The Word Magician

Crazy is as Crazy does, as Crazy finally concedes

2011-11-04T09:14:00.001-04:00

My good friend Drew recently reminded me of this folksy definition of crazy: Repeating the same action and expecting a different result.

Apparently, I am a nutcase, and have been one for quite some time.

I run (or at least try to) regularly. I ran two weeks ago and my left heel hurt, so I rested. I ran Saturday and my left heel still hurt.

A year ago, I saw a doctor for left leg problems. He told me there was nothing really wrong, and that I might need to strengthen my hamstrings. I followed that advice for two months without improvement. I consulted second doctor, who gave me a variation of the original advice. I followed it for a few more months, with slight improvment.

I visited a new doctor Tuesday for my left leg and heel problems.

He told me there was nothing really wrong, and that I might need to strengthen my hamstrings. He told me to go run.

I ran. And -- surprise! -- my heel hurt.

So to bring it back: If I can't expect improvement with rest, and I can't expect improvement under the doctors' orders, am I broken -- or crazy?
__________________________

This line of thinking works for other things too -- like my Quixotic quest for the perfect pumpkin food. I have sampled at least six more treats that I didn't write about, including:

Panera's pumpkin spice latte
Nana's Frozen Custard -- pumpkin
Sweet CeeCee's pumpkin fro-yo
Trader Joe's pumpkin spice granola
Clumpie's pumpkin ice cream
Market Street Tavern's pumpkin ravioli

Guess what? It all tastes like pumpkin. Some is too sweet, some is too expensive, but there is no magical pumpkin food that will end the world's hunger problems.

Now it's November, and the gourd goodies will be pushed aside to make way for peppermint-white chocolate-mocha-flavored reindeer jerky.

Essentially, it all comes down to this: If it's in your budget (either monetary or dietary) it's probably pretty decent. Unless you don't like pumpkin -- then it all sucks, and your wallet is unnecessarily thinner.

But that pumpkin ravioli was damn good.

Say "Cheese!"

2011-10-08T11:34:00.001-04:00

My mouth says "Yummy!" but my stomach says, "Oh my God, what have I gotten myself into?"

At risk of sounding like a pansy (it must have been the initial pumpkin spice latte) I'm not sure I can keep up the pace of posting for every pastry I eat.

Case in point: Olive Garden's pumpkin cheesecake. I split a piece with Hillary, but I helped her maintain her girlish figure -- while destroying my own -- by eating well more than half the slice. As a special, it's not listed on the website's nutrition info, so I found the closest thing:

Item	Calories	Total Fat (g)	Sat. Fat (g)	Sodium	Carb. (g)	Fiber (g)	Protein (g)

White Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake	890	62	36	490	70	6	13

Let's say I ate 2/3 of the slice. That's nearly 600 calories and 40 grams of fat.

From an evolutionary standpoint, I would be the ultimate champion. Men have been shown to eat more in the presence of women; some people speculate that it's a social construct affirming gender roles. Alternatively, it could just be a primitive fight-or-flight mechanism: Eat as much as possible when you have it, because the food might disappear without warning.

I vote for the latter, because who knows when this special menu item will disappear? Who is Olive Garden to determine the end of fall -- and, consequently, the end of autumn-flavored artery cement?

You could probably buy a whole cheesecake and freeze it for the off-season. Assume eight slices at 900 calories per slice, and that's the equivalent of two pounds' worth of energy. If you ate the whole cake sometime around Christmas, you could hibernate until March!

Not to mention the sweet dreams of having this delicious cake as your figurative "last meal." (Although, with the nutrition content, it could actually be your last meal. You might go to sleep and never wake up.)

You could make it at home...but why?

Eat it: Thick, rich, delicious, flavorful, pumpkin! At $6.50, it's less than $1 per 100 calories -- take that, Nabisco!

Beat it: All that thick, rich, delicious, pumpkin flavor has to come from somewhere -- namely butter, cream cheese and sugar. Eat at your own risk.

Rembrandt's: An Artist's Approach to Autumn

2011-09-28T13:56:00.001-04:00

My mid-week, mid-morning treat came from Rebrandt's, in the form of a caramel-apple cupcake.

Maybe my measurement estimates were off...

Let me start by saying that I don't enjoy real caramel apples. They're too much hassle, and the hardened caramel plays heck with my teeth. Dipping apple slices in caramel sauce is a bit better, but only if somebody else does the slicing. However! Bake it into a bite-size morsel of flavors and textures, and you have a winner.

The price is $2.25 for what is, by today's standards, an exceedingly small cupcake. Maybe 1.5" across at its widest point, and 2" deep, including the icing. This is precisely what makes it a winner in my book.

Instead of paying $4 for a dense brick of cake with an almost-inedible glop of icing three inches high (not to mention the symphony of stomach grumblings and days of guilty self-starvation and exercise), Rembrandt's has managed to keep their offering within the realm of acceptable indulgence. In fact, I only ate half of one, and yet I managed to enjoy the experience.

The apple cake base was tasty enough to stand on its own, and I'd be surprised if Rembrandt's doesn't sell loaves (I didn't check). It had a light, springy texture. The modest spread of (cream cheese?) icing gave some complexity of texture, and the drizzle of caramel on top imparted just enough flavor.

Eat it: Perfectly portioned; Powerful flavors that wouldn't feel right in any other season; Support local business!

Beat it: The cupcake bubble may have already burst

Apparently I can't identify shapes.

I decided to bookend my lunch with another Rembrandt's sugar bomb: the Autumn Dream Cookie. Two ~~leaf~~ acorn-shaped sugar cookies, dusted with cinnamon and nutmeg, provided a crumbly exterior.

The real gem of this cookie is the tea-infused icing in the middle, however. What kind of tea? Well, the barista mumbled, so I can't tell you. But it had a lot of syllables, so it must be exotic and delicious.

You might say it was more complex than the plain cream cheese icing on the cupcake. Or you might say, "This tastes like a snickerdoodle and a wedding cake made sweet, sweet love."

Eat it: A big, fancy Oreo!

Beat it: Wipe away crumbs before you get little grease spots on your pants

My Fizzy Fix of Pumpkin Ale

2011-09-26T20:02:00.001-04:00

If I were a smarter man, I would have gone to a progressive market like GreenLife to get a mix-and-match 6-pack of fall-flavored beers.

As it happened, I bought a full sixer of Blue Moon Harvest Pumpkin Ale from Bi Lo. At $8.29 plus tax it's not cheap, but it's a steal compared to the typical four-dollar pour (or more) at a restaurant. And if I didn't like it, I could surely find somebody to unload the other five on.

The epitome of mass-produced "handcrafted" goodness

Luckily, I liked it. A lot. There are a few critical elements that characterize a good beer for me; namely, color and flavor. "Lite" beers typically skimp on both. Harvest Pumpkin, however, has plenty of each.

Actually, let's review some real beer traits:

I generally prefer ales to lagers. Harvest Pumpkin Ale: Check.
A good beer retains drinkability as it moves from ice-cold to room temperature. HPA was still tasty as I reached the bottom of the bottle. (NOTE: If you don't nurse your beverage like a baby, you won't know what I'm talking about.)
Fall seasonals trend toward a slightly higher alcohol content, probably so they can stand up to the heavier dishes they accompany. At 5.7% ABV, one bottle provides a nice tingle for a lightweight like me. Two bottles would make Thanksgiving dinner with extended family seem tolerable. Three bottles would have me passing out in the gravy.

