Extra Gravity Drag Training

Science has known for quite some time that mammals gain weight in the fall. As part of their natural energy cycles, hormonal changes are sparked by the decreasing available sunlight and falling temperatures to encourage the uptake of higher energy foods. Comparatively speaking, fat is physically superior as an energy storage unit. We've all (hopefully) seen the side by side glance of fat versus muscle/ protein. Proteins and carbs require a large volume of water to store them, making them dense and, therefore, heavy. Your body, recognizing the hardships of a long and grueling winter, opts to convert its excess units of heat into floatable fat molecules.

Just in case:

In most competitive swimming circles, the season is a fall and winter sport. That means coaches all around the world are getting their athletes at their most buoyant time. That extra buoyancy makes it more efficient for a swimmer to stay on top of the water and, consequently, easier to flow through the water. Contrary to popular belief, coaches hate this. Granted, they won't tell you directly. You have to pay attention to the indirect methods of communicating their disdain. They called it "drag".

Here are just a few ways that my swim coaches over the years have forced additional drag onto me and my swimming mates:

• T-shirts

  

  Wrong type of drag suit, coach

• Sweatshirts
• Second, and sometimes a third, swim suit
• Speedos with large mesh pockets (conveniently called 'drag suits')
• Shoes in the pool
• Boots in the pool
• Swimming with someone holding your legs
• Tying a bucket to your waist
• Tying a bungee cord to your waist and the other to the end of the lane
• Anyone got another favorite they'd like to add?

The concept was that if they could make your swimming hell harder during practice, then when you stripped down to your loin cloth made of spandex, you'd be able to swim even faster. Your arms would be so used to the extra drag that you'd just fly through the water. And you know what, for the most part they were right!

Cyclists are much better at playing the drag game than runners. They have race wheels for competitions and training wheels for the rest of the year. Training jerseys are the cycling drag suit equivalent. They have one helmet for daily use and fancy, aero-helmets for the show. Some go so far as to shave their arms and legs to save watts (a concept they stole from the swimmers, I might add). I could go on.

Most runners suck at the drag game. Perhaps Olympic level sprinters engage in considering aerodynamic clothing options. Some runners will train in their "normal" shoes and race in their "flats", citing weight differences as their reason. Note: the weight difference is about 4 total ounces. I've yet to read the impact of 100 grams of rubber might have on the overall speed. The problem with runners is that the move at relatively slow speeds to make any gains potentially gained by aero-tech virtually moot. Even worse if you have the run speed of a comatose box turtle; I.E. me.

Well, I haven't been running much lately. I have this annoying achilles tendon issue that's got some extraordinary hang time. I learned, from a hamstring issue last year, that coming back from an injury too quickly yields in yet more injury. So I'm taking it cautiously and waiting until I'm sure that training won't cause this particular issue to worsen.

My most recent selfie

Luckily, I have been eating more. One would think that it would be smarter to lose weight during periods of sloth. Well, and this comes as no surprise, I'm not that smart. Or, am I?

See- running is a weight to power ratio driven sport. Here's where the Extra Gravity Drag Theory takes form. As bipedals, for each stride of the run, the human body is launched from the ground and quickly falls back. In order to perform this task, the runner must overcome the force of gravity. Gravity, being one of the four fundamental forces of the universe (the others being the strong force, the weak force, and the call of a bag of chips), is an ever present bastard that continuously pulls a mass towards its center. Gravity doesn't care how much you weigh, it pulls you down just the same. But, your legs care a lot. The more body you carry, regardless of muscle or fat, the more your legs have to work to overcome the pull. That means it's easier for a lighter runner to cross the earth on 2 legs than it is for a heavier one.

Since there isn't much in the form of external drag for runners, I'm resorting to adding internal extra resistance in the form of blubber. In the near future, hopefully, I'll get back to logging miles. And when I do, I'll have to cart around all this extra luggage. Conveniently, I'll have all of the extra stored energy I could ever want. There'll be no excuses for being lazy, right? Come spring, which hits in early July in these parts, the days will get longer and warmer. If things go as planned (which they never do), I'll lose some pounds and running will magically become easy. That's the theory. Anyone want to join me in testing this idea?

A Visit From the Triathlon Fairy

Once upon a time, in a land known as the armpit of America not so far from here, there lived a an idiot triathlete named the Banter. The Banter was a mediocre athlete with virtually no talent and a penchant to continue to toe the line year after year with no real results to speak of. But you could always count on him to be middle of the pack to front of the middle of the pack or back of the front of the pack. But never packing.  Every so often, if the right people signed up for a different race than the one that featured the Banter, he would have a sparkle of success, which kept him motivated to continue to train and race for years to come.

That was before the dark times. See, the Banter started to get old. And with great age comes great vulnerability, only the Banter wasn't smart enough to recognize it. He got injured. A lot. More so in the past 5 years than the rest of his athletic life combined. He trained on like he was young and virile. He was neither.  He assumed that each and every injuric episode was an isolated, freak incident with no rhyme or reasoning attached. He didn't realize that once you start to have multiple freak episodes, they are immune to the term 'freak' and are replaced with the word 'normal'.

One day, after his most recent 'freak' episode, the Banter was getting desperate for some good news on his prognosis. He did what most idiots people do,  he fired up the googler. Upon typing in a few key phrases, it turns out that the Banter, apparently, had less than two weeks left to live. "That's odd," thought the Banter, "This is just lower leg pain. I had no idea it could be so life threatening." The googler was clear, death was imminent.  "Oh boy, what ever shall I do?" thought the Banter.

Upon that query, out popped a beautiful lady with tiny running shoes and lycra cycling shorts. "I am the Triathlon Fairy tasked with overseeing the wellness of the athletes, lest our sport continue its fall from grace. What ails you, my child?"

The Banter was speechless. For one, he's not used to hot chicks talking to him on purpose. Most of the time, it's borne out of obligation and, even then, accomplished with the utmost hesitancy. For two, why would fairies even participate in swimming, biking, and/ or running when they can fly, or blink, or whatever they do for travel? For three, there's someone outside of sport that cares about the maintenance of the field? For four, there was a triathlon grace with which to fall? This was a perplexing situation.

"Hello," said the Triathlon Fairy, "Are you there?"

The Banter blinked himself back into reality. "Well, TF, I do have some problems. How long do you have?"

The fairy sensed a trap, as she was significantly smarter than the Banter (which isn't difficult to accomplish). "Please limit your concerns to physical, sport related concerns. I'm due in upstate Pennsylvania tomorrow evening. And don't call me TF. It's insulting."

Sigh, thought the Banter. Another hot chick that's clearly in a hurry to get away to find another dude (he assumed that her next client was a male, since boys dominate the sport by about 3 to 1). And all of this after 60 seconds of interaction. That's a new record for holding their attention. Score a point for the Banter!

