I have been slacking since the duathlon a week or so ago, there is just no way around it. But that changed yesterday. I was supposed to ride with Lulu on the Austin Flyers ride yesterday morning, but my travel schedule the next two weeks is out of control, and I felt guilty about leaving Jeff and riding for the first half of the day. Instead I did 40 miles close to home--I've got a 20 mile out and back on the far north end of Parmer, which I did twice. It's been a while since I rode Parmer; it's not overly hilly, but there's some up and down to it, and you've almost always got wind either coming or going, so there's a little challenge to it, too. But yesterday, in spite of a nice south wind, it really wasn't that hard. I'm taking that to mean I was either really well rested from last week, I'm getting better, or both. In fact, I had entirely too much fun, even though I was riding by myself. I was pushing hard on the flats and downhills and climbed most of the uphills out of the saddle as fast as I could. Plus it was a beautiful day and there were tons of other cyclists out there, so I always had someone to chase. Days like yesterday are why cycling is soooooo much fun.
The most interesting part of the ride, however, came right after I made the turn to come home. I was way, way out on Parmer, like out in farm land, when I spotted someone ahead of me. I assumed it was another cyclist, which made me happy, as I had another victim to reel in. But as I came up on this person, I realized it was someone walking, and as I got very, very close, I noted how unusual this person was. The person was walking in the same direction I was riding (south) so he (it was obviously a man, I could tell from the build) had his back to me. The first thing I noted was the not-quite-shoulder-length, blond, frizzy hair. Fine. Flip-flops. Okay. Then it got weird. First, he was wearing a woman's one-piece, red and black swimsuit. With a short little skirt over it. He had a piece of cardboard lashed to him around his waist. On the cardboard in black marker was written "Lake Travis." Okay, so we've got a guy in women's swimwear trying to hitch a ride to Lake Travis. Got it. It's Austin, whatever. What threw me was the fact that he was carrying a purse. And a briefcase. Why do you need a purse and a briefcase to go swimming??
This place is a constant carnival sideshow. I don't think I could ever leave.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
If I Were in the Desert...
If I were in the desert I would die. Quickly, apparently.
I missed the Wednesday workout--again--because I had to be in Dallas for a mandatory meeting and team building exercise. I wound up missing the meeting part because of a last minute client call, but I did get in on the team building exercise. The deal was this. You're on a plane flying over the Sonoran Desert in Arizona. Your pilot filed a flight plan, but somehow managed to steer 65 miles off course and then crash the plane (great, thanks, man). He's toast. So is the co-pilot. Miraculously, however, you and five of your co-worker buds survived, unscathed.
So there you are in the middle of the desert, 70 miles from nowhere, with an air temperature of 110 degrees and surface temperature of 130. For whatever reason, you have amongst yourselves the following items:
1 top coat each
1 pair of sunglasses each
1 quart of water each
1000 salt tablets
A .45 caliber pistol (loaded)
1 book entitled "Edible Animals of the Desert" (with a cute little prairie dog thing on the cover)
1 Swiss Army knife
1 red and white parachute
1 cosmetic mirror
1 flashlight (it holds 4 batteries, to give you some idea of size)
2 quarts of vodka (the cheap stuff)
1 large plastic raincoat
1 first aid kit consisting of compresses and gauze only
1 compass
1 sectional air map of the area
The activity we were then asked to do was to rank each item in order of importance, first as individuals, then as a team. Here was my ranking:
1) Quart of water
2) Top coat
3) Salt tablets
4) Sunglasses
5) Swiss Army knife
6) Parachute
7) Mirror
8) Vodka
9) First aid kit
10) Raincoat
11) Flashlight
12) Compass
13) Map
14) Book with cute prairie dog on cover
15) Pistol
As a team, we then ranked each of these things. We sucked worse as a team, so I'll skip that part (p.s. - that's not what's supposed to happen, in case you couldn't figure that out). Here's how the expert, a guy named Dick, told us we should have ranked these items:
1) Mirror (for signaling planes, since air traffic control would eventually figure out that you didn't arrive at your destination and send help)
2) Top coat (for keeping the sun off you and keeping hot air from circulating close to the skin and increasing perspiration)
3) Water (a quart's not much, and if you use your mirror, you should be rescued before you completely shrivel into a raisin)
4) Flashlight (for signaling at night; Dick also said you can take the batteries out and use the empty butt of the flashlight for digging...digging what, I don't know, but okay)
5) Parachute (shade, visible from the air)
6) Knife (you can cut flesh from cacti and suck on it for water; incidentally, did you know a full grown saguaro cactus can hold up to 5000 gallons of water in its flesh?)
7) Plastic raincoat (not a lot of condensation to capture at night; instead, you can fashion a distillery from it and turn piss into water--don't ask me, that's what Dick said)
8) Pistol (you need an audio component to your rescue plan, the international signal for distress is three shots fired into the air in quick succession; I don't think I need to point out the other handy uses for the gun)
9) Sunglasses (you've heard of snow blindness, desert blindness is the same deal, besides, who doesn't look fabulous in a pair of shades?)
10) First aid kit (did you know the desert is one of the most sterile places on Earth?)
11) Compass (Dick says you could use the crystal of the compass as an auxiliary signaling device, because if you attempt to start walking towards civilization, you're guaranteed to die; Dick is a really uplifting guy)
12) Map (Ditto...no walkie, no lookie for help; however, the map "may provide entertainment value")
13) Book with cute animals you can eat (by the way, rattlesnake really does taste like chicken)
14) Vodka (the desert being as sterile as it apparently is, you don't need to hang onto the vodka for medical purposes, which was my plan; it does come in handy, however, as a skin coolant and fire starter (in combo with the gun)...or if you've given up all hope of being rescued and just want to get plowed)
15) Salt tablets (Dick really got me on this one! Sweating, losing salt, surely you need to replace it, right? Apparently not, you'll only poison yourself--when you're dehydrated, your blood doesn't have enough water in it to achieve a happy balance with any excess salt, so your body will totally freak out if you consume too much).
Here's another fun fact, true story, or so Dick tells me. Some guy got stranded in the desert, was dehydrated and subsequently took leave of his senses, managing to strip off all his clothes in the process and fall all over the abundance of sharp objects the desert has to offer. Our hero, however, didn't bleed, not a drop, even though he had cactus needles all over him and was cut up from all the rocks. In fact, it was not until the rescuers began pumping him full of fluids that he began to bleed from his injuries. Apparently, when you're dehydrated, your blood gets very, very thick. Also, when you're stranded in the desert and rapidly dehydrating, you shouldn't eat--digestion wastes valuable water.
So, was it worth it to miss Wednesday's workout in favor of learning desert survival skills? No. But at least I got some interesting trivia out of it.
I missed the Wednesday workout--again--because I had to be in Dallas for a mandatory meeting and team building exercise. I wound up missing the meeting part because of a last minute client call, but I did get in on the team building exercise. The deal was this. You're on a plane flying over the Sonoran Desert in Arizona. Your pilot filed a flight plan, but somehow managed to steer 65 miles off course and then crash the plane (great, thanks, man). He's toast. So is the co-pilot. Miraculously, however, you and five of your co-worker buds survived, unscathed.
So there you are in the middle of the desert, 70 miles from nowhere, with an air temperature of 110 degrees and surface temperature of 130. For whatever reason, you have amongst yourselves the following items:
1 top coat each
1 pair of sunglasses each
1 quart of water each
1000 salt tablets
A .45 caliber pistol (loaded)
1 book entitled "Edible Animals of the Desert" (with a cute little prairie dog thing on the cover)
1 Swiss Army knife
1 red and white parachute
1 cosmetic mirror
1 flashlight (it holds 4 batteries, to give you some idea of size)
2 quarts of vodka (the cheap stuff)
1 large plastic raincoat
1 first aid kit consisting of compresses and gauze only
1 compass
1 sectional air map of the area
The activity we were then asked to do was to rank each item in order of importance, first as individuals, then as a team. Here was my ranking:
1) Quart of water
2) Top coat
3) Salt tablets
4) Sunglasses
5) Swiss Army knife
6) Parachute
7) Mirror
8) Vodka
9) First aid kit
10) Raincoat
11) Flashlight
12) Compass
13) Map
14) Book with cute prairie dog on cover
15) Pistol
As a team, we then ranked each of these things. We sucked worse as a team, so I'll skip that part (p.s. - that's not what's supposed to happen, in case you couldn't figure that out). Here's how the expert, a guy named Dick, told us we should have ranked these items:
1) Mirror (for signaling planes, since air traffic control would eventually figure out that you didn't arrive at your destination and send help)
2) Top coat (for keeping the sun off you and keeping hot air from circulating close to the skin and increasing perspiration)
3) Water (a quart's not much, and if you use your mirror, you should be rescued before you completely shrivel into a raisin)
4) Flashlight (for signaling at night; Dick also said you can take the batteries out and use the empty butt of the flashlight for digging...digging what, I don't know, but okay)
5) Parachute (shade, visible from the air)
6) Knife (you can cut flesh from cacti and suck on it for water; incidentally, did you know a full grown saguaro cactus can hold up to 5000 gallons of water in its flesh?)
7) Plastic raincoat (not a lot of condensation to capture at night; instead, you can fashion a distillery from it and turn piss into water--don't ask me, that's what Dick said)
8) Pistol (you need an audio component to your rescue plan, the international signal for distress is three shots fired into the air in quick succession; I don't think I need to point out the other handy uses for the gun)
9) Sunglasses (you've heard of snow blindness, desert blindness is the same deal, besides, who doesn't look fabulous in a pair of shades?)
10) First aid kit (did you know the desert is one of the most sterile places on Earth?)
11) Compass (Dick says you could use the crystal of the compass as an auxiliary signaling device, because if you attempt to start walking towards civilization, you're guaranteed to die; Dick is a really uplifting guy)
12) Map (Ditto...no walkie, no lookie for help; however, the map "may provide entertainment value")
13) Book with cute animals you can eat (by the way, rattlesnake really does taste like chicken)
14) Vodka (the desert being as sterile as it apparently is, you don't need to hang onto the vodka for medical purposes, which was my plan; it does come in handy, however, as a skin coolant and fire starter (in combo with the gun)...or if you've given up all hope of being rescued and just want to get plowed)
15) Salt tablets (Dick really got me on this one! Sweating, losing salt, surely you need to replace it, right? Apparently not, you'll only poison yourself--when you're dehydrated, your blood doesn't have enough water in it to achieve a happy balance with any excess salt, so your body will totally freak out if you consume too much).