The packaging describes the brew as having "vine-ripened pumpkin and flavors of cloves, nutmeg, and allspice." I would describe it as "beer, with some pumpkin." It has a light, pleasant taste that would be at home with late-summer/early-autumn grilled meats, and it wouldn't be out of place preceding a slice of pecan pie. Harvest Pumpkin Ale would be a good fit for watching football on the first chilly Saturday that forces you into your favorite team's sweatshirt.

Blue Moon does every limited-run drink well. Harvest Pumpkin is no exception. If you don't feel like paying extra, however, regular Blue Moon knows no seasonal boundaries.

Eat it: Great taste, only mildly filling; No weird pumpkin aftertaste

Beat it: Love-it-or-hate-it flavor; Doesn't pair well with certain foods; At close to $9 for a 6-pack, you'll only want to buy it once

First Flavors of Fall

2011-09-24T08:42:00.000-04:00

It's officially been fall for two days, and to celebrate this often-underrated season, I've decided to create a regular installment called Flavors of Fall. The project is exactly as it sounds: a review of autumnal faux-artisan food and drink creations. Why? Because as Americans, it's our God-given right to pay huge premiums for limited-edition things we could probably make cheaply at home!

This series begins in earnest today, after I unwittingly sampled two limited-time-only flavors from competing coffeehouses.

Breakfast was a cherry-vanilla bagel at Panera, and it can best be described as pretty good. Not great, not bad. It's a bagel with two pretty common flavors. What more do you want from it?

Eat it: Sliced cleaner and toasted more evenly than at home; Sweet, but not overly so; Novelty evokes the impending cool weather; Only 370 calories (if you're counting)

Beat it: Not nearly as satisfying as a Panera breakfast sandwich with eggs/cheese/bacon; Still not the best Panera bagel (cinnamon crunch still holds that title); Cream cheese costs as much as the bagel?!?! WTF??

My afternoon splurge was the venerable Pumpkin Spice Latte from Starbucks (decaf, for what it's worth). Just yesterday, I read about what its yearly return is doing to the American man -- mainly, turning us into a bunch of pansies. But if I order it with the awareness of its 380 calories and 23,075 grams of sugar, and make sure not to insert any sibilant S's into my ssspicce, and hold the scalding liquid in my calloused hands without the protection of a cup sleeve: Does that make it OK?

In a word, no. It's still goofy to nurse a grande Pumpkin Spice Latte while writing about said Pumpkin Spice Latte. I hate myself. Starbucks loves me.

It's pretty good, though. Seriously. At least the first few piping hot sips. Like most flavored coffee drinks, however, 12 oz should be the maximum allowable size. Any more, and the last sips run the risk of souring (literally) the delicate balance of milk, espresso and ~~diabetes~~ sugar.

Eat it: Like it or not, pumpkin really is the flavor of fall (until they come out with a turkey-flavored latte); Pumpkin spice is a powerful aphrodisiac for men

Beat it: Only good when it's really hot -- another vote for keeping it small; The sugar leaves an undesirable aftertaste; All the pumpkin spice in the world won't get you laid if your breath smells like fermented sugars and coffee; Freakin' expensive

---
Disclaimer: I do not get anything for free. I know you think manufacturers throw product at professional writers such as myself, hoping for a favorable review. But in the interest of fair assessments, I pay for everything. That means price is a factor in my reviews. I'm big on value. And really, this whole undertaking is just my excuse to eat and drink a lot of stuff that's probably pretty bad for me.

This Is The Most Confusing Sentence Ever

2011-09-08T16:26:00.003-04:00

Also, the idea it conveys is totally whack.

Is this ~~paragraph~~ single sentence the most difficult thing to read since Beowulf or what?

The former lawmaker speculated that BlueCross' move may stem from what he says was a backlash from national gay organizations this spring after the Republican-controlled General Assembly passed a Fowler-generated bill that banned cities from enacting ordinances banning anti-gay discrimination by local government-contractors.

Sorry, what? Ignore first half, which is all he-said/she-said drivel. Just look at the main clause:

...the Republican-controlled General Assembly passed a Fowler-generated bill that banned cities from enacting ordinances banning anti-gay discrimination by local government-contractors.

Ok, so the bill is passed. What does the bill do, exactly? Look at the last quarter:

...banned cities from enacting ordinances banning anti-gay discrimination by local government-contractors.

One more time (emphasis my own):

...banned cities from enacting ordinances banning anti-gay discrimination...

Just to be clear, this law says that anti-gay discrimination is OK, as long as it's a local goverment contractor holding them down.

Huh?

So gays need basic human rights, which would normally be afforded to them by...the government. But this bill says that city governments can't tell their privatized affiliates to be nice to the gays.

The subtext of the story is as follows:
1. Don't work for city government if you plan to disclose your sexuality.
2. Don't disclose your sexuality.
3. Don't be gay.

###
From Wikipedia: Twelve states, over one hundred local governments, and the District of Columbia^[6] have passed statutes that forbid discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation; also, the Employment Non-Discrimination Act will allegedly make sexuality a protected class, but this bill has yet to pass Congress.

That act will apply to "civilian, nonreligious employers with at least 15 employees"

Yes, I Quote Myself

2011-08-18T11:02:00.001-04:00

I'm aware this is one of the worst things I could do: Quoting myself out of context to prove that my grasp of the English language is, if not beyond compare, at least beyond the comprehension of people whose brains function normally.

But because it totally relates to the title of this blog, which also happens to be what I write when applications ask for my profession/industry, I have to do it.

Below is a transcript of an actual conversation that took place on 8-18-2011.

####

me: what up, Mighty Bro Young?

Drew: haha
Mighty Bro Young
where do you get this stuff from.. its amazing

me: how many times do i have to remind you of my status as a word magician?
a linguistic Houdini?
a linguini?

Drew: haha
im just blown away by your powers of awesomeness

###

By the Numbers: The Chattooga Century

2011-08-15T16:10:00.001-04:00

Once or twice a year, I get the urge to commit some foolish test of my own endurance and willpower.

Last summer, it was my first Half Ironman, followed a month later by the 103-mile Cherohala Challenge. This year, on the strength of one poorly executed 4-hour ride that left me feeling worn and withered for a month, I decided to up the ante.

The 125 Chattooga Century presented an interesting challenge. By the time I decided to register, I didn't have any time to build up mileage. But what good is an adventure if you're already certain of the outcome?

Now, two days later, I want to examine my critical statistics in several key categories. A lot of these numbers are estimates, but I'll do the best I can.