"Well, I have this rotator cuff problem in my left shoulder," said the Banter. Dammit, he thought, because where else would you have a rotator cuff problem? The shoulder is the only option. Surely someone of infinite beauty and intelligence would have known that. This is the reason the womens flock in the opposite direction.

"When does this 'problem' occur?" asked the Triathlon Fairy.

"Pretty much only when I'm swimming," replied the Banter.

"That does pose a problem. Swimming is one of the vital components of triathlon. It's a shame that most triathletes don't fully get that. They prefer to think that, just because it's less that 10% of the overall race, that it only affects 10% of the outcome. Triathletes never were an intelligent breed."

The Triathlon Fairy produced a stick and majestically raised it up. The Banter thought that she was going to bash it into his head and be done with him. He ducked and exclaimed, "Wait, I have more problems."

The look of frustration on the Triathlon Fairy was palpable. She paused, "What else do you have?"

"Well, I have this forearm tendonitis in my right arm, just below my elbow. It mostly pains me when I'm gripping the handlebars of my bike."

Again, the Triathlon Fairy raised her stick, this time with much verve. The Banter winced, awaiting the blow. The croaked, "And..."

She lowered he stick. "There's more?"

"Yes," answered the Banter. "I have this ankle pain. It feels like pins and needles when I try to run."

The Triathlon Fairy looked at him with a gleam of curiosity. "Let me get this straight, you have an injury that's holding you back in swimming. A different one that kicks in when you're biking. AND another that limits your running? Have you tried to strengthen your muscles, bones, and tendons by lifting some weights or something?"

"Yes, triathlon fairy!" said the Banter, who was clearly getting excited that he was able to keep the hottie in his vicinity for a few more minutes.

"And, did that work?" asked the Triathlon Fairy.

"I don't know," said the Banter. "I do know that, as a result of lifting, I now have an achilles tendon strain that hurts when I walk. Lifting hurt me in a different spot but it might have helped on the others. I'm not really sure."

"So, to recap, you can't reach your potential in the swim due to a shoulder problem. You are suffering on the bike due to a forearm problem. You can't really run much due to a chronic ankle problem and an acute achilles problem? It hurts even to walk?"

The Banter smiled, mostly because he thought the Triathlon Fairy just called him a cute. "Yes Triathlon Fairy. I think that covers it. I also have some mental/ emotional concerns I'd like to share with you..."

There was an immediate flash of dread in her eyes that cut him off. It was followed by a look of resolve, "I've got just the thing to solve all of your problems. When I'm done, you'll be an improved triathlete forever." With that, the Triathlon Fairy raised her stick one last time. With a tiny flourish, she swished her swoosher and disappeared, lest the Banter continue to dive into his head problems, which would ensure that she'd be late for her next appointment, possible her next several appointments. He's a mess.

The Banter felt something change inside of him, but he was hunting to figure out what it was. Was his shoulder feeling better? He mimicked a few freestyle strokes. Sure enough, on the pull phase he felt a sting of unhappiness, a sure indication that there was no change there. He massaged his right forearm, just below his elbow. Yup, still highly tender. He got off his recliner and took a few steps towards the kitchen, where the wine is stored. His ankles gave out three times in twelve steps, which is par for the course. During the other nine steps, his left achilles was screaming at him with every push off. Did she change his threshold for pain? Nope. Did she reduce his healing time? Unlikely. Did she make him any faster? Doubtful. Did she make him slower? Impossible.

He returned to his recliner, donning a fresh glass of red. With that elixir in hand, he figured it out. It's clear that she used her magic to remind the Banter's of his expectations for what makes a successful season. He decided to open up his goals sheet for the 2020 season and he gazed upon the big ones. The Banter's major goals for himself and everyone he advises, for every season, are as follows:

-Don't die
-Have fun on the journey
-Enjoy sport so that you want to do it again next year

All other details in sport pale in comparison. The Triathlon Fairy helped the Banter remember what was important in life.

Then he went back to the googler to figure out how to live past Thanksgiving. The news wasn't as good as his goals. Having forgotten the entire Triathlon Fairy encounter, he started to daydream. He still hoped to set a PR or two in the up-and-coming year and pondered how to accomplish this on injury topped upon injury. Remember... I told you he wasn't that smart.

The Banter's Journey

Every once in a while, I get asked the question, "Banter- what keeps you going year after year?" (Okay, no one actually asks me that question other than the voices inside my own head.) It's a good question. I just concluded my 20th season of triathloning and I'm just as motivated as ever. This is in light of the numerous failures at achieving the goals for which I have set. On paper, I have more failures than successes. Year after year, I trudge on when many smarter lesser individuals have given up. The biggest factor that gets me up in the sport morning is... Unfinished business.

Here's the thing- for the past few years I've been performing subparly, especially when parred against myself. The last time I can remember being satisfied with my sport performance as a season was 2012. Most of my current tri-family hadn't received their birth in sport and I was starting to fizzle. So for the past 7 years, I've done nothing but mediocre sport. That's going to end!


Have you ever heard of the Hero's Journey? It's a literary device for the dozens of us who still like to read. Basically, the main character goes on a journey for some unknown reason, has an adventure, experiences a crisis, still manages to win, and returns home a changed being.  

There are several different versions of the Hero's Journey. One has 17 steps. Another has 12. They're all basically the same, with some being more verbose than others. I'm going to present to you the 8 step version (ya know, 'cause I'm the lazy type). 


The Hero's Journey- Step by Step Instructions
Step 1- The separation. Taking the hero from the ordinary world. Yeah, for those of you who've met me, you'd know that ship sailed a long time ago, destination unknown. I'm not even sure the ordinary world would accept me back.

Step 2- The call. A problem is presented, and the hero could not remain in the ordinary world. This one's easy. I have this delusion that I'd like to be good at sport. It seems that just when it's starting to look up, I get smacked in the face with this thing called reality and the ordinary world just comes crashing down. Something's gotta give.

Step 3- Threshold. The actually crossing over, the journey begins... This is the exact stage where I'm currently sitting. I've signed up for Ironman Mt. Tremblant, which will take place on August 23, 2020. That's just over 9 months time, or a slightly long, Banter-esque gestation (yes, I was 2+ weeks late). Base training has officially begun.

Step 4- The Challenges. See, here's the thing, I'm a big pansy. Most of the aspects of sport that make one successful I lack. This list includes, but not limited to: intelligence, the desire to go out in the elements at the wee hours of the morning, the determination to trudge on even when the trudging doesn't want to go on, the will to do it over and over and over again, the ability to fuel adequately (<-- okay, this one I actually have), and so much more. 

Step 5- The Abyss- the death and rebirth of the hero. Historically, my abyss comes in one of two forms. The first is due to injury. Injuries have plagued my last few seasons in such a way as I'm beginning to think I'm injury prone. I still think that I'm wrong though. The second form is a lack of motivation come late spring/ early summer. The reason for this form is that the area in which I live doesn't normally get the memo that winter has ended until mid-June. This zaps my will to live and continue to train indoors. I traditionally pick life. 2020 might toss something new at me. Who knows?