Here's another fun fact, true story, or so Dick tells me. Some guy got stranded in the desert, was dehydrated and subsequently took leave of his senses, managing to strip off all his clothes in the process and fall all over the abundance of sharp objects the desert has to offer. Our hero, however, didn't bleed, not a drop, even though he had cactus needles all over him and was cut up from all the rocks. In fact, it was not until the rescuers began pumping him full of fluids that he began to bleed from his injuries. Apparently, when you're dehydrated, your blood gets very, very thick. Also, when you're stranded in the desert and rapidly dehydrating, you shouldn't eat--digestion wastes valuable water.
So, was it worth it to miss Wednesday's workout in favor of learning desert survival skills? No. But at least I got some interesting trivia out of it.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Sad
There was this lovely woman, Annette, in our technology products group in NYC, whom I worked with on a bunch of stuff over the years. She was so articulate, knew how to get things done without stepping on toes, and was helpful, kind and funny. She didn't care that I was a total technology moron and asked stupid questions. In fact, she kind of took me under her wing. It's been almost a year since our last project together, so we haven't talked in a while.
I found out just a little while ago that she died last night. I'm sad.
I found out just a little while ago that she died last night. I'm sad.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Race Report: Strider's Long Course Duathlon
This past Saturday I did the Strider's Duathlon in San Angelo, the long course version (or long "coarse" as it states on the race t-shirt--then again, when you're sweating, spitting, cursing and occasionally wiping your nose on your sleeve, coarse may be the proper term after all). I have wanted to do this race for years, something about the distance--challenging but doable (8km, 74km, 8km). I also have this weird love affair with west Texas. I'm still trying to figure that one out.
Anyway, there was no drama leading up to start time, other than a very serious case of what-in-the-hell-was-I-thinking-when-I-signed-up-for-this-? I also knew there were five of us in my age group, and I'd spotted two of the other four. And I knew this race was a duathlon age group worlds qualifier: finish in the top three and you're in, or so I'd read and had been told. Whatever. The goal was to run my own race, suppress the competitive streak, be proud of finishing--hell, just finish!
I felt heavy and stiff as we started, but this seems to be the norm for me anymore. I loosened up little by little, and by the time I finished the first run, I actually felt really good. Still, I held back, because the bike was very big and scary to me. I wound up at 7:49 pace and second in my age group on the first run (all of which I found out later).
I am slow in transition, I always have been. I like the transition. I rest in the transition. I get something to drink, make sure I have everything I need, clean up my space a little. I'm very pokey. Two minutes and twenty four seconds pokey.
I finally got on the bike and started riding like mad to make up for my pokey transition. I knew at the time that there was a least one girl in my age group ahead of me. I also knew there was one girl quite a ways behind me. That left the other two whom I'd not identified before the race out there somewhere, unaccounted for. Not that I was competing or anything.
Let me slow the action down for you here and tell you a little about the 74km (that's 45 miles to those of us using English units of measure) bike course. The first 18 miles were into a sustained 10 - 15 mph headwind, with gusts up to 25 mph. I had to pedal--hard--on any downhills over that stretch. When there wasn't a headwind, there was a crosswind, usually a headwind/crosswind combo. I dropped a lot of f-bombs out there. There was no freewheeling, no spinning, even. As if the wind weren't enough, there were (my personal favorite) gently rolling f***ing hills. And let's not even talk about that chip-seal stuff they use on roads these days. Suffice it to say, I was completely numb in all the wrong places halfway through the bike.
Throughout the ride, I had my eye on this woman in front of me. I knew she was 41, so I didn't have to catch her, but she was a good target. She had quite a lead on me, and I kept reeling her in, but then I'd lose her again. She dropped me for good once we hit the all-too-brief section of the course with a tailwind and a downhill or two. It was on that part of the course that the girl in my age group who was way behind me on the first run finally caught me on the bike. I was in my biggest gear, pedaling as fast as physics would allow, and still she ripped past me like I was wasn't moving at all. I really need to understand why that happened, it's not the first time I've experienced this in a race. Given that I was turning the pedals over at around 100 rpms or higher, I don't think it's a physical ability thing. My next door neighbor says it's because this chick outweighed me, so she had more momentum. Maybe. But I'm wondering if it's an equipment issue, too. I've got to get that one figured out, or else I'm going to keep getting smoked. Anyway, once the girl in my age group passed me, I kind of wanted to give up. Actually, to be brutally honest, I kind of wanted to cry. I was tired, in pain and in at least third place, possibly fourth or fifth. But I got over that pretty quickly and finished up the ride as hard as I could. Two Gu's, half a Clif Bar, half a bottle of Gatorade and a bunch of water seemed to work--I wasn't lacking for energy or hydration when I finished the bike, I simply didn't have the conditioning to push my legs any harder and I could tell I was slowing. In the end, I averaged 17 mph, which was disappointing on the one hand, as I'd like to get to where I can average 20 mph, but given the conditions and how early in my training I am, I guess I'm okay with it. Unfortunately, however, the girl who wound up winning my age group averaged 19 mph. Gotta work on the bike...
T2...two minutes and nineteen seconds, I believe. I was so freakin' tired. I could barely lift my feet as I started the run; I truly thought I was not going to make it. About a quarter mile into the run, I caught up to this woman whom I'd not yet seen during the race. I was relieved to note she was struggling as much as I was. I was even more relieved to see she was 37 years old, and I was passing her. That meant that at least I wasn't in last place in my age group. Good.
I couldn't believe how many people were walking, something I wanted to do at that point worse than anything I had ever wanted to do in my life. Seriously. I'm not exaggerating. The run took us out on the so-called "dirt road from hell" and there is a section that is uphill in really loose dirt. I had been chasing--if you can call it that--this guy in a day-glo yellow jersey up that hill when all of the sudden he started walking. Talk about temptation. If he could do it, why couldn't I? But then I thought about Erin's post from her triathlon, where she just kept telling herself not to walk, and that's all I thought of--don't walk, don't walk, don't walk. Walking is the kiss of death when you're that tired. Eventually I did have to walk for a few seconds, because I had developed this stitch in my shoulder that simply would not work itself out, but that was it. And at some point about 2.5 miles in I started to feel better, not good, but better. I wasn't keeping track of my mile splits, but I figured I couldn't have been going any faster than 10:00 minute pace. So imagine my surprise when I came around a little curve in the road and spotted the girl in my age group who had blazed past me on the bike. She wasn't any more than 200 meters in front of me, and yet...damn it, I just could not catch her. There was absolutely nothing left in my legs. I wound up finishing the run with the best time in my age group at 8:52 pace. That seems kind of sad to me, but I'll take it.
I couldn't stick around for the results, I had to hightail it back to Austin to attend the AMOA Art Ball. I managed to get the body markings off in the shower, but what I hadn't anticipated was the sunburn. I thought I'd covered my arms and shoulders pretty well with sunscreen, but apparently I missed a spot on the backs of my shoulders. Nothing like showing up to a black tie shindig in a sleeveless dress with a sunburn in the outline of your jogbra. Nice.
When I got home from the soiree I checked the race results. It turns out I finished third in my age group with a total, if unremarkable, time of 4:09:15. And I'm okay with that, especially since I know I have nowhere to go but up.
Anyway, there was no drama leading up to start time, other than a very serious case of what-in-the-hell-was-I-thinking-when-I-signed-up-for-this-? I also knew there were five of us in my age group, and I'd spotted two of the other four. And I knew this race was a duathlon age group worlds qualifier: finish in the top three and you're in, or so I'd read and had been told. Whatever. The goal was to run my own race, suppress the competitive streak, be proud of finishing--hell, just finish!
I felt heavy and stiff as we started, but this seems to be the norm for me anymore. I loosened up little by little, and by the time I finished the first run, I actually felt really good. Still, I held back, because the bike was very big and scary to me. I wound up at 7:49 pace and second in my age group on the first run (all of which I found out later).
I am slow in transition, I always have been. I like the transition. I rest in the transition. I get something to drink, make sure I have everything I need, clean up my space a little. I'm very pokey. Two minutes and twenty four seconds pokey.
I finally got on the bike and started riding like mad to make up for my pokey transition. I knew at the time that there was a least one girl in my age group ahead of me. I also knew there was one girl quite a ways behind me. That left the other two whom I'd not identified before the race out there somewhere, unaccounted for. Not that I was competing or anything.
Let me slow the action down for you here and tell you a little about the 74km (that's 45 miles to those of us using English units of measure) bike course. The first 18 miles were into a sustained 10 - 15 mph headwind, with gusts up to 25 mph. I had to pedal--hard--on any downhills over that stretch. When there wasn't a headwind, there was a crosswind, usually a headwind/crosswind combo. I dropped a lot of f-bombs out there. There was no freewheeling, no spinning, even. As if the wind weren't enough, there were (my personal favorite) gently rolling f***ing hills. And let's not even talk about that chip-seal stuff they use on roads these days. Suffice it to say, I was completely numb in all the wrong places halfway through the bike.
Throughout the ride, I had my eye on this woman in front of me. I knew she was 41, so I didn't have to catch her, but she was a good target. She had quite a lead on me, and I kept reeling her in, but then I'd lose her again. She dropped me for good once we hit the all-too-brief section of the course with a tailwind and a downhill or two. It was on that part of the course that the girl in my age group who was way behind me on the first run finally caught me on the bike. I was in my biggest gear, pedaling as fast as physics would allow, and still she ripped past me like I was wasn't moving at all. I really need to understand why that happened, it's not the first time I've experienced this in a race. Given that I was turning the pedals over at around 100 rpms or higher, I don't think it's a physical ability thing. My next door neighbor says it's because this chick outweighed me, so she had more momentum. Maybe. But I'm wondering if it's an equipment issue, too. I've got to get that one figured out, or else I'm going to keep getting smoked. Anyway, once the girl in my age group passed me, I kind of wanted to give up. Actually, to be brutally honest, I kind of wanted to cry. I was tired, in pain and in at least third place, possibly fourth or fifth. But I got over that pretty quickly and finished up the ride as hard as I could. Two Gu's, half a Clif Bar, half a bottle of Gatorade and a bunch of water seemed to work--I wasn't lacking for energy or hydration when I finished the bike, I simply didn't have the conditioning to push my legs any harder and I could tell I was slowing. In the end, I averaged 17 mph, which was disappointing on the one hand, as I'd like to get to where I can average 20 mph, but given the conditions and how early in my training I am, I guess I'm okay with it. Unfortunately, however, the girl who wound up winning my age group averaged 19 mph. Gotta work on the bike...
T2...two minutes and nineteen seconds, I believe. I was so freakin' tired. I could barely lift my feet as I started the run; I truly thought I was not going to make it. About a quarter mile into the run, I caught up to this woman whom I'd not yet seen during the race. I was relieved to note she was struggling as much as I was. I was even more relieved to see she was 37 years old, and I was passing her. That meant that at least I wasn't in last place in my age group. Good.