The ride:

125 miles
7:10:00 moving time (Total ride time -- 8 a.m. to 4:15 p.m.)
17.25 mph average speed
5,482 calories expended
3,443 calories eaten

The food (calories):

8 bottles of water
7 bottles of Gatorade (1,050)
5 bananas (350)
4 Endurolyte capsules
2 peanut butter & jelly/honey sandwiches on Wonder bread (700)
2 packs of Fig Newtons (400)
2 Payday bars (480)
1 chocolate chip cookie (150)
1 Oatmeal Cream Pie (310)

The miscellany:

I can ride 124 miles until my legs begin to cramp
The number of Negative Thoughts Per Hour increases by 50% each hour after 60 miles
There is no amount of hydration that can prevent my jersey from being a salt-streaked mess
Reapplying chamois cream at each rest stop is a must

This jersey is not supposed to look "marbled"

It was both comforting and discouraging to be on familiar roads, knowing that the loop had taken me closer to my own house than to the eventual finish line 50 miles away in Georgia. All said, it was a fun ride that I would do again -- although now that I've done 125 miles, I don't have too much more to prove.

If you've ever been too exhausted to sleep, you'll understand how I felt Saturday night. But by Sunday morning I was back to feeling somewhat normal, if not "fresh." It's a good forecast for the River Gorge bike race coming up in a few weeks -- exactly when I should start seeing the fitness-building results of this Herculean ride.

Not the best I've ever felt

Flintstone Triathlon #winning

2011-05-22T15:06:00.000-04:00

It is with a much happier outlook than last time that I report my victory at the 2011 Flintstone Triathlon!

Where to begin? For starters, I was grateful at 6:30 a.m. to know that I would not be skulking around the race site alone, thanks to the friends I made last year. Life is a much happier prospect in general when you don't insulate yourself, and are surrounded by people who are cooler than you.

It's also fun to know that other competitors are trying specifically to beat me. I'm not sure whether it's respectful rivalry because we're on a level playing field, or because they think I'm a jackass for wearing a pink tri suit or, most recently, a mankini.

Scoping out 2nd place Tom Knopp, a 3-time Kona finisher.

Either way, I've never been "the hunted." Pressure, schmessure. It's a 50-minute race (48:47, actually, but who's counting?)

I didn't use a watch, but by my estimate, I biked a few minutes faster and ran a minute or two slower. Put that down to a rockin' new bike and the fact that six miles still constitutes a "long run" for me. For what it's worth, I led the entire two-mile run course, so I focused less on churning my legs into butter, and more on maintaining good form and posture. And I'll be damned if, every time I gave myself a form check, I didn't run easier and quicker.

I missed my own course record by two seconds, but I also avoided a sprint finish. I'm just happy to be running and competing again without injury.

Thanks to: my dad for taking some great pictures and supporting me, even when I act like a brat; Liz, Drew and Tony for being awesome friends; Denny for the bike and the great race management; Ken and Scenic City Multisport for the great race and venue choice.

Charles Woodson? No, that's Liz Regnitz, Green-Bay packin' some serious moves.

The eyeball windtunnel says: aero achieved!

Small world: this guy works at Unum, too.

Drew scared off all the other M25-29 challengers.

An Unfair Trade: Early-Season Race Report

2011-05-05T21:09:00.000-04:00

Summary: When you take 6 months off from running, you get a lot slower. When you spend most of that time swimming, you get a tiny bit faster. And no matter how nice your bike is, if you don't have the legs on a given day, neither of those things matter.

I'm not complaining. Really, I'm not. Competing, running pain-free, doubling over with side stitches -- I love all those things.

But if I could do them now as fast as I could have a year ago, I'd love them a tiny bit more.

In a remarkable and somewhat disappointing development, the swim at the Scenic City Triathlon was my best split. The cold winter months spent cranking out sets like 16 x 100m and 4 x 500m obviously paid off a bit. It was my hope that coming out of the water less fatigued would set me up for a better ride and, like always, I would seal the deal with a quick run. Aboard a real TT bike, how could that plan fail?

As it turns out, all it takes to derail that plan is three weeks of bad rides. I rode into form -- maybe too early -- back in February and March, but an ill-fated 70-mile ride sapped my legs for almost a month. My "training" was severely damaged (not to mention my psyche).

So I entered the race on the strength of two decent rides, which were apparently nullified by two days of cutting and hauling trees that were felled in the storm. I felt pretty good during the ride itself, and I rode without a computer or watch to let my body dictate the pace. Had it been a 9-mile course, my overall placement and sensations would have been higher. During the last five miles, though, all I could do was watch as stronger riders went past.

I left T2 with a small group. Again, the lack of miles in my legs was apparent, and I ran the short 5k with a double side stitch. I made up a few places, and unleashed a strong finishing kick to pass one more. Unfortunately, he had started three minutes behind me in the 40+ wave.

Overall, it was a great first race. Weather was awesome; my body felt fine, if not "great"; and I finished among some of Chattanooga's best triathletes. I think I will spend some time rebuilding my base, though, before I try to pick up speed. With no real target races, I'd rather train the right way than the easy way.

The Pink Panther is on the prowl.

Oh, and did I mention I wore a pink kit?

A New Era in My Awesomeness

2011-04-26T21:46:00.000-04:00

It's (almost) official: I finally have a triathlon race bike. My good friend Denny has hooked me up with a champion steed, a Cervelo P2C that should make me somewhere between 1 and 8 mph faster at every race.

My parents were kind enough to motorpace me and shoot some video last night, so I could confirm how awesome I looked on the new ride. Footage w/ commentary courtesy of Patty Streip; filmed with a Pentax something-or-other:

There you have it: the fit and form of a winner in waiting. Watch out. It'll getcha.

Good Form is a Bitter Pill to Swallow

2011-03-28T20:34:00.001-04:00

Can you spot "bad form" when you see it? Can you tell a jogger from a runner when you drive past at 40 mph?

Let's try it another way. Great athlete, right? Winning a 70.3? Gotta be pretty good to do that...

I bet as a world-class triathlete, he represents the pinnacle of good form....

OMGF NOOOOooooOOO!!!! WHO IS THAT EGREGIOUS HEEL-STRIKER IN THIS PICTURE THAT CAPTURES ONLY A MICROSECOND OF A 4-HOUR RACE IT CAN'T BE TERENZO BOZZONE MY MIND IS BLOWN RIGHT NOW :::::::::(((((((((((( <- THAT'S A SUPERFROWNY FACE.

Defining good form

Can we finally admit that "good form" is a whole-body descriptor that has no empirically identifiable bearing on overall ability, race results or self-worth as a person and frequent internet forum poster?

And we know that there is good form, because we judge every athlete we see, anywhere, any time, based on some set of criteria that we've either been taught or intrinsically absorbed. I judge girls and old guys at the gym. I judge guys my age to see if I could beat them in a race. Even if they can haul ass, well, dammit -- I'll look better in second place because my form is way better. You do it too. Do not hide it.

It's all in the hips...and the feet, and the arms, and the neck, etc.

Why have we limited the "good form" discussion to heel vs midfoot strike? What if a heelstriker wins the marathon and a dedicated midfoot striker in New Balance Minimus shoes finishes in 3:42 and runs the last 10K bent at the waist, arms flailing, with two cramping calves? You wouldn't say he has better form. Why not? Because he ran slower.

I have a 5K personal best of 17:19.* The way I see it, I have (or had) better form than everybody whose PR is slower than that, and probably worse form than everybody who is faster. Form is also a function of fitness. They can improve and decline together. I'm not in 17:19 form OR fitness right now, but I could get there again in a couple months without altering my footstrike, or my arm swing.

Ryan Hall basically midfoot strikes...but his arms look goofy. They swing wide and low, when nearly every other top marathoner's arms stay mid-chest at a 90-degree angle. He has "bad form," but if you are reading this, he would kick your ass in a running race of any distance. So he has better form than you.