Step 6- The Transformation- a sudden, dramatic change in the way the hero thinks. I, too,  am patiently awaiting how this plays out. Stay tuned.

Step 7- Atonement- the hero becomes at peace with himself. I have resigned myself to go sub-11, meaning that anytime of 10:59.59 or faster will suffice. My previous best was an 11:33. Even if I fail, I'll still be at peace for at least the next 7 days or so, which is how long it takes for me to relearn how to walk after a 140.6 event.

Step 8- Return with a gift. This one's not so difficult to understand. Everyone who finishes the race gets finisher's gear. A medal. A hat. A shirt. A chance to spend even more money on pictures, plaques, jackets, your own airline, etc. 

The next 9 months are going to be an adventure and I plan on enjoying every at least a few steps along the way. I'll keep you updated. Welcome to my Journey.

Throwing in the Towel

Any boxing fans out there? Doubtful. Boxing, as a sport, is dying quickly. It's being replaced by more manly sports like Kickboxing, MMA, and watching other people play Fortnight on YouTube.

Any Rocky fans out there? Hell yeah! Everyone enjoys a good underdog story where, eventually, the hero faces a long-fought battle (complete with an impossible running scene) only to lose at the end. The story was so good that they had to make a sequel to let the hero win.

Well, this post doesn't start with Rocky I. Or Rocky II. Or Rocky III, which featured Mr. T as Clubby Lang (a fricken' great name for a antagonist if ever one was invented!). It begins with Rocky IV.

Rocky IV spent half of the movie following the previously beaten Apollo Creed (a fricken great name for a protagonist if ever one was invented!) in his quest to beat that commie Russian Ivan Drago. Well, Ivan (apparently) was on a better drug regime than the American (hard to believe). Rocky Balboa was watching the champ get pummeled by the great Red Hook. Other members of the entourage were calling for Rocky to throw the towel, which was a call from someone who's supposed to be on the good guy's team to end the match.

Spoiler Alert: Rocky never threw the towel and the champ died from his beating. Sad. On a happy note, it did leave the series a convenient opening to reboot the money machine several decades in the future, featuring the champ's son.

How does this relate to the Banter? The reigning champ (and I'm being generous here) is me and the commie bastard on high levels of steroids and giving me a beating that hits where the hurting's good is the 2019 race season. The season hadn't even started before I got my first big punch to the face, which manifested in a nice hamstring injury. Pow. Then I raced without adequate training. Bif. Then I raced again without adequate training. Sok. Then I raced again without adequate training. Blap.

It's taken its toll. Specifically it's smacking where it counts for me, in the run. Seriously, I haven't had  decent run since the day before the injury. That's going on nearly 6 months now. And when I mean a decent run, I feel like I've been digressing even more so than normal. Allow me to explain...

Take a gander at a recent run that clocked in a just over 4 miles for 33 minutes of running averaging an 8:14 pace. On paper, this looks promising, right?  When you look at the forest, you have to remember that there are trees. Glance at the data.

If you look at the elevation, you can see that it's stupidly flat. If you look at the pace, you'll notice that the pace is relatively consistent. Spoiler Alert 2: That's the ego talking there.

If you look at the heart rate and match it with the pace chart, you'll notice a few obvious anomalies. To count, you should see 6 of them, some closer to each other than others. Those are times when I stopped running. If I'm not running, the Garmin isn't running either. Those drops in data aren't really drops, that's the pansy taking over the body while the ego refuses to let me slow down. This was not a good run.

But, but, but... you should slow down. Yeah, no sh** Sherlock. I though of that. Here's a more recent 4 mile run for your viewing displeasure.

This run was also just over 4 miles. It took 36.5 minutes. It was also stupidly flat. It featured less incidents of pansy, only 4 of them this time. The average pace for this run was 8:53. I suppose that's a running step in the right direction but the notes on the run said that it felt like I was running directly into a heart attack, if the heart attack was announced with an asthma induced hyperventilation. It was not a good run under an aspect other than it was better than not running. This has been the norm of pretty much all of my runs for a very long time now.

This up and coming weekend, I have a race. I won't do well at this race, at least not according to my standards. On the digital paper, should you look at the results, you think that things didn't go so badly. That's okay. You and I can have different perspectives as to what is a good race for me. There's not much either of us are going to do to convince each other differently.

Upon conclusion of that race, I will be officially throwing in the towel on the 2019 race season and start my offseason prematurely.  A few honored and respected individuals immediately know what this means. Let me expand for the rest of you: I have another race in a couple of weeks at the 70.3 distance. I will not be doing this race. I have no desire to die a slow death. This was not an easy decision. In fact, it was one of the hardest decisions I've made in my triathlon career. I don't think I can handle yet another hard fought, painful race to be met with disappointing results. My psyche would rather recoup the losses than experience the what-ifs.

I plan on taking the time off. Regather my energies. Spending time with the Wife and the doggies. And coming back ready to rock to triathlon world with some performances that will make even the Banter proud. 2020 is the Ivan Drago rematch. I must break you.

And Then Something Happened... (Part 1)

Most of the greatest events in your life will sound like this, upon reminiscing. "So I was minding my own business when..." and excellence will ensue. A sister , albeit sinister version, to this would be, "Little did I know what I was in for..."

For example, I was minding my own business in a college theology class when the professor announced that we had to do a group project. My first pick in topics was full. So was my second. I just scribbled my name on a third and was partnered with a hot chick I now refer to as the Wife. What's funny is that when she tells the exact same story, with very similar details (she got her first pick), is she starts the story as, "Little did I know what I was in for..."

Well, in sport, there's a different catch phrase that foreshadows a tragic story is about to unfold. It's, "And then something happened..." and I've been living this nightmare for a few years in a row.

Two years ago, I was minding my own business and going for a run during a late January morning. I was in perfectly great shape and there was nothing special about this run. And then something happened. I stepped on an invisible object that caused a stress fracture in my left foot. I didn't really run again until April. Two plus months was more than enough to turn my running clock back to zero, and my clock wasn't all that speedy to start with.

Last year, I was minding my own business in mid-February and then something happened. Next thing I know, I was under doctor's orders to not lift or strain anything. Little did I know that I was in for no swimming, biking, or plodding for a few weeks. I recovered from that excursion faster than I did the previous year but it still put a major dent in my progress.

This year, I had successfully done 100 runs in 100 days. I had logged more 40 mile+ run weeks than ever before seen. I even hit 50 plus on an occasion. I was minding my own business on a treadmill run late one Friday night in April. And then something happened... I could feel the slight stretch in my left hamstring during a particularly fast 5k. The next day, I went for an easy 14 miler and put that tiny tweak behind me. Sunday's short run also felt normal. Monday was an off day.