I couldn't believe how many people were walking, something I wanted to do at that point worse than anything I had ever wanted to do in my life. Seriously. I'm not exaggerating. The run took us out on the so-called "dirt road from hell" and there is a section that is uphill in really loose dirt. I had been chasing--if you can call it that--this guy in a day-glo yellow jersey up that hill when all of the sudden he started walking. Talk about temptation. If he could do it, why couldn't I? But then I thought about Erin's post from her triathlon, where she just kept telling herself not to walk, and that's all I thought of--don't walk, don't walk, don't walk. Walking is the kiss of death when you're that tired. Eventually I did have to walk for a few seconds, because I had developed this stitch in my shoulder that simply would not work itself out, but that was it. And at some point about 2.5 miles in I started to feel better, not good, but better. I wasn't keeping track of my mile splits, but I figured I couldn't have been going any faster than 10:00 minute pace. So imagine my surprise when I came around a little curve in the road and spotted the girl in my age group who had blazed past me on the bike. She wasn't any more than 200 meters in front of me, and yet...damn it, I just could not catch her. There was absolutely nothing left in my legs. I wound up finishing the run with the best time in my age group at 8:52 pace. That seems kind of sad to me, but I'll take it.
I couldn't stick around for the results, I had to hightail it back to Austin to attend the AMOA Art Ball. I managed to get the body markings off in the shower, but what I hadn't anticipated was the sunburn. I thought I'd covered my arms and shoulders pretty well with sunscreen, but apparently I missed a spot on the backs of my shoulders. Nothing like showing up to a black tie shindig in a sleeveless dress with a sunburn in the outline of your jogbra. Nice.
When I got home from the soiree I checked the race results. It turns out I finished third in my age group with a total, if unremarkable, time of 4:09:15. And I'm okay with that, especially since I know I have nowhere to go but up.
Last Week
I am so far behind on posting my workouts...not that anyone cares but me. Oh well.
Wednesday, as in last Wednesday, April something-or-other. We did Garner 400's again. I only did four this time instead of six like last time. Panther made us all stop at four, in fact. It was sad in a way, not that we only got to do four, but that the last time we did Garner 400's, Wiley's heel still worked and it hasn't worked since (until yesterday, apparently--yay for Wiley!). Last Wednesday, however, Wiley and Karma did a wonderful job of playing traffic cop for the rest of us--many thank you's to them both. Anyway, my splits went something like this:
1st 400 - 1:18
1st 200 - :38
2nd 400 - 1:21
2nd 200 - :37
3rd 400 - 1:21
3rd 200 - :36
4th 400 - 1:20
4th 200 - :38
I felt really flat, so I was happy to stop when we did. Still and all, I did the workout faster than last time. Progress is a good thing.
Thursday was a total loss. No ride, no run, no nothing.
Friday was my big, exciting, day to myself. I love taking a vacation day when everyone else is working. It feels like my own little secret, like I'm in 9th grade and just snuck out of the house without getting caught. Ultimately, the goal was to drive to San Angelo and get there well before 6:45 p.m., which is when the pre-race meeting for the Strider's Duathlon was scheduled to start (much, much more on the race in another post).
So I started my Friday with a badly needed haircut and highlights (I will always be blonde, my natural brown makes me look sick and underfed). Then it was off to Bicycle Sport Shop for all the stuff I had left my house in Waco without (okay, no, I don't live in Waco, but is really seems like I do). The list included the following: floor pump, water bottles (who forgets to bring water bottles to a race??), a tri-belt to hold my number, a CO2 cartridge, Gu (same thing as the water bottles, who forgets food--if you can really call Gu food--for a race??), and arm warmers if I could get my hands on some (no luck). One hundred and nineteen dollars later, I was back in the car and headed for Whole Foods, where I enjoyed some quinoa salad with asparagus and shallots, a bottle of Perrier and a piece of ciabatta bread with enough left over for later. At 1:04 p.m., I was on 6th Street and headed for San Angelo.
I'll spare you the details of the roadtrip, save for one thing: the drive between Austin and Brady is exceptional in the springtime. There are no words.
San Angelo is a different story. There is nothing in San Angelo in the way of landscape. Nothing. It is pretty well flat. It is windy. It is dry. There are sheep and cotton fields and lots of hay. Did I mention that it's windy? They have a kite flying event each year. Because it's windy.
I checked into the La Quinta around 5 p.m., picked up my race packet for the long course duathlon and headed out for a hyper-easy 30 minute run. When I was a little kid, like four, we lived in San Angelo. We only stayed for a year before moving to Connecticut (and then other northern locales from there, but that's another story). I remember that the neighborhood we lived in was squeaky, shiny new. We didn't even have grass yet. I can remember sneaking out of bed at night and standing at my bedroom window and watching the drive-in movies, probably a quarter or a half mile away. I know the neighborhood has grown up since then, and the drive-in movie theater is long gone, and I'm pretty sure that La Quinta I was staying in is right on the edge of my old neighborhood, so I spent my 30 minute run looking for my old house. 3301 Canyon Creek. Of course, I didn't find it. Maybe next trip.
I showered, attended my pre-race meeting, had some delightful cajun chicken pasta at Chili's, bought Advil and bagels at HEB, and tossed and turned all Friday night. What was I thinking signing up for a long course duathlon on completely insufficient training??
Wednesday, as in last Wednesday, April something-or-other. We did Garner 400's again. I only did four this time instead of six like last time. Panther made us all stop at four, in fact. It was sad in a way, not that we only got to do four, but that the last time we did Garner 400's, Wiley's heel still worked and it hasn't worked since (until yesterday, apparently--yay for Wiley!). Last Wednesday, however, Wiley and Karma did a wonderful job of playing traffic cop for the rest of us--many thank you's to them both. Anyway, my splits went something like this:
1st 400 - 1:18
1st 200 - :38
2nd 400 - 1:21
2nd 200 - :37
3rd 400 - 1:21
3rd 200 - :36
4th 400 - 1:20
4th 200 - :38
I felt really flat, so I was happy to stop when we did. Still and all, I did the workout faster than last time. Progress is a good thing.
Thursday was a total loss. No ride, no run, no nothing.
Friday was my big, exciting, day to myself. I love taking a vacation day when everyone else is working. It feels like my own little secret, like I'm in 9th grade and just snuck out of the house without getting caught. Ultimately, the goal was to drive to San Angelo and get there well before 6:45 p.m., which is when the pre-race meeting for the Strider's Duathlon was scheduled to start (much, much more on the race in another post).
So I started my Friday with a badly needed haircut and highlights (I will always be blonde, my natural brown makes me look sick and underfed). Then it was off to Bicycle Sport Shop for all the stuff I had left my house in Waco without (okay, no, I don't live in Waco, but is really seems like I do). The list included the following: floor pump, water bottles (who forgets to bring water bottles to a race??), a tri-belt to hold my number, a CO2 cartridge, Gu (same thing as the water bottles, who forgets food--if you can really call Gu food--for a race??), and arm warmers if I could get my hands on some (no luck). One hundred and nineteen dollars later, I was back in the car and headed for Whole Foods, where I enjoyed some quinoa salad with asparagus and shallots, a bottle of Perrier and a piece of ciabatta bread with enough left over for later. At 1:04 p.m., I was on 6th Street and headed for San Angelo.
I'll spare you the details of the roadtrip, save for one thing: the drive between Austin and Brady is exceptional in the springtime. There are no words.
San Angelo is a different story. There is nothing in San Angelo in the way of landscape. Nothing. It is pretty well flat. It is windy. It is dry. There are sheep and cotton fields and lots of hay. Did I mention that it's windy? They have a kite flying event each year. Because it's windy.
I checked into the La Quinta around 5 p.m., picked up my race packet for the long course duathlon and headed out for a hyper-easy 30 minute run. When I was a little kid, like four, we lived in San Angelo. We only stayed for a year before moving to Connecticut (and then other northern locales from there, but that's another story). I remember that the neighborhood we lived in was squeaky, shiny new. We didn't even have grass yet. I can remember sneaking out of bed at night and standing at my bedroom window and watching the drive-in movies, probably a quarter or a half mile away. I know the neighborhood has grown up since then, and the drive-in movie theater is long gone, and I'm pretty sure that La Quinta I was staying in is right on the edge of my old neighborhood, so I spent my 30 minute run looking for my old house. 3301 Canyon Creek. Of course, I didn't find it. Maybe next trip.
I showered, attended my pre-race meeting, had some delightful cajun chicken pasta at Chili's, bought Advil and bagels at HEB, and tossed and turned all Friday night. What was I thinking signing up for a long course duathlon on completely insufficient training??
Free Literature
Update on my previous entry...the writer's name at Austin Java on Thursday was Owen Egerton. It appears I will not get my props in his upcoming work, however, my important contributions, such as the proper spellings of "pistachio" and "vellum" as well as my suggestion for the name of one of his characters (Miss Hudgins--it got shot down, but induced some chin rubbing and far off stares as it was being considered) will be rewarded with a FREE copy of his latest book if I come to his book signing on May 17 at Book People.
I am so there. Who doesn't want free books??
I am so there. Who doesn't want free books??
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Can I Get a Shout Out?
I have a confession. Once upon a time I wanted to be a writer. Actually, it’s my childhood dream (don’t tell anyone). Somehow or another I’ve ended up in a profession that has nothing to do with writing—something about making a decent, consistent living, having disposable income to feed my shoe fetish, etc. So I got an MBA. But about six years ago, I quit my well-paying job to take one that was less demanding of my time and would allow me to write. I took several creative writing classes, wrote some short stories, toyed with an idea for a novel, that sort of thing. I didn’t think I was too bad, so I decided to apply to a couple of MFA programs--the four best programs in the country, in fact. I really don’t know what I was thinking, because of course I got shot down by all four. So I said to hell with it and went and asked for my old job back, which is where I’m working now. I haven’t written anything in three years.
The thing is, people who know me, I mean know me, keep badgering me to pick up the writing thing again. So I find it ironic that I’m sitting here at Austin Java Co. next to this writer guy (who looks familiar, like I might have one of his books on my shelf at home) who has been going through his latest, soon-to-be-published collection of short stories with his copy editor all afternoon. I’m hoping to get a shout out in the book’s credits as the nosy, anonymous chick in the gray shirt who kept looking up how to spell stuff for them on the Merriam-Webster website. That may be the closest I ever come to getting published.
The thing is, people who know me, I mean know me, keep badgering me to pick up the writing thing again. So I find it ironic that I’m sitting here at Austin Java Co. next to this writer guy (who looks familiar, like I might have one of his books on my shelf at home) who has been going through his latest, soon-to-be-published collection of short stories with his copy editor all afternoon. I’m hoping to get a shout out in the book’s credits as the nosy, anonymous chick in the gray shirt who kept looking up how to spell stuff for them on the Merriam-Webster website. That may be the closest I ever come to getting published.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
In the Market for a Double-Wide
Something bad just happened. I was sitting here checking email with some NASCAR race on the TV (I didn't turn it on, it was on when I walked in here, I swear). I wasn't paying much attention, but then I glanced up and, well, here's what happened.