This might over-simplify things...

...except that it doesn't. Screw my minimalism experiment. I ran two miles yesterday the same way I ran a 17-and-change 5K, and the same way I ran two 1:30 half marathons. And guess what? It felt better than the last three months of careful midfoot striking with a clipped stride and plantar fasciitis.

Quit being insecure about your form. If it sucks, your results will tell you. If it's good, your results will tell you. If you get hurt all the time, maybe you have bad form. If you get hurt once, maybe it's just a fluke. Either way, maybe you could work on running more upright, or activating your hamstrings more.

Just quit this footstrike debate until you can prove that every runner's chronic injury or abysmal 23-minute 5K is somehow related to the fact that they don't complete every run in zero-drop racing flats.

Train hard, train smart.
###

*No, I don't feel bad about dropping my race times. I've never averaged faster than 22.9 mph on the bike in a triathlon. I swim somewhere between 1:20 and 1:30/100 yards during races. I graduated with honors (but not a 4.0) and I am very average below the waist. Direct other queries to the comment box below.

Pro-Antisocial Media

2011-03-24T12:37:00.000-04:00

I predict a new trend will soon sweep the internet: antisocial media.

You read that right. It's not that I'm anti-social media. Indeed, I am pro-antisocial media. And I fully believe there is room on the Web for both.

I'm not quite advocating a regression to the days of old, to the time when you could click on a website and not be pressured by a dozen buttons to Like, Digg, Retweet, Reddit, Mash or Stumbl the particular article. If you still want to do that, great.

But what if you want to remain willfully self-contained, with your privacy intact and the fact that you actually clicked on "One Weird Old-Timey Trick to Lose Belly Fat" unknown to each of your Facebook friends?

What I would suggest is a separate domain of "mirror" sites that look just like the originals, only without all the social features. Can you imagine a New York Times article without the tacky sidebar of sharing options? To their credit, they urge you "Recommend" instead of the boorish, monosyllabic "Like."

(Also: Can you imagine a New York Times article that you don't have to pay for? Through social media, you can jump the paywall! But I digress...)

My personal method of spreading content is admittedly officious:

A specific person or group of people has to come to mind when I read an article -- usually one that requires a triple-digit IQ to comprehend. (If you're reading this, you probably qualify.)
To make sure it only reaches the desired audience, I lovingly copy the URL and paste it into an email or private Facebook message. This move says, Hey, I thought you'd enjoy this -- and I don't want Facebook stalkers to know what we discuss when they aren't around.
If the article/video is so low-brow that I feel it can be appreciated by most of my friends, I'll post it as a link on Facebook. This ensures I get credit for having found it, read/watched it, and deemed it worthy of sharing.

Cherry-picking individuals when I could easily click one button and send it to nearly 800 people? My friends, there's nothing more antisocial than that.

How many people even remember the keyboard shortcuts for copy and paste? Most people's left pinky and forefinger have atrophied, because the one-click-fits-all mentality of social media has led them not to even consider who they're being "social" with.

By treating media as antisocial, I've immeasurably raised my appreciation for the social interactions I do have. It can't be long until other great minds understand this concept and ditch the Tweetcaster app from their iPad home screen. Instead, they'll return to paying a few quarters for a paper copy of the Wall Street Journal that they'll then leave behind to enrich another lucky soul.

And you can stop sharing Washington Post stories about Libya to make yourself look engaged. It's OK if you spend more time looking for shirtless pics of Robert Pattinson. With antisocial media, it's just easier to keep it to yourself.

Things Are Shaping Up (Part 3)

2011-02-09T21:41:00.000-05:00

I've always had a nice butt.

That is, at least by "skinny white boy" standards. My female peers who know a thing or two about ghetto booty have praised its shapeliness, and the few lucky enough to lay a hand (or two) on it have commented on its firmness.

But the winter which was devoted to rehabbing my knee has produced a favorable side effect: a reshaping of my rear.

I may not feel like a runner at the moment, but I'm getting close to the elusive "sprinter's butt." A few months of squats, lunges, leg extensions and rowing to balance out my muscles have produced enhanced gluteal fortitude.

Pants don't sag as easily. Bike shorts squeeze and compress in an unfamiliar way. I feel improved self-confidence when I walk -- into work, bars, coffee shops and boxer-brief retailers. And I didn't even die from a botched butt enhancement.

Of course, in reality it's the kind of miniscule change that only a self-obsessed quasi-endurance athlete would notice -- akin to seeing Lance Armstrong in December and thinking, "Wow, he's about 3kg too heavy to win the Tour de France."

Now, back to the actual problem I've been trying to solve: my knee. It's getting better! I've done three or four pain-free runs of 15 to 20 minutes each, all on treadmills, and all with at least two (pain-free) days of rest in between.

I invite you to help me set my next recovery landmark. Pick from the list below, and leave your response in a comment. Thanks!

Survey: Where should I go from here?

Run two days in a row. This could (and probably should) still be done on a treadmill.
Increase my distance per run to 20-25 minutes. Again, treadmill.
Run outdoors for 15 minutes. Terrain and temperature are the big variables. I don't want to freeze my knees. (But Dr. Seuss would tell me to "Stay loose!")*
Race the Cupid 5K this Saturday. The prospect of crushing dreams on Valentine's Day based on swim/bike fitness, coupled with a chance of meeting single, lonely female athletes? Tempting.

__________________________________________________________________________________
*Sorry about that. I read the whole "freeze my knees" thing and couldn't let it go.

The Recovery Chronicles: Part 2

2011-01-27T13:31:00.000-05:00

I'm at an intriguing crossroads. One path leads toward seemingly pain-free knees, by way of a more natural/minimal/barefoot/"good" running form. Along that path, there might be arch pain and a section of Two-Steps-Forward, One-Step-Back quicksand that wants to drag me deeper into a pit of injuries.

The other path is more familiar: it's lined with relatively cushy running shoes, the staples of my running wardrobe, begging me just to give them another chance.

So which kind of stubborness do I want to exhibit? Follow the road more traveled -- or choose the path that looks difficult, but might offer greater rewards in the long term?

Before I start, let me set some boundaries. I am not buying Vibrams ("toe shoes," "weird foot-shaped things," "VFFs"). I am not going to trot barefoot across Walnut Street Bridge. I don't want calloused, blackened feet. I will not try to convert anybody else, if this experiment works.

It makes sense that humans are capable of doing many things without the aid of shoes. We did it for the great majority of our existence. And I'd like to think that we haven't evolved to be weak, incompetent creatures over the last couple thousand years.

That said, our distant forebears didn't run recreationally in circles at 12 mph to exhaustion, nor did they run on urban concrete past crackheads and hypodermic needles for two hours to intentionally burn calories and feel superior to those lazy hobos. (In fact, it's amazing that we run to work off food, as they most likely avoided running -- thus wasting energy -- unless it was specifically to catch dinner.)

My immediate goal is consistency and injury prevention. Right now, that means 10 minutes of running plus 20 minutes of stretching, yoga or foam-rolling to keep the muscles healthy. Theoretically, the new running style will be taking care of the joints. I'm continuing my glucosamine regimen just in case.

