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.

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.