So I was minding my own business on a Tuesday morning tempo run and then something happened. I was on mile 3 of doing some speed like work (nothing I do could ever be considered 'speedy') and the tweak turned into a full blown twerk. Nobody likes twerking. I ran back home at a pace that even I would have called slow. For reference, I was passed by several blowing leaves. Note: The wind was blowing in the other direction.

I decided to wait a couple of days before re-attempting my version of running. And then something happened... The twerk was still there. I cut myself off for another 10 days.

Here's the big fat lie of multi-sport: They say that if you're laid up in one of the disciplines that you can always fall back on the others to keep you entertained. They are complete idiots. What they don't take into consideration is the blow to your psyche. I've never had depression and I won't trivialize the hardships of people with the condition, but this was the closest I've been to what I think it would feel like. To put all of that effort and energy month in and month out to end up side-lined like this was excruciating. I didn't want to do anything expect curl up and wallow. I could feel the tendon stretch and be uncomfortable in the water and on the bike. My workouts in all disciplines struggled.

After my 10 day hiatus, I decided that I hated not running. On a fit of unintelligent desperation, I went for a run. This was a Monday. It was an easy 4 miler out and back with about 7 feet of elevation. After 3 miles, I was feeling pretty good and plotting out the rest of my week to get back to a 30 mile norm. And then something happened. At mile 3.5 I was walking in near tears as the twerk had reared it's ugly head. I resigned to another week off.

So my running has completely dropped off the Earth. My desire to bike was taking a hit by both the injury and the crappy weather pattern that's known as normal/ cold and wet for the armpit of America I call home. I happily have a few people that look forward to seeing me at the pool and will hold me semi-accountable for getting wet with them. It wasn't good but it's the best I had (and, truth be told, I'm not really all that worthy of their awesomeness, which in turn makes them all that much more awesome). On the bright side, I had been eating more. There's nothing like some weight gain to keep the unhappiness flowing.

The following Monday, I was getting desperate. I tried again. This time I didn't get the grace period of niceness that was allotted me during my last run. The hammy was tight the entire way. However, I remember thinking that I could keep this pace (slow) going at this pain level (mild) for quite some time. I once again started plotting my run mileage for the rest of the week. This plot line included an easy Tuesday morning run. I was 2 miles in to that 4 miler and then something happened. The twerk returned in it's full on ugliness (note: there is no such thing as a good looking twerk). I ran/ walked/ limped home.

As of this writing, that was a full 2 weeks ago. According to the googler, one of the paths towards healing is strengthening the glutes. Now, I'm into butt stuff! I'm rolling. I'm stretching. I'm doing bridges. I must say that things are looking mighty firm down there. Things in the hamstring area of my life have been looking up.

During this last bit of time, every once in a while, something would happen and I would re-tweak my twerk. I would pick something up and get sent a warning ping. I would do a sudden turn in just the right direction and feel a little extra stretch. These weren't painful, mind you, just enough discomfort to remind me that I'm not healed. Therefore, what I would not do is run on it.

And, at this stage of my existence, I am struggling to admit that I am afraid to run. No, not because I know I'll be slower than all of the work I've done this year should dictate. I don't mind being slow. You can't be me and be grumpy with slow. The running brings the pain and I'm just not in to twerking.

As it stands, I've got a half Ironman race on June 2nd. It's highly likely that will be my next run. I'm going to go for about a month without running and nearly 2 months without any real mileage so that I can survive a race. My big race goal is to not have any hamstring pain during the race. Any other kind of pain is acceptable, including mental anguish. This is not a good existence. Wish me luck.

A Users Guide to Circle Swimming

Way back in the day when I was an actual athlete, swimming was my sport of choice. And I wasn't the only one. There were 20-30 other losers guys in the school with similar ambitions (which basically meant to go down and come back as fast as possible). The pool was 25 yards long by 6 lanes wide. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that you can't fit 20 boys in speedos side by side and expect them to have a decent practice. A creative solution was required. Instead of going down and back in straight lines, we sort of looped it at the end. We didn't have a name for this phenomenon, it was just something we automatically did.

Years later, after going to the community pool affectionately called the YMCA, I learned that non-swimmers call this thing "circle swimming" (Note: the term 'non-swimmer' here is being defined as people who don't really have a ton of experience swimming in briefs for the better part of their childhood/ high school/ college years. Other terms that I could have used in this scenario might have been, but not limited to: Adult Onset Swimmers (sub-note: I hate this term as it sounds like they have a disease /end sub-note) or Normal People /end Note).  I also learned that it was something that they didn't like to do. In their worlds, the line in the middle of the lane is not a guide but a divider should 2 people happen to be in the same lane at the same time. You have your side and I have mine. You shall not contaminate my side of the line for any reason. The swimmers just go with it and continue to circle swim, a term that they were recently taught, only their circles are a little smaller. The non-swimmers, in fact, loathe circling so much that many would sooner abandon their workout and leave the water should a 3rd person join the lane and force a rotational setting.

I have been loosely researching this lack of willingness to circle by the non-swimmers for the better part of a decade. There have been many failed hypotheses throughout this period. Some were due to poor experimental technique (EX: I now know that electric shock practices should not be employed in the pool) while other failures were due to non-swimmers unwillingness to complete a 35 page questionnaire. But, after much hardship (mostly on their parts), I think I've figured it out. Non-swimmers simply don't know how to circle swim. And now I'm going to teach them/ you.

The Art of the Circle

The first thing you need to know about circle swimming is that you don't actually make a circle. Circles traditionally revolve around a fixed point, called a focus, and have a fixed distance, called the radius. Literal circle swimming in the pool is possible, but they'd have to remove all of the lane lines and come to an agreement as to how wide they'd want the circle. Then we'd have the problem of wasting a lot of pool space since we're putting a round hole in a rectangular peg. It's just not an effective use of the space. (Plus, people will be tempted to make a whirlpool and then they'd be completely distracted from their workout.) Therefore, what we call circle swimming is closer to elliptical swimming with the group going around 2 foci imaginarily located near the T-shaped portion of the lane paint near the ends of the lane. They don't want to call it 'elliptical' swimming due to the facts that most swimmers and non-swimmers alike can't swim in a straight lines, there was some initial confusion because some people thought that they hooked up cardio machines of the same name in the pool, and the pathway isn't as geometrical as our former math teachers would like us to follow.

The second thing you need to know is that the line in the middle of the pool is very similar to the lines on the road (I'm making an assumption here that both of my readers have their driver's licenses). You stay to the right side of the line. Or, in an effort to make a simple concept more confusing, keep the lane dividing line always on your left. (Note 2: In backwards countries where they drive on the left, everything in the pool is also backwards, and you swim on the left. More proof positive as to how vehicle centric our world has become. /end Note 2). By doing this, it really doesn't matter if you're going down or coming back, you will magically not hit anyone traveling in the opposite direction.