Sunday, January 23

7-minute run: Up and down my street, wearing my XC flats. I feel slow, fat and clumsy; the asphalt is a jarring departure from the YMCA soccer fields. It offers, however, more feedback about what I'm doing right and wrong. The knee wasn't sore Monday. My left arch felt vaguely PF-ish. I did yoga and rolled it out with a tennis ball.

Monday, January 24

11-minute run: Up and down my street (two times), wearing my XC flats. It feels more natural today, but still not without hitches. My feet and ankles feel like they're working harder to keep me moving forward. I'm trying not to over-protect my heels, for fear of plantar fasciitis. I don't want my Achilles heel to be my...uhh...Achilles heel. There's a little soreness Tuesday morning, which I fight with yoga. Tuesday and Wednesday off.

The Recovery Chronicles; or, how I learned to keep a public journal and still be a man

2011-01-21T22:57:00.000-05:00

In general, things are looking up! I'm easing back into short, short runs and trying not to feel guilty that my weekly total of 20 minutes is probably less time than I spent trimming the crazy straggler hairs in my beard.

I should probably keep a progress diary, in case something works extraordinarily well or causes a horrendous relapse. My plan is to gently push the limits of what I think it can handle. Based on recent experiences, two hours of standing at a bar and three hours of dancing is off limits. But 10-minute runs, even broken down into three parts, are good!

Monday, January 17

2,400-yard swim
10-minute run on the treadmill. I was a little disappointed not to run outside, but it was cold and icky, and I wanted this experiment to have airtight controls. The incline function was broken on the only available treadmill; I usually use a 1% grade to make it feel more natural, but what is less natural about running than doing it on a mechanical belt stationed in front of FOX News?

I ran in my Mizuno Waveriders, trying to "feel" the ground and stay light on my

feet. It didn't work well; I could feel the clumsiness of a stride that had

atrophied for three months. But my knee no pain during the run, and no

(unusual) soreness Tuesday. Verdict: Success

Wednesday, January 19

2,500-yard swim
2-minute run on the treadmill. I know. I found one with working incline, and wore my Brooks Launch. Still felt awkward, and though my knee was OK, my old friend Morton('s neuroma) showed signs of a flare-up. So I put on my old XC flats and ran for 4:37 in the field outside.

To the casual observer, I probably looked delusional running with outstretched

arms, head cocked over my shoulder, at a haulin'-ass pace. But in my mind, I

was running the most natural way possible: as if I were trying to catch a Hail Mary

touchdown pass. What has more impetus than that? You have to run fast, run

loose, run relaxed, run free. It felt great, until my thigh muscles reminded me that I

shouldn't sprint yet.

At home, I jogged for another four minutes without the screaming from my

hamstrings. Maybe a little Thursday and today, though. I can't really tell. I didn't

push it today. Verdict: Inconclusive

Friday, January 21

2,250-yard swim (just for the record)

I'll try again soon, with updates. Until then, run happy!

An analogical war of attrition

2011-01-20T10:33:00.000-05:00

Reporters for CNN and others, while not directly blaming inflamed rhetoric and military metaphors for real-life violence, are denouncing its usage and trying to eliminate it from their mainstream vocabulary.

Bravo! For four years I languished in J-school classrooms at the hands of Draconian print-media champions, learning of the perils of succumbing to cliched and lazy writing. But old habits die hard. In that same article,

Major Garrett...said that he's been trying to avoid some of the "pugilistic metaphors" and "bombastic clichés" that are prevalent not only on his former network but across cable news. Garrett said that he found himself "less and less journalistically inspired by the tone of the debate on cable and the brevity of the debate" on cable news and decided to return to print journalism. "I've been reprogramming myself ever since," he added.

That reprogramming includes being mindful of using clichés -- describing two political parties as being involved in "trench warfare," for instance. And "since Tucson," he said, "I've really tried to police myself."

Well, well, Garrett: you may want to bunker down and work to excise that verbal shrapnel. Military metaphors may have won this battle, and it appears they're well on their way toward winning the war.

You can't spell "slaughter" without "laughter"

2011-01-14T09:28:00.000-05:00

How did this unfortunately named TV station get the scoop on Loughner's girlfriend? Check the headline:

Loughner’s High School Girlfriend Tells Tucson’s KGUN ‘I Don’t Think He’s Mentally Ill’

I thought it might be a joke or a PR stunt but it's painfully irony-free.

Oh, those crazy leftist media outlets and their subtle propagandizing!

Sarah Palin is a bloody 'orrible orator

2011-01-13T10:15:00.000-05:00

Everybody is wondering why Sarah Palin chose the words "blood libel" in reference to the Giffords shooting. How could she insult and degrade an entire people at a time like this? Hasn't she read the Wikipedia page devoted to the history of the sanguine slander?

No, probably not, given her history of rhetorical gaffes. "The media," "the journalists and pundits," in a rush to defend themselves against Sarah's accusations of incitement to violence, have made a serious rookie mistake: they have given Palin too much credit by assuming she knew what she was talking about.

If you don't believe me, just say "blood libel" aloud. It stings, doesn't it? It almost feels wrong, like saying the "N-word" when asked to read Huckleberry Finn to your English class (if you were lucky enough to go to school before the 1950s).

And it just sounds deliciously bad. Everybody knows blood. Everybody knows libel. Everybody knows tragedy when they see it. Right?

So in the world according to Palin, it follows that:

If
Shooting => blood
and
Journalists => libel
then
Journalists who caused a man to shoot based on their incendiary column inches ==> BLOOD LIBEL OMG

Politicians have a tendency to sieze a recognizable phrase and distort it for their purposes. (Think "kabuki theatre" and "death panel" -- haven't heard either of those recently, have you? And we're all better for that.)

So don't buy into the story that Palin deliberately chose to throw Jews under the bus with her word choice. I believe she remembered hearing a catchy phrase that seemed appropriate for this especially heinous tragedy.

Never mind that she said killers alone are responsible for their actions, then one sentence later refudiated herself by blaming journalists.

If she can't get words and phrases correct, who really expects her to nail the logical part of her argument?

Regardless of political agendas and the media climate, random horrors like this will unfortunately happen and we should always be aware that we are not immune to violence; but we can all do our part to help minimize the damage.

I just hope all those hateful, venom-spewing, irresponsible left-wing journalists forget this gaffe (at least until the next election cycle -- but by then, they'll have new material to work with). What should matter is that Gabrielle Giffords is alive and recovering, and now that Jared Lee Loughner is locked up, there is one less real danger among us.

In Memoriam

2010-12-29T14:51:00.000-05:00

Drew Streip's Love For Triathlon, which blossomed during his sophomore year of college before reaching a peak in May 2010, died Tuesday. It was two years old.

The infatuation grew from mere curiosity (spurred by the February suggestion by Bill Piper that Streip train for the April 2008 Trideltathon) into a serious hobby within a matter of months. When he realized the sport could replace the competitive void left by high school cross country, the hobby became a minor obsession.

Upon completion of his first international-distance triathlon, Streip's love for triathlon steadily gained momentum like a bike guided carefully down a hill. When the Love affair began interfering with his relationships, however, he realized the time was ripe for change.