Tony Stewart, who drives the Home Depot car, spun out while trying to pass Jimmy Johnson, who drives the Lowe's car. Stewart got control, but not before Dale Earnhardt, Jr., #8 (the Budweiser car) and in the lead, got mixed up in the whole thing because Kyle Busch, who drives the Cheez-It car, clipped him.
That 1) I can relate to you what happened in the first place and 2) embellish it with details of the drivers' first and last names and 3) which cars they drive is 4) incredibly sad and 5) very white trash.
I keep inching closer to the trailer park. This is bad.
Tony Stewart, who drives the Home Depot car, spun out while trying to pass Jimmy Johnson, who drives the Lowe's car. Stewart got control, but not before Dale Earnhardt, Jr., #8 (the Budweiser car) and in the lead, got mixed up in the whole thing because Kyle Busch, who drives the Cheez-It car, clipped him.
That 1) I can relate to you what happened in the first place and 2) embellish it with details of the drivers' first and last names and 3) which cars they drive is 4) incredibly sad and 5) very white trash.
I keep inching closer to the trailer park. This is bad.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
I'm Baaack!
I don't like the Beatles. I can't put my finger on why, exactly, but with the exception of possibly three songs, their entire body of work is lost on me. Why am I bringing this up? Because I've had "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" stuck in my head for three and a half days. I can't get it out. It's like having water stuck in your ear.
Anyway, all of that is completely irrelevant, but because this song is driving me to the brink of insanity, I thought I should mention it. On to the important stuff. First, I made it back from Detroit, finally, at 9:30 Wednesday night. I missed my original flight because our client lunch ran long. That gave me two hours to kill in the Smith Terminal of Detroit Metro. This is the terminal that American Airlines flies in and out of. It's important only because the next shittiest airline terminal you will find anywhere on the planet exists in a third world country. My patience was rewarded, however, with an unexpected, last minute upgrade to first class (seat 4B) on the Detroit to DFW leg of my journey. Ah, three hours of leg room, a glass of wine and an actual meal. On the other hand, my DFW to Austin flight found me sitting, literally, in the very back corner of the airplane. My so-called window seat featured a stunning view of a jet engine. I would complain about how loud it was, too, except that the noise was just deafening enough to render it impossible to talk to my seatmate, Lance (no, not that Lance, silly). Lance introduced his white-sneakered self to me as soon as he sat down, complete with a limp handshake. When the flight attendant gave us our beverages, he clinked my plastic cup with his and said "cheers." Under most circumstances, Lance would have invited--I admit--a mildly irritated commentary within the endless mental dialogue I have going with myself (the soundtrack to which, currently, is this freakin' Beatles song). But because I can't seem to mind my own business, I noted that Lance was reading up on the psychological ramifications of divorce on young children. The way he was holding the reading material suggested to me that he was kind of self-conscious about it (I can't explain it, just go with me), and so I ultimately wound up feeling kind of sorry for Lance. I hope he gets all his stuff squared away and his young'uns turn out to be well-adjusted little citizens.
Because I got to spend so much time on airplanes--and three different airlines, to boot--I also had the opportunity to do three different crossword puzzles in three different airline magazines. Here is how I would rank them in order of most difficult to least: American, Continental, Northwest (Sidebar: why does Northwest insist upon painting its acronym--NWA--on the side of its aircraft? Am I the only one who associates NWA with an angry, yet talented, rap group?). I used to do the Mensa quiz in the American magazine, but it's beginning to make me feel stupid. Either that or I just don't want to think that hard.
I was starving by the time I got to ABIA (all this working out is wreaking havoc on my metabolism), so I stopped off at Taco Cabana for a fajita chicken taco. In spite of driving 70 mph up IH-35 as I ate this thing--and thus, not able to fully enjoy its complex flavor and slightly rubbery texture--it was still the best fajita chicken taco ever. (Another sidebar: If you ever decide to backpack through Mexico, stop at the Taco Cabana in Laredo and pick up a dozen of their tortillas to take with you--you'll be glad you did.)
Moving on...I obviously missed Wednesday's quality run, which I hate, hate, hate to have missed. However, I did do Thursday's quality ride, which consisted of a time trial at the veloway (actually, around the autobahn). I felt pretty good on the warm-up, in spite of the wind and this weird desire to take a nap. When it came time to start the time trial itself, however, no one wanted to go first. More accurately, no one wanted to go before Erin. Erin said she wasn't racing, but I think that's the point--whether she's racing or not, she's still going to kick your ass. Anyway, as you might have guessed, Erin did, in fact, go first. If she hadn't, I think we would have been standing there at LaCrosse and Mopac all night. I was next, probably 200 yards behind Erin. I told myself I was going to hang back for a while, settle in, get my heart rate up and steady, put in a hard effort but no so hard I would blow up when I hit the wind on the way back in. In reality, all I was doing was rationalizing why I wasn't pushing to catch Erin, which is what I wanted to do. The trouble is, I've ridden with her enough times now to know that even if I reeled her in, I would have a hard time staying ahead of her. To fail to do so would be (and later turned out to be) a little bit of a blow to the ego, considering she wasn't racing. But she was a nice target out there, so I closed on her little by little and finally caught her after we made the turn to come back in. I'm pretty sure she wasn't breathing hard when I passed her, but I know I was. I managed to hold her off for--get this--maybe a minute, before she surged right past me like I was standing still. Damn it! She wound up finishing about as far ahead of me as she had started.
So, the final outcome: 8.1 miles (or whatever it is) in 23:50, which is about 20.39 mph--not that I looked that up as soon as I got home or anything. I'm not happy with it, I'm not horribly disappointed either. Anyway, I did another loop around the autobahn to cool down and was all set to head back to the car when Erin yelled at me to see if I wanted to do a loop around the veloway with her. I think I must have given her one of my raging-bitch looks, which I never mean to give, it's just that my pissed off face, my scared-out-of-my-mind face, my tired face, and my worried face all look exactly the same. At that particular moment, she was getting my tired face (with a touch of seriously-are-you-out-of-your-mind-? thrown in). But I did the loop with her, and I'm glad I did, it was a pretty evening, the company was good and it got me to just shy of 30 miles for the day.
Lastly, I am happy to report that as I have been writing this, the song playing over and over in my head has finally switched from the Beatles to the slightly less annoying--only because it's not the Beatles--"Point of No Return" by the 80's group NuShooz (also responsible for the equally off-putting "I Can't Wait"). Yeah, I don't know why either.
Anyway, all of that is completely irrelevant, but because this song is driving me to the brink of insanity, I thought I should mention it. On to the important stuff. First, I made it back from Detroit, finally, at 9:30 Wednesday night. I missed my original flight because our client lunch ran long. That gave me two hours to kill in the Smith Terminal of Detroit Metro. This is the terminal that American Airlines flies in and out of. It's important only because the next shittiest airline terminal you will find anywhere on the planet exists in a third world country. My patience was rewarded, however, with an unexpected, last minute upgrade to first class (seat 4B) on the Detroit to DFW leg of my journey. Ah, three hours of leg room, a glass of wine and an actual meal. On the other hand, my DFW to Austin flight found me sitting, literally, in the very back corner of the airplane. My so-called window seat featured a stunning view of a jet engine. I would complain about how loud it was, too, except that the noise was just deafening enough to render it impossible to talk to my seatmate, Lance (no, not that Lance, silly). Lance introduced his white-sneakered self to me as soon as he sat down, complete with a limp handshake. When the flight attendant gave us our beverages, he clinked my plastic cup with his and said "cheers." Under most circumstances, Lance would have invited--I admit--a mildly irritated commentary within the endless mental dialogue I have going with myself (the soundtrack to which, currently, is this freakin' Beatles song). But because I can't seem to mind my own business, I noted that Lance was reading up on the psychological ramifications of divorce on young children. The way he was holding the reading material suggested to me that he was kind of self-conscious about it (I can't explain it, just go with me), and so I ultimately wound up feeling kind of sorry for Lance. I hope he gets all his stuff squared away and his young'uns turn out to be well-adjusted little citizens.
Because I got to spend so much time on airplanes--and three different airlines, to boot--I also had the opportunity to do three different crossword puzzles in three different airline magazines. Here is how I would rank them in order of most difficult to least: American, Continental, Northwest (Sidebar: why does Northwest insist upon painting its acronym--NWA--on the side of its aircraft? Am I the only one who associates NWA with an angry, yet talented, rap group?). I used to do the Mensa quiz in the American magazine, but it's beginning to make me feel stupid. Either that or I just don't want to think that hard.
I was starving by the time I got to ABIA (all this working out is wreaking havoc on my metabolism), so I stopped off at Taco Cabana for a fajita chicken taco. In spite of driving 70 mph up IH-35 as I ate this thing--and thus, not able to fully enjoy its complex flavor and slightly rubbery texture--it was still the best fajita chicken taco ever. (Another sidebar: If you ever decide to backpack through Mexico, stop at the Taco Cabana in Laredo and pick up a dozen of their tortillas to take with you--you'll be glad you did.)
Moving on...I obviously missed Wednesday's quality run, which I hate, hate, hate to have missed. However, I did do Thursday's quality ride, which consisted of a time trial at the veloway (actually, around the autobahn). I felt pretty good on the warm-up, in spite of the wind and this weird desire to take a nap. When it came time to start the time trial itself, however, no one wanted to go first. More accurately, no one wanted to go before Erin. Erin said she wasn't racing, but I think that's the point--whether she's racing or not, she's still going to kick your ass. Anyway, as you might have guessed, Erin did, in fact, go first. If she hadn't, I think we would have been standing there at LaCrosse and Mopac all night. I was next, probably 200 yards behind Erin. I told myself I was going to hang back for a while, settle in, get my heart rate up and steady, put in a hard effort but no so hard I would blow up when I hit the wind on the way back in. In reality, all I was doing was rationalizing why I wasn't pushing to catch Erin, which is what I wanted to do. The trouble is, I've ridden with her enough times now to know that even if I reeled her in, I would have a hard time staying ahead of her. To fail to do so would be (and later turned out to be) a little bit of a blow to the ego, considering she wasn't racing. But she was a nice target out there, so I closed on her little by little and finally caught her after we made the turn to come back in. I'm pretty sure she wasn't breathing hard when I passed her, but I know I was. I managed to hold her off for--get this--maybe a minute, before she surged right past me like I was standing still. Damn it! She wound up finishing about as far ahead of me as she had started.