That's pretty much it. Why non-swimmers are intimidated by applying the rules of the road in the water is beyond me.

But, Wait, There's More

Okay, there are some tips and tricks that they don't teach you in circle swimming school. These are traditions passed down in the pool from veteran swimmer to rookie swimmer, most of them learned the hard way.

Trick #1: Match speeds- If you pay even a smidgeon of attention to your swimming, you should have an inkling of an idea as to how fast you can swim down and back (swimmers affectionately call this a "50"). If you don't roughly know this pace, look at the deck clock, or if one is not available, you can Fred it up and look at your watch (Note 3: Fred is a cycling term but since there's no complimentary swimmer word for the concept, I usurped it. I'm confident you can glean it's meaning. /end Note 3). Now that you know-ish your 50 speed, upon arrival to the pool spend about 2 minutes watching the pre-existing swimmers and the clock/ watch. Traditionally, the fastest swimmers occupy the middle of the pool while the slowest swimmers populate the edges and the mediumest swimmers are crammed in between. Also, traditionally, most community pools don't care about tradition. (Note 4: This is the real reason swimmers don't immediately get in the water and they fidget on deck. They are conducting a meta-analysis of the happenings of the space to practice efficiently. And you thought they were stalling. Ha! /end Note 4.) Find the lane that most closely matches your pace. That's your lane.

Trick #2: Match skills- In the highly probable world that no one comes close to your speed, find someone with a similar skill set. Do you flip turn? (If not, you should start, Fred!) Does anyone else in the pool have a similar way of pushing off the wall as you? That's your lane. Are you planning on doing breaststroke and/ or elementary backstroke? Then don't get in the lane with the guy/ gal doing butterfly.

Trick #3: Leader stays left- Let's suppose that you know for certain, like 100% fact, that there's no on-coming traffic. That means that the left-hand side of the lane between you and the wall to which you are heading is completely clear. You are now the leader. Congrats! You can pick and choose to swim wherever in the lane you want. If you move over now, you won't have to worry about trying to figure out how to move over at the wall. See how smart you are!

Trick #4: Passing- This is probably one of the most complicated tricks of the trade. It requires both parties, the passer and the passee, to understand what's going on. Here's the system, and pay close attention here: the passer comes up the the soon-to-be passee. The passer does one of the most annoying things possible, on purpose. The passer touches a foot of the passee. If you are a nice passer, you'll only make the touch once. Sometimes you'll slip up and hit it again. Caution- hit it too many times and you might get hit back. Anyway, the touch is to communicate that you are going to pass. The passee should move just a little bit to the right. This is especially important if they are really good at Tip #3. The passer sees this happen and makes a check down the lane for on-coming traffic. Once the left side of the lane is clear, the passer surges to go past the passee. (Note 5: The
passer should have plenty in the energy tank since they have been sandbagging in the draft zone of the passee. Now's the time to expend that pent-up speed. /end Note 5.) Also, the passee (and pay attention here) needs to let the passer pass. Do not choose this exact moment in time to engage your ego and speed up. The passer is now the leader of the lane, even though they are in 2nd place. The passer takes the left side, hits the wall, and becomes the first placer. The passee goes on swimming like nothing ever happened.

Trick #5: Stopping- During an official practice, everyone in the lane is doing the same thing, lest you face the coach's wrath. At the Y, not so much. Therefore, you might be hitting the wall and stopping whilst the people behind you are continuing on. You have the responsibility to get out of the way. Since the person that's still swimming is now the leader of the lane, as evidenced by the fact that you are not making a return trip, they should be moving to the middle or left of the lane. If you decide to stand on the wall, you are encouraging a collision. A passive-aggressive swimmer will flip and use you as the wall. This is not as efficient as it sounds. You'd think that they get to push off a foot or two early. Sadly, you are a slippery, slimy mess with funky contours which is not conducive to pushing off with verve. Your play is to stay to the right side of the lane. If you are not the only one there, then all members of the non-currently-swimming community also stay to the right and line up against the lane line. The left side of the lane, from your perspective, is reserved for the next person who's going to start swimming.

Trick #6: Strokers- Are you doing something non-freestyle? It is your responsibility to not hit the other people in the lane with your flailing limbs. Butterfliers typically do a 1-armed stroke, hopefully with the inside arm remaining still and the outside arm doing the work, when crossing paths with a return swimmer. Breaststrokers try to hold their streamline a little longer as they make the cross. Backstrokers will... Well they got nothing and will likely just grope you (or the person in the next lane). Such is life. I have no idea what the people doing alternative strokes are supposed to do. (That might be on my next list of research ideas.)

And there you have it. Just remember these simple guidelines, while trying to remember your set, while trying to pay attention to your technique, while trying to figure out your exhale/ inhale pattern, while trying not to drown, while checking out the hottie in lane 4, while trying to not to swallow water because you've been training hard, while trying to figure out what to cook for dinner, and you'll be golden. It's not that complicated people!

I Am the Pace Man

It's a commonly known fact that the Beatles were runners. They've made several movies where the band was being chased by countless womens and maybe a couple of dudes. Luckily, they were never caught. In fact, 8 Days a Week was about their newly found love for running. The song A Hard Day's Night is a tribute to their marathon training.  The movie poster for A Hard Day's Night shows their ability to outpace their would-be captors even in street clothes and without their running shoes. And they have me to thank for that.

What people don't fully realize is how much these guys trained. I remember when I took them on their first training run in Liverpool. They were pathetic. I was hired by Brian Epstein to get these kids in shape. It was tough. John and Paul could at least run a full kilometer without stopping. George was smooth and light on his feet but had absolutely no endurance. There was something in the way he moved, though. Pete Best couldn't even make it a full 100 meters (this was England, so they used the metric system at that time). As the other members of the band progressed, Pete couldn't keep up leading to the decision to force him out of the band and replace him with an up-and-coming running Starr.

We needed a plan for the boys to get in shape and practice their music. They were concerned. I  made it clear that we could work it out but it would be a long and winding road. They had to get back to the basics. Within anytime at all, they learned that happiness was a warm run.

Their biggest issue was in the pacing, or lack thereof. They asked me why they were always in misery. They were really obsessed trying to get fast and would constantly check the data. I told them that they needed to let it be and just do most of their runs at an easy pace and be consistent. It was George who really challenged the idea and asked me to prove that I can pace well. I told him to look at my data. Here's the run from yesterday.

Here I had 4 miles with an average pace of 8:44 and each of the splits +/- 4 seconds of that time. George remained unconvinced, since it was such a short run (we was really starting to dig this distance thing) and wanted more. So I floated a 6 miler that averaged 8:38s. And if it weren't for the ice on my drive, that first mile would have fallen in line more nicely with the others. Such is a day in the life during the winter.