Soon, he was single -- liberal with his training time, and promiscuous with his training partners. Streip's Love For Triathlon built for itself a virtual harem of swimmers, bikers and runners with whom to cavort, no strings attached. It propelled him to personal bests at 5K, 10K and Olympic-distance races. Life continued this way for a year, until the opportunity to settle down with a hometown half-Ironman presented itself.

New to the concept of committment to a race months in advance, Streip spent more time refining and less time relaxing. After a successful taper, and the race, which onlookers described as "intensely competitive...[but] kinda predictable," his Love For Triathlon seemed to be secure in its position as a lifelong partner.

After the honeymoon period, however, the next few months went from average (at best) to nightmarish: a series of injuries put his aspirations for long-distance triathlon on hold; training partners were difficult to find; his ability to run became a distant memory. Conflicting advice Slowtwitch.com's holier-than-thou Forum posters delivered the knockout blow to his Love: when it became clear that FTP, CdA and SRM were the triathletes' Three Wise Men, working their way toward the North Star over Kona, Streip steered his course away from Ali'i Drive.

On December 28, 2010 -- the day he realized that even though he had the money, he would never be able to subscribe to all their disc wheel, Mele Kalikimaka, Iron-War bullshit -- Streip watched as his Love For Triathlon ground slowly to a halt, spinning one final time before reaching its final resting place, the wireless computer (a minor extravagance) stopping at 0.0 mph.

His Love For Triathlon leaves behind an overall win at the Flintstone Triathlon, podium finishes at the 2010 Trideltathon and Booker T. Off-Road Triathlon, a pair of clip-on Profile Design T2+ aerobars and three University of Tennessee-themed triathlon suits.

Services will be held on beautiful country roads and mountain bike trails everywhere. The family asks that, in lieu of flowers, suggestions for new hobbies be sent to:
Drew Streip
dhstreip@gmail.com
______________________________
Health nuts are going to feel stupid someday, lying in hospitals dying of nothing.
-Redd Foxx

The Dad List

2010-12-24T10:06:00.000-05:00

Normally I do my heavy thinking during my runs. But lately I've had to save my brain power for when I would otherwise be zoned out -- like watching "Two and a Half Men" and Internet-shopping for Charlie Harper shirts to impress the ladies.

A sticky-note app for my Droid is helping me keep track of my myriad great ideas. If I pull out my phone during conversation and write something down, don't blame it on technology (I figured out how to ignore people while appearing engaged years before even my first primitive cell phone).

Instead, blame my desire to be the best future father possible. The wave of pater-centric TV shows (OK -- maybe just "Shit My Dad Says") has got me planning for the future, to be the "every-man" dad who is both loving and practical, hard-nosed but forgiving. In other words, the old dudes from "Secondhand Lions," plus George Clooney in Ocean's 11, minus the grand larceny.

That's why I'm keeping a list -- The Dad List -- of the benchmarks I need to hit as a father. It's inspired by the young, 30-something guys I work with who are still learning how to handle sleepless nights and first Christmases; by iconic father-figures in pop culture; and, of course, by my own dad and grandfather.

Some of the items are no-brainers (teaching high-fives, riding bikes, playing catch) and some are what will be considered "outdated" traditions by the time I have kids (paper airplanes? Where's the remote control?). There are new-ish traditions, too -- like the elf on the shelf -- that I'm learning from young parents.

Of course, I have my own agenda. I'll only give one great idea away for now, but here goes. For my kid's first Christmas and/or birthday, s/he's getting a full toolbox and toolkit, a flashlight and a sewing kit -- all the things s/he'll need later, but will be "too cool" to ask for or appreciate as a teenager. It's a win/win. The baby will have plenty of beautifully wrapped presents under the tree. And 14 years later, they won't take my stuff when they pull the handle off the kitchen cabinet with their cargo short pockets while getting a midnight snack.

Genius, right?

Feel free to steal that idea. But in exchange, I'd appreciate if you left a comment with your best, classic, or unusual parenting milestones for me to add to The Dad List. Remember: if your suggestion doesn't engage me, I'll have no problem ignoring it (and you'll never know how I felt).

P.S. Merry Christmas!

Observations

2010-12-22T09:26:00.000-05:00

A hair stylist will ask if you want any work done on your eyebrows.

A barber will ask if you want a trim on your nose- and ear-hair.

Either way, it will come as a surprise.
__________________________________________________

Construction workers don't get bothered by anything.

Cubicle workers get bothered by nothing.

Semantics aside, there is a big difference.

Zipp 808s and Heartbreak

2010-11-22T21:15:00.000-05:00

I was positive that today, Monday, November 22, would be a revelation. That I would know for sure what's been bothering my knee. That, even if it was a torn meniscus or other easily diagnosed injury, I would have a name and defined treatment path.

But after scrolling through a cross-section of my knee from every angle, the view was inconclusive. Nothing to be overly concerned about. A slight abnormality, but the radiologist wasn't worried enough (or didn't even notice it) to make a note on the report. I heard the words "chondral sclerosis" and "maybe a little bit of pre-arthritis." But the official prognosis is still: Wait and See; Don't Run; See You in Four to Six Weeks.

This was doubly disappointing, because last week I received an invitation from Sports Bistro to join their ambassador team for next season. I've waited to even accept -- much less publicize -- my position, because I'd be a pretty crappy ambassador to the sport of triathlon as a gimp (and not even a gimp with an inspirational back-story of competing against all odds).

They say no news is good news. In this case, it's more like 24-hour MSNBC: still no real news, followed by sporadic hopeful updates that get quashed by the realities of more misinformation, then a bunch of commentators who are paid to say things that frustrate the hell out of me.

I spent Sunday following Ironman Arizona. That's looking farther and farther away, as I can only spin my wheels on the elliptical for the immediate future. I feel like I can save my money on lusty expensive bike wheels for the moment; it doesn't do any good to have a tricked-out tri bike if I can't run afterwards.

Please, somebody: when I'm at the YMCA, humming away on the rowing machine with my iPod earbuds drowning out the sound of the resistance fan, just sneak up behind me with a 35-pound barbell and put me out of my misery.

Check it Out

2010-11-06T11:16:00.001-04:00

Rap and hip-hop have taken a serious turn for the worse.

I can say this without batting an eye, because there is a new book out: The Anthology of Rap. Everybody knows that anthologies are strategically released during dips in the market to try to create renewed interest, whether it's a DVD box set of "I Love Lucy" or 43 Miles Davis CDs, packaged in a trumpet case, for just $750 dollars-American. (Try to remember the last time you heard real jazz. See?)

Granted, Eminem still lights up any track he touches. And it'll be interesting to see what Lil' Wayne comes up with, fresh out of prison.

Blame Billboard for propagating weak flow and slant rhymes as Top-40 material. Blame whoever killed (or didn't!) Tupac and Biggie. Blame teachers for giving young kids on the streets, the would-be rappers, a passable education and a ticket out of the hard knock life.