So, the final outcome: 8.1 miles (or whatever it is) in 23:50, which is about 20.39 mph--not that I looked that up as soon as I got home or anything. I'm not happy with it, I'm not horribly disappointed either. Anyway, I did another loop around the autobahn to cool down and was all set to head back to the car when Erin yelled at me to see if I wanted to do a loop around the veloway with her. I think I must have given her one of my raging-bitch looks, which I never mean to give, it's just that my pissed off face, my scared-out-of-my-mind face, my tired face, and my worried face all look exactly the same. At that particular moment, she was getting my tired face (with a touch of seriously-are-you-out-of-your-mind-? thrown in). But I did the loop with her, and I'm glad I did, it was a pretty evening, the company was good and it got me to just shy of 30 miles for the day.
Lastly, I am happy to report that as I have been writing this, the song playing over and over in my head has finally switched from the Beatles to the slightly less annoying--only because it's not the Beatles--"Point of No Return" by the 80's group NuShooz (also responsible for the equally off-putting "I Can't Wait"). Yeah, I don't know why either.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
My Trip So Far...
Somehow, some way, I made it to Detroit this evening at precisely 6:21 p.m. In other words, we arrived at the gate exactly on time. This never happens to me. It also does not bode well for the return trip home tomorrow--you just can't bat a thousand when you travel these days. At least, not if you're me. That's okay, I'm thankful for today's small miracle, because that meant I got my workout in--woohoo!! It was kind of a lame workout, at least on paper, but I'm okay with it. I did three sets of running on the treadmill for 10 minutes followed by riding the stationary bike for 10 minutes. So, a total of 60 minutes. I was really worried about the quality of the workout, but I think, for the time spent, it wound up okay. I was feeling that nice onset of fatigue in the final bike rep, probably because I tried to push it a little on the final run. Anyway, I'm happy. :) Also, I almost channeled Buzz for a brief moment while doing sit-ups at the very end: I had an oh-my-god-I'm-going-to-barf moment. Only I didn't barf. It really is the little things.
Now, on to the burning issue everyone is undoubtedly dying to know about, how is my trip so far? Glad you asked. Let me tell you my favorite thing about my company: we're not cheap. No La Quinta, no Marriott Courtyard, no Super 8. Nope, tonight I will be sleeping in the Heavenly Bed here at the Westin Detroit Airport. (Seriously, I think this hotel might be the nicest thing Detroit has going for it.) I have already partaken of the Heavenly Bath experience, vis-a-vis the dual-head shower, the fragrant body lotion with a hint of ginger to it, and, of course, the fluffy white bathrobe. Naturally, it would not be a stay on the company dime without hitting the minibar. And, no, it's not the booze, it's the cashews. I never eat cashews anywhere else except from hotel minibars on business trips. It's a little indulgence after what are always very long days.
Separately, I had dinner tonight with the partner (i.e., my boss) on this client we're going to see tomorrow. She's a nice lady, I really like her. But here's a little fun fact all of you completely insane Camp Punishment, Blue Jackets, et al. people will appreciate: her son ran a 2:39 at New York last fall. Damn! He'll be at Boston on Monday (his fourth time). If that's not enough, he finished 89th at Boston two years ago. Are you annoyed yet? Yeah, now he's getting into duathlons. Can't wait to hear what a bad ass he turns out to be there. Maybe we should recruit him.
Anyhoo...the verdict so far? Not a bad trip. In fact, no complaints whatsoever, which is amazing, considering I'm super good at complaining. Now I just need to get through tomorrow's client meeting without making an ass of myself (another thing I'm super good at). Wish me luck!
Now, on to the burning issue everyone is undoubtedly dying to know about, how is my trip so far? Glad you asked. Let me tell you my favorite thing about my company: we're not cheap. No La Quinta, no Marriott Courtyard, no Super 8. Nope, tonight I will be sleeping in the Heavenly Bed here at the Westin Detroit Airport. (Seriously, I think this hotel might be the nicest thing Detroit has going for it.) I have already partaken of the Heavenly Bath experience, vis-a-vis the dual-head shower, the fragrant body lotion with a hint of ginger to it, and, of course, the fluffy white bathrobe. Naturally, it would not be a stay on the company dime without hitting the minibar. And, no, it's not the booze, it's the cashews. I never eat cashews anywhere else except from hotel minibars on business trips. It's a little indulgence after what are always very long days.
Separately, I had dinner tonight with the partner (i.e., my boss) on this client we're going to see tomorrow. She's a nice lady, I really like her. But here's a little fun fact all of you completely insane Camp Punishment, Blue Jackets, et al. people will appreciate: her son ran a 2:39 at New York last fall. Damn! He'll be at Boston on Monday (his fourth time). If that's not enough, he finished 89th at Boston two years ago. Are you annoyed yet? Yeah, now he's getting into duathlons. Can't wait to hear what a bad ass he turns out to be there. Maybe we should recruit him.
Anyhoo...the verdict so far? Not a bad trip. In fact, no complaints whatsoever, which is amazing, considering I'm super good at complaining. Now I just need to get through tomorrow's client meeting without making an ass of myself (another thing I'm super good at). Wish me luck!
Flying the Friendly Skies
I am sitting here at gate 22 at ABIA, waiting to get on my flight to Detroit (by way of Cleveland--can't beat that with a stick). It's not looking good so far. First off, I thought my flight was at 10:55 a.m., but it's really at 11:55 a.m., so apparently I can't read and I'm here a full hour earlier than the hour early you're supposed to arrive anyway. Fine. Also, we are supposed to board at 11:20, which is about 12 minutes from now. As there is no aircraft at the gate, I'm thinking we're not going anywhere anytime soon. I can handle that, too. What I can't handle is the small child who is screaming at the very top of his lungs, sitting here at the gate. I know for a fact that if our aircraft ever rolls up, it's going to be one of these little regional jets, which means we're all going to be jammed onto a very small plane with a little boy who is extremely vocal and even more pissed off. Ugh! I know it's not the kid's fault, and his parents can only do so much, God love 'em, but...well, I'm just glad I remembered to charge my iPod, we're in for a long afternoon.
Keeping My Promises
One of my New Year's resolutions was to keep my promises to myself. So far, I'm struggling with this one.
I slept in this morning. The alarm was set for 5 a.m., and the plan was to head to Lifetime and spin on my own (there are no early morning classes on Tuesdays). At 4:46 a.m. I reset the alarm for 5:30 a.m. and told myself I'd get up and run, instead.
It is now 7:16 a.m., and I'm sitting here on the couch in my bathrobe, rubbing the blurry stuff out of my eyes and drafting this post. No spin. No run. The fate of my workout is now out of my hands and in the hands of Continental Airlines and their ability to get me to Detroit by 6:21 p.m. like my itinerary says they're supposed to. I've got my fingers crossed, but more than anything, I'm just mad at myself for putting myself in this position.
I slept in this morning. The alarm was set for 5 a.m., and the plan was to head to Lifetime and spin on my own (there are no early morning classes on Tuesdays). At 4:46 a.m. I reset the alarm for 5:30 a.m. and told myself I'd get up and run, instead.
It is now 7:16 a.m., and I'm sitting here on the couch in my bathrobe, rubbing the blurry stuff out of my eyes and drafting this post. No spin. No run. The fate of my workout is now out of my hands and in the hands of Continental Airlines and their ability to get me to Detroit by 6:21 p.m. like my itinerary says they're supposed to. I've got my fingers crossed, but more than anything, I'm just mad at myself for putting myself in this position.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Beer Cans for Jesus
I hear they have medication nowadays to treat adult ADD. I need whatever this medication is, because I absolutely cannot sit still long enough to focus on the task in front of me. Which is writing a management guide for administering one of my clients’ international assignment programs. I keep yawning. I actually fell asleep at one point. This isn’t good.
So, in order to perk up, I figured I’d do what I do better than anyone else I know, procrastinate.
Let me fill you in on what you’ve been missing here on Planet Kris. First, I got in a big huge, tragic, mystifying-in-terms-of-how-it-happened-but-serious-nonetheless text message fight with a very dear friend of mine on Friday. The last message came in on Saturday morning—a little gem I discovered on my phone that put a big damper on my fantastic mood following that morning’s kickass workout. Let me boil it down for you, I am never to contact my friend again. Ouch. That'll take the wind out your sails in a hurry.
The good news is, I had a wonderful Mexican dinner Saturday night at Polvo’s with a great group of people. Wow, you cannot imagine how badly I needed that (thanks for thinking of me, Erin).
Sunday found me watching CBS Sunday Morning with Charles Osgood. I love this show. I love Charles Osgood. He has the best voice. I want him to come to my house and read me bedtime stories. I usually switch to Fox at 9 a.m. and then Meet the Press at 10 a.m. I’m not very political, I think Capitol Hill is covered up in idiots and ideology seems to have no bearing one way or the other. But I get a kick out of the banter on these shows and the way everyone takes themselves so seriously. So I enjoyed that while I finished up some work from Friday and then reconciled two months worth of bank statements.
At 12:30 we headed to Dripping Springs to my parents’ house. My dad is hiking in Utah right now, so it was just my mom (if you meet her, call her Dot, she LOVES that), Jeff, my parents’ two schnauzers and me. Dot can’t cook. She tries, but she’s awful. So she got the whole Easter meal from Whole Foods. (Dear God, thank you for Whole Foods. Amen.) Since it was just Jeff, Dot and I, I’m not sure why we had to use the good china and crystal. I guess beer just looks nicer when it’s presented in a Waterford goblet. Anyway, after we ate and cleaned up I got to play with my mom’s blood pressure machine and her bb-gun, although not at the same time. I think my blood pressure is too high (111/66), given my physical conditioning, etc. I’m blaming it on the fact that I was dehydrated, drinking alcohol followed by coffee and had just accidentally de-pressurized a lighter, which I didn’t even know you could do. Highly pressurized flammable liquid spewing from its container…there are just too many ways for that to end badly.
Next up was the bb-gun, which was a good time. We set up cans on the edge of the fire pit, stood in the back doorway and took turns shooting at them. Nothing says “He is risen” like taking out a couple beer cans with a firearm.
We got home around 6:30 and had a low-key evening. I was going to get up early and go into the downtown Austin office this morning, but taking conference calls in sweats from my couch beats putting on make-up and heels any day. The only problem with working from home is that there’s no one to go socialize with when I need a break, plus this big, awful fight with my friend keeps creeping into my head and distracting me. Argghh.
Oh well, at least I have spin class and, oh yeah, a trip to Detroit tomorrow (!), to look forward to.
And now, back to my management guide…
So, in order to perk up, I figured I’d do what I do better than anyone else I know, procrastinate.