Paul and John, ever so competitive, wanted to see this for themselves.  (Aside: Ringo couldn't care less. He had a ticket to ride and was just happy they let him play every once in a while. In reality, he didn't care. /End Aside.) They made it so we would all come together as a group for a long run. I took them on a 12+ miler and chatted things out for a while. I have a feeling that they really just wanted to listen to me ramble about nonsensical gibberish, as I'm known to do. Mostly I do it for the others since I feel fine and they're the ones who needed to work.  I'd float how they need to run like pigs from a gun. Or sit on a corn flake. I'd send insults to them when they started slowing down. "Come on you crabalocker fishwife." "Let's go Semolina Pilchard." "Don't let your knickers down." Stuff like that. They nailed that run. That was 12 miles with less than a 7 second spread.

When they asked how I do it, I responded that it's simple. I am the Pace Man. Now, they are the Pace Men. I am the Banter.

Here's one more for good measure. 13+ miles averaging 8:38 with an 8.7 second spread.

Goo goo g'joob.

Embracing My Inner Rodent

Mammals, as a class of animals, are rumored to first have made an appearance on this rock called Earth roughly 200 million years ago. It was a complicated period in time. Pangea was still a thing. Dinosaurs were walking around uninhibited. Trees hadn't been invented yet. The Banter was trying to figure out how to be a runner. It was utter confusion.

These mammals were egg-laying, pouch bearing creatures. If it weren't for them, cycling would have never invented the rear-jersey pockets. So sport has the Triassic Period to thank for that invention. How do they know this? Well, they found a tooth somewhere in China and they just sorta pieced the rest together. As it turns out, we were very rat-like.

The problem is that the real mammals, the ones that didn't behave like platypi crossed with genetically challenged kangaroos, didn't make an appearance until the Jurassic Period. Contrary to what Hollywood and Michael Crighton novels would have you believe, T. rex wouldn't be around for many more millions of years. T. rex's cousin, Allosaurus was the terrible lizard du jour. The longest animal ever recorded, Diplidocus, was meandering the plains. Stegosaurus was plundering around. Pangea broke itself into 2 halves. The Banter was still trying to figure out how to be a runner. Mammals continued to be rat-like creatures romping around in the underbrush. How do they know? Yet more teeth.

As the northern and southern halves of Pangea drifted apart, starting the Atlantic Ocean. As a result, land animals had to learn how to swim. They didn't like it so much, which is why the swim portion of a triathlon is so ridiculously short, compared to it's other multisport brethren. This is what's commonly known as the Cretaceous Period, which is Latin for "we hate the water but don't want to do a duathlon". T. rex finally made an appearance. Bees learned how to make honey. The Banter was still trying to figure out how to be a runner. An asteroid hit the Earth which spurred  a sudden onset of global warning, which the politicians require us to call 'climate change'. Most of the scary animals died out. Much like today, mammals didn't really notice. Triathletes applauded the extension of their season.

Flash forward by about 65 million years to the present day Quaternary Period. The dinosaurs have been reduced to chicken-like bird thingies. The Atlantic Ocean had expanded enough that even the most dedicated of open water swimmers paused before making the attempt. Triathletes immediately looked at the set and said, "No thank you." Mammals, without their terrible lizard competition, were thriving. Triathletes were still conflicted between the concept of climate change and a potentially extended race season. The Banter was still trying to figure out how to be a runner.

In an effort to understand  one of the most perplexing questions ever to elude the most brilliant of minds- what might make a runner out of the Banter- scientists had this brilliant idea to start studying the rodent (Aside: This had absolutely nothing to do with the Banter's physical appearance. At least, that's their story... /End Aside). Lab rats aren't really that popular and, historically, have had little scientific value. But, since the mammals got their start from rodent-like creatures, scientists decided to take a risk and study the most ancient mammalian form.

To do so, they traveled to the depths of the rain forest, where triathletes hate to venture because the heat and humidity ruin their ability to train hard. To test this idea, they placed a running wheel where no rat had ever even seen a running wheel. The hypothesis was that this stupid, foreign object would be completely ignored since rats can run wherever they want, whenever they wanted. Why would they want to use a device that let them go absolutely nowhere when they could go anywhere they wanted? Granted, they had to place a plate of food near the machine to attract the triathletes, err, rodents. The scientists were dumbfounded when several different rodents of several different species ignored the food, went to the running wheel, and spent an insane amount of time on the device.

Using the momentum of this experiment, scientists extended the lessons learned to a different, semi-talented triathlete currently living in northeastern North America. They went and got a large running wheel and placed it near the larger-rodent-type mammal of modern day known as the Banter. For years, nothing happened and the Banter remained a slow, sloth-like runner on the triathlon course. They revisited early experiments in vivo and tried again, only this time with food. Still nothing. The Banter remained resistant to intelligent training techniques.

The scientists were ever persistent. They re-worked their running wheel design. Instead of metal rungs, they went with a flat belt. The goal was to move the rodent from the inside of the running wheel to the outside of the running wheel. Hence, the invention of the treadmill. The Banter remained resistant.

Nearing the end of their funding period, the scientists were desperate to gain any kind of success in getting the Banter to resemble anything close to a runner. He'd been immune to all efforts for several millennia now, complete with race results to prove it. Such results do not prove well in recruiting sponsors. They tried putting down food, a la the rain forest experiment. Surprisingly, even that didn't encourage running. In fact, that particular action backfired as the Banter would just show up, eat the food, and leave without working out.

In a last ditch effort, scientists took a picture of the Banter as he readied himself for a race. They waited until he had predictably terrible results at that race. Then they sent him the picture. The hypothesis was that showing the Banter how he's leading with his belly instead of his brain might make encourage him to make the change. To their relief, it worked!! The Banter not only started to run more, which is the single most important criterion if you want to run faster, but he also didn't shy away from the flat, belt-like running wheel. If you're interested, you can see the exact picture that sparked the change, as presented in a previous post, found here. I do not suggest you click that link nor look at that picture.

Even though the experiment is still in it's beta stage, early findings are looking positive. The Banter has been running more, as evidenced in number of runs per week, number of minutes per week, and average number of complaints spewed. In the past 10 days, the Banter has logged 12 runs with 11 of them on the rodent wheel. There's a high probability that the Banter will develop a case of the Sudden Hatred of Indoor Training before the experiment's funds run out. But, as reported by his training log, his desire to be fast and fit might finally trump his hatred of the treadmill. And, based on all of the running without actually going anywhere, the scientists concluded that he's still mostly rodent. But you probably beat them to that conclusion.