But definitely blame will.i.am for having the balls to even record this verse:

We just had to kill it
We on the radio hotter than a skillet
We in the club making party people holla
Money in the bank, we be getting top dollar

I’m a big baller,
You a little smaller
Step up to my level, you need to grow a little taller

I’m shot caller
Get up off my collar
You a Chihuahua
I’m a Rottweiler

Compare that to the farcical rap battle in "Malibu's Most Wanted" in which Jamie Kennedy, as B-Rad, rocks the mic with this gem:

I'd rather go fly a kite
Or go on a low-carb diet
That means no more pasta
Ya'll rappers is too slow,
And I'm kinda fasta

I got a watch
It's a Swee-otch
And when my mother does my clothes
To get 'em clean she uses blee-otch

In hindsight, "Malibu's Most Wanted" may have been a forecast of today's rap game. B-Rad's biggest blunder was the belief that his prose would amount to "a million-dollar rhyme, right thurr." Will.i.am seems to be suffering the same delusions of self-importance -- but unfortunately for consumers, his played-out raps really are money in the bank.

I Kneed Help

2010-10-28T13:58:00.000-04:00

Sincere apologies for the title, but really -- this is getting ridiculous. It's been nearly two months since Atomic Man and my knee is still not functioning properly. After a total of probably five running-free weeks (and not in the Ryan Hall way) I'm searching for answers. Although I haven't found the right answers yet, but I have learned a few things along the way.

My first thought was that I needed a mental break anyway, so a physical break at the same time would give me a perfect month to reflect on my training and racing, not to mention my job, my friends and my life in general. Then things would come back together and I would be back in base-training mode.

When my knee wasn't healed after a week, I was frustrated, but not worried. After a few weeks of ice, rest and high-dose NSAIDS (which I suspect contributed to my five canker sores) I was pissed. After a few more weeks of biking, but not running, I was ready to see a doctor. Then I waited another week.

The problem is, I don't remember a specific injury. There's no swelling. It doesn't hurt enough to render me physically inable to run, though at 22 I've finally developed the good sense not to push it. Cycling doesn't bother it, but it sometimes hurts to tie my shoe. I can swim with no problems, but getting in and out of my car can be a chore.

I saw a doctor yesterday, who pronounced my (unnecessary, IMHO) X-rays perfectly clear. He diagnosed a weak hamstring and gave me a sheet of exercises to strengthen the offending area, with a two-month check-in date. I left the office less than comforted, because I didn't ask enough questions or point out my defenses, like:

I was already strengthening before this injury
Maybe a weak hammy is the root cause -- but something actually happened to my knee to make it hurt when it flexes sideways, or to make my knee sore the day after a run
How do I know when to try to run again? I alternate between standing and sitting at work, and it's still sore. What would actual movement do to it?

And some pain is spreading to my hip flexor, but that might be a product of yoga moves gone wrong. UPDATE: my hip popped massively during a swim yesterday, and the soreness disappeared. I'm tempted now just to guess at possible causes -- and treatments. Did I hyperextend my knee without knowing? Do I have a minor tear somewhere inside? Would an MRI show anything? Should I take the alternative-treatment route, like acupuncture?

Weigh in, because I will listen. Speaking of weighing, if I go much longer without running, I'm going to throw away my scale -- because now, rather than maintaining endurance, I've been reduced to looping 10-minute kickboxing and cardio-blasting, better-booty-sculpting workout videos on the DVR. I just want to enjoy good food -- sweet or savory, doesn't matter -- and know that my regular workouts will take care of the waistline until it's time to really get in shape again.

College, From Two Angles

2010-10-15T21:29:00.000-04:00

Things I Miss About College

Class: Possibly the highlight of college. I got what I paid for.
Drunk texts: Whether I sent or received the messages, and whether they were well- or poorly received, it was nice laugh off boozy communications.
Girls: Thousands of 'em. All over the place. Hot, too.
Front-yard parties: What's better than the great outdoors? Drinking in the great outdoors.
Unlimited meal plans: I lamented not having this plan as a "triathlete" with license to eat 50% more than Freshman-15 Drew.
Walking everywhere: Nothing was ever out of reach; plus, it helped fight the aforementioned Freshman 15. No risk of drinking and driving if you can stand The Strip.
TRECs: When you think about it, college is like a resort with expansive pools and a great workout room. Plus, Smoothie King!

Things I Don't Miss About College

Class: How much time did I waste learning stuff I already knew? Or stuff I might never use?
Drunk texts: The day I learned to keep my phone from beeping every three minutes until it woke me up was a milestone. Also, sorry to anybody I drunk-texted. I don't remember it -- I swear.
Girls: Thousands of 'em. All over the place. Hot, too. Too hot for me. Wasted opportunities.
Front-yard parties: I never had real fun, especially once I realized that UTPD doesn't need a real reason to crash the party: Kegs full of flat, cheap beer. Mingling. Ugh.
Unlimited meal plans: How much poor-quality food can you stuff down in a single setting?
Walking everywhere: The sweat stains on my shirts and shorts were pretty embarrassing. The Strip gets really old.
TRECs: Meat-heads and guys with huge biceps/chicken legs abound. Smoothie King practically robs college students blind -- $7 for 1,500 calories of chalky protein? No thanks.

In other words, everything that is awesome about college also sucks. Is the shot glass half full, or half empty?

"I Just Really Want to Lose Three Pounds."

2010-10-03T22:08:00.000-04:00

I conquered a feat of gastronomical proportions this weekend: the KFC Double Down.

After more than six months of promising myself that I would eat one, I finally ran out of excuses not to try this abomination. I didn't get one after the Rev3 Half Ironman, nor the 103-mile ride over the Cherohala Skyway. Ditto my Atomic Man 1/2 marathon, the Booker T Washington tri, or my Flintstone Triathlon victory. Not even after a normal, long-ish bike ride or run.

No, this "sandwich" was consumed after arguably my least-active week of the entire year. Following a week of recuperating my knee -- with little to show for it, by the way -- and eating accordingly less than I'm used to, my stomach craved a fat-frenzied protein pounding. And who am I to deny the onslaught? I waited until I was suitably hungry, then hit the drive-thru at the closest KFC.

My first complaint was that KFC shares a building (and kitchen) with Long John Silver's. I was jonesin' for some steak fries, but they only serve run-of-the-mill Silver's fries. Strike one. The drive-thru also took a really long time, but I'll excuse it because my Double Down was piping hot.

I had to take a picture. My fingers left a slight grease stain on my phone's touch screen. I was momentarily delayed in savoring the awesomeness.

The first bite set the bar. It was hot and juicy, with a crispy fried coating. The cheese was melted and creamy. The bacon and special sauce gave it a surprising, spicy, smoky kick -- they set off each of the 13 secret spices of the original recipe. In short, it was a delicious mouthful of food.

And then I began to notice the less pleasant sensations. Where did KFC find so many pieces of chicken shaped perfectly for a sandwich? Why is this meat so uniformly dense? How did I convince myself to ingest so many potential carcinogens and heart disease risk factors in one setting?

As the sandwich -- and I use that term loosely, considering there's no bread -- gently cooled down, the chicken became a little tougher to chew. The cheese became more noticeable as its own entity. The bacon took a little more tooth to cut through. It lacked the greasy, brand-new taste of seven minutes prior. I finished the sandwich and the mismatched fries, overstuffed from the weighty ingredients.

Hours later, I still felt uncomfortably full as I went to sleep. I wasn't exactly hungry when I woke up, either. I'm glad I challenged myself, though, to go through with it. At $5 ($7.08 with fries, and tax) it's an expensive undertaking for what it is. I would be much more pleased in the taste category with a Five Guys burger, or some Zaxby's chicken fingers -- and I know from experience that I wouldn't have the same gut-bombed feeling.