Let me fill you in on what you’ve been missing here on Planet Kris. First, I got in a big huge, tragic, mystifying-in-terms-of-how-it-happened-but-serious-nonetheless text message fight with a very dear friend of mine on Friday. The last message came in on Saturday morning—a little gem I discovered on my phone that put a big damper on my fantastic mood following that morning’s kickass workout. Let me boil it down for you, I am never to contact my friend again. Ouch. That'll take the wind out your sails in a hurry.
The good news is, I had a wonderful Mexican dinner Saturday night at Polvo’s with a great group of people. Wow, you cannot imagine how badly I needed that (thanks for thinking of me, Erin).
Sunday found me watching CBS Sunday Morning with Charles Osgood. I love this show. I love Charles Osgood. He has the best voice. I want him to come to my house and read me bedtime stories. I usually switch to Fox at 9 a.m. and then Meet the Press at 10 a.m. I’m not very political, I think Capitol Hill is covered up in idiots and ideology seems to have no bearing one way or the other. But I get a kick out of the banter on these shows and the way everyone takes themselves so seriously. So I enjoyed that while I finished up some work from Friday and then reconciled two months worth of bank statements.
At 12:30 we headed to Dripping Springs to my parents’ house. My dad is hiking in Utah right now, so it was just my mom (if you meet her, call her Dot, she LOVES that), Jeff, my parents’ two schnauzers and me. Dot can’t cook. She tries, but she’s awful. So she got the whole Easter meal from Whole Foods. (Dear God, thank you for Whole Foods. Amen.) Since it was just Jeff, Dot and I, I’m not sure why we had to use the good china and crystal. I guess beer just looks nicer when it’s presented in a Waterford goblet. Anyway, after we ate and cleaned up I got to play with my mom’s blood pressure machine and her bb-gun, although not at the same time. I think my blood pressure is too high (111/66), given my physical conditioning, etc. I’m blaming it on the fact that I was dehydrated, drinking alcohol followed by coffee and had just accidentally de-pressurized a lighter, which I didn’t even know you could do. Highly pressurized flammable liquid spewing from its container…there are just too many ways for that to end badly.
Next up was the bb-gun, which was a good time. We set up cans on the edge of the fire pit, stood in the back doorway and took turns shooting at them. Nothing says “He is risen” like taking out a couple beer cans with a firearm.
We got home around 6:30 and had a low-key evening. I was going to get up early and go into the downtown Austin office this morning, but taking conference calls in sweats from my couch beats putting on make-up and heels any day. The only problem with working from home is that there’s no one to go socialize with when I need a break, plus this big, awful fight with my friend keeps creeping into my head and distracting me. Argghh.
Oh well, at least I have spin class and, oh yeah, a trip to Detroit tomorrow (!), to look forward to.
And now, back to my management guide…
Saturday, April 7, 2007
How To Spend A Crappy April Morning
Could it be any colder and crappier in the middle of April? I know, I know, not an original complaint for this Saturday, the whole town is whining about the weather. But, really, sleet and 32 degrees (yes, it's 32 out here in the boondocks where I live)??
And yet, it really couldn't have been a better day.
With such amazingly crappy weather, Erin and I decided to bag our outdoor brick and meet at the Lifetime Fitness near my house at 8 a.m. The goal: back-to-back spin classes plus a little extra, three miles on the treadmill, and a swim if we could still function after the bike and run.
We were in the spin studio by 8:20, riding. Spin class started at 8:45. I was hoping for a hill workout, but we did the equivalent of flat road endurance instead. Oh well, it was still a pretty good class. Erin and I kept on spinning through the cool down and right into the next class, which started at 10 a.m. That class was a little more intense, I thought, but it probably had a lot to do with fatigue setting in. Also, the instructor played "Sexy Back" right at the start of the workout, which kind of ruined it for me before we ever really got out of the gate. It's not that "Sexy Back" is a bad song...well, yeah, actually it is.
Next we went out to the treadmills. I started off really, really slow and finished not-as-slow, so I was pleased. Seriously, I kept making deals with myself that if I could get to this or that quarter mile mark, I would speed up just a little, and the plan worked. It wasn't the fastest three miles of my life, but I was surprised at how strong I felt considering we had just biked somewhere in the vicinity of 50 miles. I could have stayed on that treadmill for much longer (except I really had to pee).
My quads were achy as Erin and I walked back downstairs to the locker room, but otherwise I felt really good. I was hoping (at one point I think I actually prayed for this) that Erin would not mention the word "swim" or any variant thereof. What a silly girl I am, of COURSE she did. Erin likes to swim (damn her :) ). So we changed into swimsuits and got a few laps in (and no, I'm not going to tell you how far I went because it's sad and pathetic and I'm blaming it all on my goggles so leave me alone).
Final verdict: After almost four solid hours of exertion, I must say I am more pleased with this workout than I have been with any so far--I needed a brick like that to confirm that the pieces really are falling into place (watch this, kids, I just totally jinxed myself!). Moreover, it was just fun!
And yet, it really couldn't have been a better day.
With such amazingly crappy weather, Erin and I decided to bag our outdoor brick and meet at the Lifetime Fitness near my house at 8 a.m. The goal: back-to-back spin classes plus a little extra, three miles on the treadmill, and a swim if we could still function after the bike and run.
We were in the spin studio by 8:20, riding. Spin class started at 8:45. I was hoping for a hill workout, but we did the equivalent of flat road endurance instead. Oh well, it was still a pretty good class. Erin and I kept on spinning through the cool down and right into the next class, which started at 10 a.m. That class was a little more intense, I thought, but it probably had a lot to do with fatigue setting in. Also, the instructor played "Sexy Back" right at the start of the workout, which kind of ruined it for me before we ever really got out of the gate. It's not that "Sexy Back" is a bad song...well, yeah, actually it is.
Next we went out to the treadmills. I started off really, really slow and finished not-as-slow, so I was pleased. Seriously, I kept making deals with myself that if I could get to this or that quarter mile mark, I would speed up just a little, and the plan worked. It wasn't the fastest three miles of my life, but I was surprised at how strong I felt considering we had just biked somewhere in the vicinity of 50 miles. I could have stayed on that treadmill for much longer (except I really had to pee).
My quads were achy as Erin and I walked back downstairs to the locker room, but otherwise I felt really good. I was hoping (at one point I think I actually prayed for this) that Erin would not mention the word "swim" or any variant thereof. What a silly girl I am, of COURSE she did. Erin likes to swim (damn her :) ). So we changed into swimsuits and got a few laps in (and no, I'm not going to tell you how far I went because it's sad and pathetic and I'm blaming it all on my goggles so leave me alone).
Final verdict: After almost four solid hours of exertion, I must say I am more pleased with this workout than I have been with any so far--I needed a brick like that to confirm that the pieces really are falling into place (watch this, kids, I just totally jinxed myself!). Moreover, it was just fun!
Friday, April 6, 2007
Limping Across the Finish Line
It’s been such a bad day. And yet it started off so promising. In bed before midnight (a rarity lately), seven hours of sleep, an attack plan for the day. Things were humming until noon, and then down the toilet they went. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say, I’ve gotten nothing done and I’ve managed to piss off everyone I know. Perfect. This is how I like to start my weekends.
So let’s just skip to the two bright spots I’m hanging on to for dear life, both of which are quickly slipping into the past, even as I write this.
Wednesday’s quality workout. We only did four 400’s. Yeah, I’m with you, piece of cake, right? Not really. This is one of the toughest workouts I’ve done in a long time. The idea was to run as hard as you can for 400 meters, mile pace or faster. Then you got a full recovery (about 5 – 7 minutes) before you went back to the line and did it again. I wasn’t too happy with the outcome of the workout until noon today, when my day started to suck. Now I’m thrilled (all things are relative, after all). Here’s how it went down.
1st 400 – Somehow I wound up behind Triscuit for this one. That’s about the last place I wanted to be. The girl is damn fast, and I was not in the mood to be demoralized on the very first repeat. Yet I managed to at least stay in contact with her and came across in 1:19. It helped, too, that Panther and Wiley were cheering for everyone on the home stretch. I would really need that later.
2nd 400 – After shuffling a lap around the track to recover and then stretching a little, it was time to go again. Triscuit and I didn’t start together, and I was glad, it was hard enough trying to stay anywhere near her on the first lap, I didn’t really want to try it again. So off I went on my own. I felt okay, but the wind on the back stretch was noticeable and brutal and I could feel myself starting to tighten up on the second curve. End result: 1:20. Ugh. Slower.
3rd 400 – Shuffle another lap, stretch, get some water, line up again. Starting to feel some jelly legs. Wind sucked. Actually felt myself slowing down uncontrollably in the second curve. Pushed with everything I had on the straightaway. 1:20. Could have been worse. Definitely felt worse.
4th 400 – A little worried about this one. So I tried to think of it like the 4x400 relay in high school. I would finish running the 1600 as hard as I could, and then I would have about 7 minutes to recover before running the third leg of the relay (and yes, the third leg is the loser, slow person leg, thank you very much). Great, had a model to follow. So, shuffle another lap, no water this time, stretch, line up, go. Felt like crap from the beginning, very tired. At 200m I was at :40, a second off my pace for the other three repeats. By the second curve I had butt-lock, which is exactly what it sounds like, my butt muscles totally locked up. Mercifully, I made it to the home stretch, where the reward was a tail wind, Wiley and Panther cheering, and a finish line 100m away. I crossed in 1:21. Damn it! Oh well. It is what it is.
Thursday was the quality bike. Gorgeous night for a bike ride. For whatever reason, I was feeling really good, really excited for the workout, which was Mesa hill repeats. Erin was kind enough to post the graph of the elevation change on her blog, you should check it out. It’s a tougher hill, at least on paper, than I thought it was. Anyway, the idea was to do one more repeat than last time, so for me, the magic number was four. I had felt pretty good riding over, but for some reason I struggled just a little bit on the first ascent. I really think it was just a matter of finding my legs, though, because on the second one, I felt great. Ditto the third and fourth. I know I could have done a fifth, but it would have started to become a little uncomfortable.
The thing I like about long hills is that you can get into a rhythm. It’s painful, but it’s a steady, tolerable level of pain. Mesa is particularly nice, because there are two breaks on the way up where you can recover just a little without really breaking your rhythm. In fact, I just kind of zone out when I’m climbing. I’m totally focused on what I’m doing, totally focused on keeping that rhythm. I usually wind up with a song playing in my head that matches up with my cadence. Last night it was that song from the Target commercial (“a little bit more, a little bit more…” just kept repeating that). I know, cheesy, but you do what it takes.
