we have a gay, indoor cat, the birds and bunnies sit outside the window, taunting her mercilessly. They build nests right outside the front window and door. The Rose of Sharon at the walkway contains 3 separate nests. Well, Mother Gaia decided enough was enough, and exposed the avian treasure chests with windstorms this weekend. I came across them while mowing the lawn, and decided it was a time for a feast.

These all natural Easter Eggs are cheap, small, and easy to use. With an added bonus of Oprah’s free meal included in embryo form! All the protein you could ask for, wrapped in a twig, twine, and dryer lint package!

I am going to be down to an age class for the Timberman, as opposed to a weight class, in no time at all.

The only problem is that my only celebutard WILF out there is a strident supporter of PETA.

So I have to make a choice. Delicious robins egg omelets, or never get a chance to biblically know a woman who would probably give me crotch rot from 50 paces.

Eat and enjoy!

Sooo, back to the team.

We did the relay another year, with K & J switching roles. It worked out fine that year. No horror show and we all made out pretty well.

Next up, individual efforts. Well, maybe the sprint. Yeah, I can handle a sprint. What’s the worst thing that can happen?

Nothing much, the first year.

K beat me out of the water. Groan. There’s a year full of abuse just got banked away.

Todd beat me through transition. Double groan.

The bike went ok, no real surprises that year. The big hill seemed extraordinarily long going up, and surprisingly short going down, before turning around at the furthest part and heading back. That’s when I realized the hill was probably an illusion, because it was longer going up this side and shorter yet again going back down. I think the first twenty five miles of my thirteen mile bike ride was all up hills.

A lot of people confused me, usually as they were passing, with comments like “Hey, Old School!” Maybe I should have taken the carry rack off the back. My Brockton Enterprise paperboy bag has been gone for a while now; I don’t think I needed all that extra weight. It was very cool being able to see and hear the spectators on the bike course. We don’t get too much of that ¾ of a mile into the swim. They were there, consistently, but sporadically. I liked seeing them, and zooming by.

The run, as I may have mentioned before, was hell. I got to the end of the starting chute for the run, and needed three points of contact to surmount the monster hill to the road, the entire 6 feet of elevation and a fifteen degree angle, but once on the road, smoooooth sailing.

I think I got about a quarter mile before I slowed to a walk. I had to conserve energy to go storming past the family at mile marker one. My Grandmother moved faster after her third stroke.

When I saw Dad & Mama up the hill, I picked up the pace, smiled, gave at least a couple of the kids high fives, and cripped my way up the hill a little farther. The first water station is right next to their house, and I grabbed two or three waters, and kept going. Long gentle hill, all the way to that far point, past the New Hampshire Reggae guys playing bongos – I love them – and back down the hill. I was passing some, being passed by many more, just focusing on the end. There are a lot more spectators here, all with a kind word, usually bullshit. The biggest lies are “Looking strong! Looking Good! Only a mile left! All downhill from here!”

I live in this neighborhood. I know better. And I damned well know how strong I looked. I’m a Clydesdale, dammit.

I passed the family again, barely grunting at them this time, down the last mile. The real one.

My mind was pretty much gone by now, and the turnoff was in sight. Flat land from here on. I picked it up again, and could really hear the festival now; the muffled blare of the announcer, and more and more people clapping, and cheering. I was at the point where I wanted to just drop, but the crowed carried me, emotionally.

I turned onto the grass, and into the chute, to the finish line. It was packed with spectators, all applauding, yelling, and shaking their cowbells. It was great. I don’t care what kind of coma you’re in, this was worth it all. I was finally almost done. I kicked in my greatest sprint manageable, and got through to the end.

Gulping air, I see K & T right there, the rest of the family not too far away, and smiled. I did it. Yay me. Grabbed some water, toweled sweat off my head and chest, and just stood there. Forgot to even check my time, it was (cough cough).47. Good enough for a first time. Hell, at least I didn’t break anything.

This time.