Nuances of a Group Ride

Apparently, people get together and exercise in groups bigger than one person. In fact, they do so often. For some people, they refuse to go riding unless there are other people around. As an introverted triathlete, this makes no sense to me. I can't think of a better ride where I can go for hours without seeing another person. Why these other people need to get together in skimpy clothes and ride so close that you can actually smell the stench and get smacked in the face with their sweat-laden backwash is beyond me. They've even invented internet based apps so that you can participate in a group ride even when there's no proximal group to be had. (Efforts to import smells and perspiration droplets to be added in future versions to make the experience more authentic.)

If I had to be honest, I'm a little afraid of the group thing. It's probably because there are some rules that I don't fully understand. Groups typically don't like aerobars. They expect you to call out obstacles, such as potholes, cars, and hotties running down the road. You're expected to take turns in the front of the pack- a condition oft referred to as "breaking wind". (Note- this might help explain that smell I was telling you about.) If someone is too slow, you kinda have to know whether or not it's cool to leave them behind- known as dropping them- or to hang out with the pokies.

Given that it's February and I'm dead stuck in the middle of feeling like S.H.I.T., motivation to ride has been waning recently. Then, Mother Nature (who apparently reads my blog), decided to toss a little bone towards the indoor riding angst and make it nice outside for a day. And this niceness coincided with a day off. Since everyone was being nice, I hollered out to a couple of guys who I know wouldn't pass up a chance to do the group thing (although, looking back, one of them may have been expecting something completely different).

The forecast had called for a rainy morning with the clouds breaking by early afternoon and highs in the mid 60ºs. With the overnight and morning wetness, the roads would likely be slick but at least most of the salt would be washed off. I scheduled for the Outlaw and the Boy to come over at around 1:00. (Aside: I had no intention of actually riding at 1:00. I was stalling to give the weather a chance to improve and hopefully dry itself up. Plus, the guys are rather pleasant to hang out with, especially even when donned in lycra. The weather wouldn't fully clear until about 15 minutes after the ride ended. That's the way it goes. / End Aside)

My bike has been locked on the trainer since October. Temperatures and daylight dictate that outdoor riding is reserved for maniacs and badasses (Aside 2: There's a fine line between maniac and badass. Both terms are meant for people who are willing to do things that normal folk wouldn't even attempt. Riding when it's cold and dark is on the list. It's such that I can't normally tell maniac apart from badass. It's mostly moot since neither are adjectives that would be used to describe me anyway. /End Aside 2)

Our small group rummaged around my cluttered garage looking for items that we'd normally already have out and about but have been relegated to being tossed aside for the hibernation. For example, my helmet, sunglasses, and riding gloves. I don't need these things when strapped-in to my trainer. The Boy didn't have a spare kit or even a place to hold his spare kit. I had an extra bike bag that I found underneath a shelf. No, not on the bottom shelf, but underneath the bottom shelf. I have no idea how I knew to look there. I handed the bag to the Boy and don't expect it back. He sees it as a gift. I see it as getting rid of crap that I'm not using and freeing up some space underneath a shelf. It's win-win. He asked for some CO2 cartridges, which I buy in bulk. I handed him a couple realizing that it was stupid since he didn't have a chuck to dispense the air. (Aside 3: It' was a completely wasted gesture. The Boy didn't even know that he needed a chuck nor how to use one if he'd had it. It was pretty clear that if he had a flat that I'd be changing it for him with my gear, either first hand or donated stuff. This is the reason he's been dubbed "The Boy". /End Aside 3)

Our 1:00 ride started promptly at 1:45, earlier than expected. I, being the senior member of the group by more than a decade, and being the host, was expected to set the course. Like any good guy, I like to include the junior members in the decision. Option 1- go on the same route I've taken them before. This route is through the country and features 1 stop sign in roughly 40 miles of road. It's mostly flat and has frequent views of Lake Ontario. Translation- it's perfect! Option 2- go on a mostly new-to-them route with several stop lights, higher densities of traffic, and a lot more climbing. The road conditions would be considerably crappier. It has a fun-factor several degrees lower than option 1. Just when you think the people you hang out with are intelligent individuals, they surprise you. The guys opted for the latter.

In their defense, one of the reasons for choosing the more tedious, less-fun ride was the fact that the Bay Bridge was open to road traffic. Or, I think it was closed to boat traffic. Okay, I'm not exactly sure how they term this as open or closed. It depends on perspective, I guess. Either way, we likely won't get the chance to do this route again for a very long time. Most of the year, the bridge looks like this:

This means getting from one side to the other is difficult. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking dear god why am I still reading this gibberish that we are triathletes and therefore swimming across should be in our skill set. However, you're overlooking the simple facts that most triathletes aren't well-known for their swimming prowess (although this group actually breaks that mold since we were all collegiate swimmers) and we are pansies (this group embodies that mold since we're pansies). The water temps in the winter time are well below YMCA climate standards and, since it was warm outside, we didn't have our wetsuits on.

During the winter months, when the seafaring blokes in the area put away their boats, the Bay Bridge looks like this:

This is much easier to navigate, even for a few lycra-wearing pansies like ourselves. We took advantage of a rare, warm, winter day to traipse through a section of road that would otherwise be off limits. Let's do this thing!

Now, I had full expectation of going easy and enjoying the ride. Then, the male-ego kicked in. And, it wasn't just for me but for the Outlaw and the Boy simultaneously. An easy effort would have me well below 200 watts. Our first 5 miles averaged 226 watts, which is roughly race pace for me. The Boy thought I was going too slow so he broke the wind for a while <insert joke about the smell here>. When we turned the corner to go up a hill, the Boy was still in the lead. The Outlaw rode up next to me and asked, "How long until he fizzles?" I panted my answer, "Hopefully <gasp> sometime soon. <gasp gasp>" My wish was granted soon thereafter.

At around the 11 mile mark, I pulled the guys over to the side. This is one of those funky features of a group ride- talking to the people you are riding with. And, since I'm an out of shape, gasping for air pansy, we pulled into a parking lot. This particular talk was more of a lecture about the up-and-coming stretch of road. Specifically, there was going to be a nice downhill in which I regularly hit 40+ mph. Since it was winter and a rough one at that, I couldn't vouch for the pothole conditions and I sure as hell wasn't going to point them out at speed. It had also started raining again. I advised the guys to stay out of aero, not gun for speed, and to not bunch up so we could take evasive maneuvers if necessary.

We took off down the recently warned about stretch. My Garmin lists me as hitting only 35 mph. The Boy decided not to heed my warnings and draft. I'm sure his Garmin lists a top speed greater than mine, as evidenced by his passing me at said top speed. Then he pulls into my line, dumps all of his road spray directly into my face, and took evasive action on some potholes. Yup, it'll be a while before he ditches "The Boy" monicker.