We finished the workout and rode back. I got chased by a dog. (Hey dog owners, here’s a tip: if you can’t control your dog off the leash, don’t let the dog off the f---ing leash.) I tried to outride the little bastard, but he was quick. He finally stopped chasing me, and when Panther caught up to me, he told me that next time, I should stop pedaling (dumb ass), because the dog is chasing the motion of your foot. Sound advice.
That brings us to today, which is really not worth talking about, so let’s skip to tomorrow. It’s supposed to be cold, wet and miserable tomorrow, so it looks like spin class and the treadmill. Thinking of doing back to back spin classes, we’ll see how great an idea that is. I will say this, though, for some reason pain is becoming its own reward.
So let’s just skip to the two bright spots I’m hanging on to for dear life, both of which are quickly slipping into the past, even as I write this.
Wednesday’s quality workout. We only did four 400’s. Yeah, I’m with you, piece of cake, right? Not really. This is one of the toughest workouts I’ve done in a long time. The idea was to run as hard as you can for 400 meters, mile pace or faster. Then you got a full recovery (about 5 – 7 minutes) before you went back to the line and did it again. I wasn’t too happy with the outcome of the workout until noon today, when my day started to suck. Now I’m thrilled (all things are relative, after all). Here’s how it went down.
1st 400 – Somehow I wound up behind Triscuit for this one. That’s about the last place I wanted to be. The girl is damn fast, and I was not in the mood to be demoralized on the very first repeat. Yet I managed to at least stay in contact with her and came across in 1:19. It helped, too, that Panther and Wiley were cheering for everyone on the home stretch. I would really need that later.
2nd 400 – After shuffling a lap around the track to recover and then stretching a little, it was time to go again. Triscuit and I didn’t start together, and I was glad, it was hard enough trying to stay anywhere near her on the first lap, I didn’t really want to try it again. So off I went on my own. I felt okay, but the wind on the back stretch was noticeable and brutal and I could feel myself starting to tighten up on the second curve. End result: 1:20. Ugh. Slower.
3rd 400 – Shuffle another lap, stretch, get some water, line up again. Starting to feel some jelly legs. Wind sucked. Actually felt myself slowing down uncontrollably in the second curve. Pushed with everything I had on the straightaway. 1:20. Could have been worse. Definitely felt worse.
4th 400 – A little worried about this one. So I tried to think of it like the 4x400 relay in high school. I would finish running the 1600 as hard as I could, and then I would have about 7 minutes to recover before running the third leg of the relay (and yes, the third leg is the loser, slow person leg, thank you very much). Great, had a model to follow. So, shuffle another lap, no water this time, stretch, line up, go. Felt like crap from the beginning, very tired. At 200m I was at :40, a second off my pace for the other three repeats. By the second curve I had butt-lock, which is exactly what it sounds like, my butt muscles totally locked up. Mercifully, I made it to the home stretch, where the reward was a tail wind, Wiley and Panther cheering, and a finish line 100m away. I crossed in 1:21. Damn it! Oh well. It is what it is.
Thursday was the quality bike. Gorgeous night for a bike ride. For whatever reason, I was feeling really good, really excited for the workout, which was Mesa hill repeats. Erin was kind enough to post the graph of the elevation change on her blog, you should check it out. It’s a tougher hill, at least on paper, than I thought it was. Anyway, the idea was to do one more repeat than last time, so for me, the magic number was four. I had felt pretty good riding over, but for some reason I struggled just a little bit on the first ascent. I really think it was just a matter of finding my legs, though, because on the second one, I felt great. Ditto the third and fourth. I know I could have done a fifth, but it would have started to become a little uncomfortable.
The thing I like about long hills is that you can get into a rhythm. It’s painful, but it’s a steady, tolerable level of pain. Mesa is particularly nice, because there are two breaks on the way up where you can recover just a little without really breaking your rhythm. In fact, I just kind of zone out when I’m climbing. I’m totally focused on what I’m doing, totally focused on keeping that rhythm. I usually wind up with a song playing in my head that matches up with my cadence. Last night it was that song from the Target commercial (“a little bit more, a little bit more…” just kept repeating that). I know, cheesy, but you do what it takes.
We finished the workout and rode back. I got chased by a dog. (Hey dog owners, here’s a tip: if you can’t control your dog off the leash, don’t let the dog off the f---ing leash.) I tried to outride the little bastard, but he was quick. He finally stopped chasing me, and when Panther caught up to me, he told me that next time, I should stop pedaling (dumb ass), because the dog is chasing the motion of your foot. Sound advice.
That brings us to today, which is really not worth talking about, so let’s skip to tomorrow. It’s supposed to be cold, wet and miserable tomorrow, so it looks like spin class and the treadmill. Thinking of doing back to back spin classes, we’ll see how great an idea that is. I will say this, though, for some reason pain is becoming its own reward.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Rocky Hill Ranch Report
My final report from the weekend…Sunday’s ride out at Rocky Hill Ranch.
As I have beaten to death by now, I was out in Smithville this weekend for this family reunion. By Sunday morning, the dust had settled, and Jeff and I finally dragged our lazy asses out to the truck to drive over to Rocky Hill Ranch at about 11:00. I had done all the checks on my mountain bike on Friday night, pumped up the tires to the proper level, all that fun stuff. On Saturday morning, when we loaded our bikes in the truck, the tires were still properly inflated. However, on Sunday morning—thankfully before we got out to Rocky Hill—I noted my back tire was totally flat. Frustrating. So I took the wheel off, patched the tube, put the whole thing back together again and pumped the tire back up. At first it held air, and then it deflated again almost instantaneously. Damn it. I didn’t have an extra tube (yeah, I don’t know why I didn’t, either), but there’s a bike shop in Bastrop. By this time I was hungry, and I’m not fun to be around when I’m sugar-crashing, so we stopped at Taco Cabana on the way to the bike shop. It’s not just that the service was the slowest I’ve EVER encountered at a Taco Cabana, it’s that everyone in Taco Cabana was fat, and not just a little fat, a lot damn fat. I don’t mean to be cruel or elitist or whatever, but I just don’t get how people can be so freakin’ fat these days. But that’s a rant for another time.
By now it was pushing 1:00. Our next stop was the bike shop in Bastrop. Twenty minutes of driving around Bastrop and three phone calls later, we finally found the place, (Rising Phoenix Adventures…dramatic, isn’t it?), bought two more tubes plus a tire, and continued out to Rocky Hill. We were officially on a mission to mountain bike at this point, whether we wanted to or not. When we got to Rocky Hill, I changed my tube and my tire and rode around a little to test it out. It held air. Yeehaw, we were in business!
The first sign of trouble came about two minutes into the ride. My legs simply were not happy to be on the bike. I’m used to that kind of lactic acidy feeling (I don’t know how else to describe it) that happens sometimes when I first get on a road bike, and it rides itself out pretty quickly. But on a road bike, you’re not on technical trails with rocks and mud and tree roots and whole loads of stuff you have to hit just so in order to stay upright. In fact, I felt kind of fatigued, which means I not only wasn’t riding aggressively, I wasn’t even riding assertively. Self-doubt on a mountain bike is not a good thing.
After a while I warmed up, but I was still riding like a girl (apologies to the sisterhood). I think I do better when I can’t see the big scary things coming—probably everyone does, you just react, you don’t think. And that’s one of things I really like about mountain biking, you simply must be in the moment. You can’t be thinking about work or what’s for dinner or the fat people at Taco Cabana. I’ve tried meditation before and I suck at it, because I can’t get my mind to empty out and focus. But out on those trails, or when I’m running a speed workout, I’m 100% focused on the present. I really like that feeling.
Anyway, we were out in the middle of the woods on some single-track, suicidal trail, when we hit yet another creek crossing with an absolutely ridiculous staircase of tree roots on the other side. I took a deep breath, uttered a dirty word as I had on every crossing like it we had hit thus far, and off I went. I was through the water, up the first tree root step and about up the next one when it became clear not only that I was not going to make it, but that I also wasn’t going to unclip from my pedals in time to keep from falling over. This is when I executed an amazing save that defies description, except to say that all four limbs were involved as well as a cedar tree. It was at about that time that I noticed my back tire was loudly expelling air and was, within seconds, totally flat. Ask me if I had that extra tube with me. Of course not. And what about the trail map, had that made it into my pocket? Hell no. It turns out, we were approximately as far from the truck as we could have been, and I was going to have to walk my mother f***ing bike all the way back in. Which I did. The good news is, it’s awfully pretty out there, and if you’re paying attention (and assuming you’re interested, which I am, because I’m a total loser), you can find some really cool…wait for it…rocks. Seriously. I picked up two pieces of quartz that were clear as glass. And I brought them home. Because I suck.
So, my mountain bike is back in the garage now. My task sometime this week is to take the tire off and the tube out and find out what the hell is going on. It’s too weird, I’ve never had a flat on that bike before, much less three (if you count the patch job) in one day.
As for Rocky Hill Ranch, I love that place. Sometime between now and the next time I go out there, I’m going to find the cajones to attack those trails the way they deserve to be attacked.
As I have beaten to death by now, I was out in Smithville this weekend for this family reunion. By Sunday morning, the dust had settled, and Jeff and I finally dragged our lazy asses out to the truck to drive over to Rocky Hill Ranch at about 11:00. I had done all the checks on my mountain bike on Friday night, pumped up the tires to the proper level, all that fun stuff. On Saturday morning, when we loaded our bikes in the truck, the tires were still properly inflated. However, on Sunday morning—thankfully before we got out to Rocky Hill—I noted my back tire was totally flat. Frustrating. So I took the wheel off, patched the tube, put the whole thing back together again and pumped the tire back up. At first it held air, and then it deflated again almost instantaneously. Damn it. I didn’t have an extra tube (yeah, I don’t know why I didn’t, either), but there’s a bike shop in Bastrop. By this time I was hungry, and I’m not fun to be around when I’m sugar-crashing, so we stopped at Taco Cabana on the way to the bike shop. It’s not just that the service was the slowest I’ve EVER encountered at a Taco Cabana, it’s that everyone in Taco Cabana was fat, and not just a little fat, a lot damn fat. I don’t mean to be cruel or elitist or whatever, but I just don’t get how people can be so freakin’ fat these days. But that’s a rant for another time.
By now it was pushing 1:00. Our next stop was the bike shop in Bastrop. Twenty minutes of driving around Bastrop and three phone calls later, we finally found the place, (Rising Phoenix Adventures…dramatic, isn’t it?), bought two more tubes plus a tire, and continued out to Rocky Hill. We were officially on a mission to mountain bike at this point, whether we wanted to or not. When we got to Rocky Hill, I changed my tube and my tire and rode around a little to test it out. It held air. Yeehaw, we were in business!
The first sign of trouble came about two minutes into the ride. My legs simply were not happy to be on the bike. I’m used to that kind of lactic acidy feeling (I don’t know how else to describe it) that happens sometimes when I first get on a road bike, and it rides itself out pretty quickly. But on a road bike, you’re not on technical trails with rocks and mud and tree roots and whole loads of stuff you have to hit just so in order to stay upright. In fact, I felt kind of fatigued, which means I not only wasn’t riding aggressively, I wasn’t even riding assertively. Self-doubt on a mountain bike is not a good thing.
After a while I warmed up, but I was still riding like a girl (apologies to the sisterhood). I think I do better when I can’t see the big scary things coming—probably everyone does, you just react, you don’t think. And that’s one of things I really like about mountain biking, you simply must be in the moment. You can’t be thinking about work or what’s for dinner or the fat people at Taco Cabana. I’ve tried meditation before and I suck at it, because I can’t get my mind to empty out and focus. But out on those trails, or when I’m running a speed workout, I’m 100% focused on the present. I really like that feeling.
Anyway, we were out in the middle of the woods on some single-track, suicidal trail, when we hit yet another creek crossing with an absolutely ridiculous staircase of tree roots on the other side. I took a deep breath, uttered a dirty word as I had on every crossing like it we had hit thus far, and off I went. I was through the water, up the first tree root step and about up the next one when it became clear not only that I was not going to make it, but that I also wasn’t going to unclip from my pedals in time to keep from falling over. This is when I executed an amazing save that defies description, except to say that all four limbs were involved as well as a cedar tree. It was at about that time that I noticed my back tire was loudly expelling air and was, within seconds, totally flat. Ask me if I had that extra tube with me. Of course not. And what about the trail map, had that made it into my pocket? Hell no. It turns out, we were approximately as far from the truck as we could have been, and I was going to have to walk my mother f***ing bike all the way back in. Which I did. The good news is, it’s awfully pretty out there, and if you’re paying attention (and assuming you’re interested, which I am, because I’m a total loser), you can find some really cool…wait for it…rocks. Seriously. I picked up two pieces of quartz that were clear as glass. And I brought them home. Because I suck.
So, my mountain bike is back in the garage now. My task sometime this week is to take the tire off and the tube out and find out what the hell is going on. It’s too weird, I’ve never had a flat on that bike before, much less three (if you count the patch job) in one day.
As for Rocky Hill Ranch, I love that place. Sometime between now and the next time I go out there, I’m going to find the cajones to attack those trails the way they deserve to be attacked.
Family Reunion Update
I spent the weekend with my husband and his parents out in Smithville. I was expecting, and got, a mildly painful (think bruised shin) family reunion for the following reasons:
1) All of Jeff's married cousins—and there are several--have children or are about to have children.
2) Jeff and I don't have children.
3) Because Jeff and I don't have children, my mother-in-law is the only one among her siblings without grandkids. Can you say, “uncomfortable”?
4) Because Jeff and I don't have children, neither of us has much appreciation for little kids. It's not that we don't like them, it's just that they're cuter when they're your own (or so I'm told).
5) Because Jeff and I don't have children, it is nearly impossible to contribute anything of value to a conversation with these people.
At one point, I actually found myself standing around the feeding trough (a.k.a., the dining room table, featuring the trifecta of Frito's, potato chips and Tostito's) with all the men folk, who were comparing notes on infant feeding schedules. And they'd do that thing where they try to make eye contact with you and loop you in on the conversation, but I'd just stand there with this Stepford Wives-style empty smile on my face and shove Frito’s in my mouth, because I had absolutely nothing--not one damn thing--to contribute to this discussion.
After about five minutes of that I went and sat in the corner and did a jigsaw puzzle for the next three hours. I can assure you, my absence went unmarked.
1) All of Jeff's married cousins—and there are several--have children or are about to have children.
2) Jeff and I don't have children.
3) Because Jeff and I don't have children, my mother-in-law is the only one among her siblings without grandkids. Can you say, “uncomfortable”?
4) Because Jeff and I don't have children, neither of us has much appreciation for little kids. It's not that we don't like them, it's just that they're cuter when they're your own (or so I'm told).
5) Because Jeff and I don't have children, it is nearly impossible to contribute anything of value to a conversation with these people.
At one point, I actually found myself standing around the feeding trough (a.k.a., the dining room table, featuring the trifecta of Frito's, potato chips and Tostito's) with all the men folk, who were comparing notes on infant feeding schedules. And they'd do that thing where they try to make eye contact with you and loop you in on the conversation, but I'd just stand there with this Stepford Wives-style empty smile on my face and shove Frito’s in my mouth, because I had absolutely nothing--not one damn thing--to contribute to this discussion.
After about five minutes of that I went and sat in the corner and did a jigsaw puzzle for the next three hours. I can assure you, my absence went unmarked.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
The Ass at the Family Reunion (And It Wasn't Me)
This weekend was family reunion weekend out at my inlaws' place in Smithville. They've got a nice, 83-acre spread bordered on one side by the Colorado River. It's very pastoral.
My inlaws' property is like Noah's freakin' arc. At one time or another out there, there have been at least two dogs, a cat, a retired fighting rooster (which met his demise at the end of a shotgun barrel last summer--you can only spur my father-in-law, animal lover that he is, so many times before he's gonna put a cap in your ass), goats, and the latest...a donkey.
Lest you think otherwise, my inlaws are not white trash, knuckle-dragging mouth-breathers. These are retired engineering/information technology types from Houston, who just happened to have, over the years, embraced the bucolic vibe maybe a little more than one might expect. I'm glad they did, though, because the donkey is freakin' hilarious.
The donkey's name is Solon, which I think is biblical (it being that Panther has now set me up as the resident Camp Punishment Hebrew scholar, I guess I should figure that out). But usually he's just referred to as "Donkey." Donkey wanders the property freely, but usually stays up near the house. He's short and squatty, no more than four feet high, tops, and very round in the belly. At any given time, Donkey may be found eating the grass in the front yard, staring in one of the windows (usually the living room or the guest bathroom), or hanging out on the back porch. He has this vaguely insightful look in his eyes, kind of like he has all the naughty scoop on you and is totally down with it. (Maybe I'm overshooting here, but go with me, it was a long weekend.)
So, anyway, Jeff and I took our dogs out to Smithville this weekend. We have a 90-pound black lab named Blue, who is the most mild-mannered, sweetest buffoon of a dog in, possibly, ever. In addition to Blue, we have this 30-pound little girl dog, which we adopted from the SPCA in Dallas years ago. She's burnt orange (hook 'em), came with all sorts of neurotic baggage, and is a bitch in literal and figurative terms. I love her dearly. Her name is Gilpin.
Naturally, our dogs showed an interest in Donkey. Blue took a studied approach to him, sort of regarding him from a distance with a benign curiosity, and then he pretty much forgot about him. Unlike her brother, though, Gilpin was all up in Donkey's grill (why am I speaking ghetto today?) about five seconds after letting her out of the truck. Gilpin is too fast and agile for Donkey to have actually grabbed her by the scruff of the neck to give her a good shake--which she kind of had coming--but he managed to get one good kick in, right under her chin. I think she was too surprised and embarrassed to remember to yelp. Instead, she backed off the chase and did this little loop back to where I was standing with this look on her face like, "Oh my God, did you totally see what that thing just did to me? What an asshole!"
The whole dynamic changed after that. Donkey actively sought Gilpin out, and every time he did, Gilpin would run away and Donkey would chase her. This sort of thing went on sporadically for most of Saturday until Blue finally stepped in to defend his sister. Blue is, sadly, a raging coward. But I guess Donkey pushed his buttons one time too many, and Blue marched out into the yard, between Gilpin and Donkey and, get this, barked. One time. One big, 90-pound-dog bark and the show was over.
After that you just had to watch for Donkey in the window of the guest bathroom and remember to close the blinds if you didn't want him to watch you pee.
P.S. - There were people at the family reunion, but they were boring compared to Donkey.
My inlaws' property is like Noah's freakin' arc. At one time or another out there, there have been at least two dogs, a cat, a retired fighting rooster (which met his demise at the end of a shotgun barrel last summer--you can only spur my father-in-law, animal lover that he is, so many times before he's gonna put a cap in your ass), goats, and the latest...a donkey.
Lest you think otherwise, my inlaws are not white trash, knuckle-dragging mouth-breathers. These are retired engineering/information technology types from Houston, who just happened to have, over the years, embraced the bucolic vibe maybe a little more than one might expect. I'm glad they did, though, because the donkey is freakin' hilarious.
The donkey's name is Solon, which I think is biblical (it being that Panther has now set me up as the resident Camp Punishment Hebrew scholar, I guess I should figure that out). But usually he's just referred to as "Donkey." Donkey wanders the property freely, but usually stays up near the house. He's short and squatty, no more than four feet high, tops, and very round in the belly. At any given time, Donkey may be found eating the grass in the front yard, staring in one of the windows (usually the living room or the guest bathroom), or hanging out on the back porch. He has this vaguely insightful look in his eyes, kind of like he has all the naughty scoop on you and is totally down with it. (Maybe I'm overshooting here, but go with me, it was a long weekend.)
So, anyway, Jeff and I took our dogs out to Smithville this weekend. We have a 90-pound black lab named Blue, who is the most mild-mannered, sweetest buffoon of a dog in, possibly, ever. In addition to Blue, we have this 30-pound little girl dog, which we adopted from the SPCA in Dallas years ago. She's burnt orange (hook 'em), came with all sorts of neurotic baggage, and is a bitch in literal and figurative terms. I love her dearly. Her name is Gilpin.
Naturally, our dogs showed an interest in Donkey. Blue took a studied approach to him, sort of regarding him from a distance with a benign curiosity, and then he pretty much forgot about him. Unlike her brother, though, Gilpin was all up in Donkey's grill (why am I speaking ghetto today?) about five seconds after letting her out of the truck. Gilpin is too fast and agile for Donkey to have actually grabbed her by the scruff of the neck to give her a good shake--which she kind of had coming--but he managed to get one good kick in, right under her chin. I think she was too surprised and embarrassed to remember to yelp. Instead, she backed off the chase and did this little loop back to where I was standing with this look on her face like, "Oh my God, did you totally see what that thing just did to me? What an asshole!"
The whole dynamic changed after that. Donkey actively sought Gilpin out, and every time he did, Gilpin would run away and Donkey would chase her. This sort of thing went on sporadically for most of Saturday until Blue finally stepped in to defend his sister. Blue is, sadly, a raging coward. But I guess Donkey pushed his buttons one time too many, and Blue marched out into the yard, between Gilpin and Donkey and, get this, barked. One time. One big, 90-pound-dog bark and the show was over.
After that you just had to watch for Donkey in the window of the guest bathroom and remember to close the blinds if you didn't want him to watch you pee.
P.S. - There were people at the family reunion, but they were boring compared to Donkey.
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