The Outlaw was proving to be the most intelligent rider of the threesome. He's been concerned about his ability to ride. His early season training has been run-focused. He thinks that his power on the bike is dropping and that his training plan hasn't been sufficient to keep up with even lowly riders like the Boy and the Banter. I think he's dead wrong and this ride did more to validate me than him. What am I using as evidence? The climb up the other side of that hill, that's what. As I attempted to clear out the gunk from my eyes and glasses, the Boy was doing something that resembled riding, the Outlaw powered past us like we were standing still. When he hit the hill, I was pushing over 400 watts to hold just under 9 mph in a feeble attempt to stay on his wheel. He might have finally broke sweat for a short period of time on that 1/2 mile stretch.

The route for the next 5 miles was less than ideal but a necessary evil to get to the next stage of good riding. The reason for the evil lies in the ever-growing battle for road space between the vroom vrooms and the guys who need to 'get off the road you bike riding freaks- the roads aren't meant for your types'. Sigh. These people really should do some research as to why roads became existent (hint: it wasn't for cars). There's no reasoning with motorists when they're in this mindset, including with the bloke that almost side-swiped the Boy. You really have to be missing something in your moral compass to want to physically harm someone because they forced you to slow down for less than 10 seconds of your life. The good thing is that an overwhelming majority of people on the roads do not share this mentality and are pretty good people. The bad thing is that it takes just one of those mentalities to really ruin someone's, possible more people's, life. We ducked off of the easy path to meander through a residential neighborhood.

The Boy and the Outlaw are known for their short bursts of racing. While in the side-neighborhood, I told them of a nice stretch that would cater to their racing needs. When that section hit, they took off. I was going to (attempt to) hang. It was still raining, but the drops had turned to drizzle. As they took off, I felt an unfortunate wobble in my back wheel that was reminiscent of a flat tire. I slowed a bit and tried a couple of on-board tests. After reassuring myself that the tires were fine and it was the road that sucked, I looked off into the distance only to notice that we never set rules as to if this was a no-drop ride or not. I had clearly been dropped.

The guys took a break from their hijinks to pull over at a gas station and wait for the old man to join the happy couple. I really wish I was there the whole time, only because I learned that the Outlaw can't dismount his bike without hitting a pothole and falling off. The Boy was there and he recapped the story in all it's glory. I almost feel bad for laughing since the Outlaw was slightly injured from the fall. It was that injury that made the decision to head back versus extend the ride.

From that gas station, it was a short decline down to that gloriously open/ closed bridge. Being old also means that I have experience at such skills as getting into my cleats and taking off. I was able to do so and catch the green light while the inexperienced Boy and the injured Outlaw struggled and got stuck by the red. The red light also meant that the cars weren't coming either and I had the whole wet lane to myself with no fear of getting a face full of idiot backwash. Once over the bridge, I pulled over and waited for the guys to rejoin.

The rest of the ride was familiar and uneventful. I dropped the guys off at the Boy's house, chatted for a while, and concluded the day with a short jaunt back to my house. According to my data, the ride was just over 31 miles of wet but pleasant February riding.

When I got home, I surveyed the damage. Okay, there was no actual damage, just about 12 pounds of dirt and grime caked to various parts of me and the bike (10.5 pounds directly caused from riding behind the Boy). From a distance, it doesn't look that bad. (Click to enlarge)

Up close, the dirt better presents itself.

I got out the hose and sprayed down the bike. Then I found a towel (possibly under a shelf), wiped off all of the good spots. Then I got out the lube and applied liberally. It had been a pretty fantastic day.

Shortly after settling in for the night, I received a message from Strava (one of those virtual group ride app thingies). The email is screen shotted here to preserve all of it's glory.

Like I said, I don't fully understand the group ride thing. And, it's possible that they are using the term 'ride' differently than me. I had thought about doing the group ride thing more often but this email has me second guessing that thought...

Sudden Hatred of Indoor Training

People are constantly getting credit for 'discovering' new things, like countries, diseases and/ or conditions. And, I say 'discovering' because it's highly likely that these things have been around for quite some time. It's like when Columbus 'discovered' America despite there being ample evidence that there were people living here for at least 3 years before he traveled. And it's pretty clear that he wasn't even the first of the Europeans to make the trip, since the Vikings made it this way several times and took all the hot chicks for themselves (source: image search for women from Iceland). And he still gets credit despite the obvious liability that he didn't even set foot on anything currently classified as North America.

I have recently 'discovered' a condition that I am confident will solidify my enrollment in the Nobel Prize pool, along with all of the other greats who have simply identified something that's been around for ages but it took a genius to point out it's existence. I've been wondering what's been going on with me lately and I've narrowed it down to one just-now-identified condition called, "Sudden Hatred of Indoor Training." Those who know me are quite eager in verifying what I'm about to tell you, I'm full of S.H.I.T.

There are lots of reasons to train indoors. Some of them are actually practical.

• It's ridiculously cold outside
• You're a pansy
• It's unsafe training conditions due to snow, wind, rain, pansiness, etc.
• It's too dark and you're afraid of monsters
• You don't have any clean clothes that match
• You want to control the training criteria
• You can reduce the effect of environmentally caused injuries
• You're too lazy to put on extra layers

Last year at this time, my training was virtually nothing. I was on the road to recovering from an injury that set my season up for a summer of patheticness. This year, I vowed to approach my training a little more safely. Most of my running has been on the treadmill. I'd only venture outside if it was daytime and the roads were clear of sludge. That was n=7 out of 19 runs during the month of January. All of my riding has been indoors. I'm in decent shape.

I've been able to hold back my S.H.I.T.s for a pretty good period of time. This week, however, the pressure seemed to get explosively high. I went out to the treadmill the other day, felt sick to my stomach, and clenched myself back into the house. The S.H.I.T. was strong enough for me to layer up and head outside despite the chance of running into some darkness monsters. Yesterday, the S.H.I.T. was so powerful that I skipped a bike ride for the first time in 5 weeks. I just couldn't bring myself to sit on that pot of a bike. I sat on my lazy boy, brooded, and hoped to catch a glimpse of the lady who walks up and down my driveway on a consistent basis.

Today, I went for a nice run outside this morning with no problems. I still  can't seem to get up the nerve to head to the workout room for a ride. I'm procrastinating as much as I can.  Since the run, I've done some laundry, put away dishes, looked at images of Norse women, made lunch, took the dogs for a walk, made a second lunch, and started 3 separate blog posts (all of them crap). I know that I need to get up and out to for a nice 90 minute session of suffering. The S.H.I.T. in me is still quite strong and I'm not sure if there's a cure. I guess I'll have to wait for it to run it's course.

There are rumors out there that some athlete's train indoors all-year round. On purpose. That's gotta be weird, right? It appears as if they are immune to getting the S.H.I.T.s. They are probably going to be my next focus of research for athletic anomalies. It's quite possible that they are deficient of a few necessary genes that code for going outside. Agoraphobics know what I'm talking about. Their specific problem is that they view the interior environment as superior. They seem to have a, "Lack Of Sense in Exterior Righteousness". I'll tell you about these L.O.S.E.R.s later because they only give out Nobel Prizes once a year.