On the fast-food spectrum, KFC should stick to home-grown classics like regular fried chicken. Leave the creations to the other people, like Hardee's. They've always got some ridiculous Philly Cheesesteak Grilled Portabello Chipotle Girthyburger promotion going on. That's for some other time. In the meantime, I'm going to start a 3-day juice fast to clear the polyps inevitably growing in my large intestines.

*Don't judge me. Or, if you have to judge me, note that I didn't order any biscuits or sweet tea. I still respect myself...a little bit.

The Rules. Mostly for men.

2010-09-23T20:43:00.000-04:00

1. Men should never talk just to hear the sound of their own voice. We have many stupid, pointless thoughts that should die a silent death.

2. The perfect woman will understand the importance of the pre-race dump -- but she will never say the words "pre-race dump."

3. Once a week, eat a meal until you're completely, uncomfortably stuffed. Then have dessert.

4. Using a coupon to buy two of something that you wouldn't normally buy one of is not saving money. Don't let women tell you otherwise.

5. Everybody screens phone calls (besides technologically inept individuals or those with broken phone displays). It's not rude or hurtful. Just have a system in place -- and stick to it. For example, no calls during meals; no extended conversations in the presence of another person; text messages often will suffice.

6. Remember to call back.

7. It's almost always easier to gain weight than to lose it.

8. It's almost always easier to lose money than to gain it.

9. When someone asks why you're so dressed up, it is code for, "How did I not notice you were so attractive before?"

10. Blogs are for people desperately seeking attention. Even if the site doesn't make money through prominent advertising placement, it is entirely self-indulgent. That's OK. Nobody is forcing you to read it.

11. Twitter is never OK. (But "$#!t My Dad Says" has made a lot of people happy.)

Meet the Flintstones

2010-09-20T21:20:00.000-04:00

So, I won my first race this Sunday at the Flintstone Triathlon. Yay! Three cheers! Etc, etc.

The fact is, I experienced more negative emotions about this race than any other competition I've ever been in. (There were some dark days during high school tennis, but we'll excuse those as youthful indiscretion.) I'm an adult now, and I'm frankly embarrassed by the pessimism.

I had built up this race for a month. It was a small, start-up event in Chattanooga Valley. There would be limited competition. I would be in peak shape coming off my half-marathon (which I would have run faster than 1:30:09). In other words, I promised myself I would win.

Then my knee started feeling funny. I wasn't necessarily worried, but it wasn't such a sure thing. I started telling myself that it would be the last race of my season if I could manage a win. Then, I promised it would be the last race, win or not. I needed a break.

Sunday morning, I hated life. I drove to Flintstone alone in the dark, as my parents were out of town. I hated myself for being there so early, because the other people there were clearly tri-geeks with no other life. Their more-expensive, super-aero bikes intimidated me. So did their "140.6" stickers. I considered abandoning the race to go on a long, lonely bike ride, except I'd already paid $55 (plus internet service charge?!). I promised never to go to another race by myself.

I hated packet pick-up. Everybody else was with a spouse/boyfriend/girlfriend/friend...and/or making stupid jokes that only triathletes would make at 6:32 a.m. I made stupid jokes just to fit in. Then I hated myself for that.

I hated getting called out for not having a swim cap. On the 10-mile bike ride, two people passed me. I immediately resigned myself to finishing off the podium, because I was then in 4th place. Then I hated myself for mentally quitting. Somehow, though, I kept them in sight as we started the run together. I had two miles to run myself into first place.

Unfortunately, I didn't see Denny nearly a quarter-mile in front of us. I passed one guy in transition and one on the run, and thought I was in first until I saw Denny's bald head across the lake. And Brandon was behind me, running barefoot to save precious seconds in T2. I was running so hard that every footfall felt like one step closer to a complete collapse.

At various times during the run, I tried convincing myself I would be happy with second place. After all, I like Denny; I would rather be beaten by a friend than an unknown. But I was turning myself inside out to catch him, torn between winning and quitting. He deserved a victory as much as I did, having led the race from the gun. I hated wanting so badly to win, and I hated thinking I could live with giving less than 100 percent.

I kicked. If he had answered, things might have turned out differently. But I surprised him, and it worked. We both staggered across the finish line, completely gassed. I still feel bad for taking a win; after all, his wife and kids were there. It's not like I had anybody to celebrate with. And at the end of the day, it's a 48-minute race, not a half-Ironman. I drove home with another T-shirt, a candy jar of Atomic FireBalls and an upset stomach.

To top it off, I have a renewed desire to stay fast. So much for taking a break: I can't even keep a promise to myself to relax. I hate acting like a Type-A person, even though I'm not one. Yet I kind of hate not being one, because it means I will never fully achieve my goals.

So is a win a win? Ask somebody with more experience.

"Words without thoughts never to heaven go."

2010-09-17T10:48:00.000-04:00

-William "Shake-n-bake" Shakespeare

For a long time, I’ve been unable to pinpoint exactly why I found the idea of living by favorite quotes so ridiculous. Last night, for reasons that cannot be explained, it struck me—enough that I had to get out of bed at 2:12 a.m. and blindly scribble it in silver Sharpie on the back of an envelope.

My logic is this: quotes are a means to sum up what you believe, by using someone else’s undoubtedly more eloquent prose.

If you can choose just one favorite quote, you undoubtedly are eschewing many great ideas, either by choice or bad luck.

But if you expand your list of quotes to include representations of everything you believe, you’ve missed the point of so succinctly summarizing your ideals. The clash of syntax (not to mention plain old core beliefs) between great minds of different periods offends my sensibilities as a writer devoted to forming new ideas.

My ironically poorly constructed argument originated in the depths of the Slowtwitch.com triathlon message board, wherein many users feel the need to append their signature with a quote. Thus, the most frequent posters broadcast their choice message exponentially more than trolls like me who read but rarely respond, for fear of semi-public humiliation at the hands of dudes with too much free time.

References to alcohol among posters are common. For example, In vino veritas—or, “In wine, there is truth.”

Is that Latinglish phrase the root system of his beliefs, from which all other ideas grow, nurtured by sauvignon blanc? If so, he should really consider changing his singularly boozy façade. If not, why is that his motto? Is it a combination of old-guy wisdom and youthful hipster irony?

Or take the oft-cited David Auerbach quote: “In wine there is wisdom, in beer there is strength, in water there is bacteria.”

Amusing, to be sure. But when several regular contributors use that as their signature line, you get the feeling that maybe they’ve forgotten how quotations are supposed to reveal something unique about themselves.

This painful phenomenon has been increased by Facebook. Rather than list one or ten favorite literary and academic quotes, people have taken to showcasing their mundane conversations and misunderstandings as Apatow-worthy comedy.

But these homemade quotes are like a kindergartner’s macaroni necklace: sometimes cute and endearing, but not to be worn alongside pearls. “You-had-to-be-there” humor is lost on a computer screen. And I dare say that not one of my friends is as inherently quotable as “Anchorman.”

So, I beg you, be a free thinker. Express yourself, explore your own voice. Crack open a bottle of red—maybe there is some truth in it.

Just please, please: don’t make a habit of quoting yourself, nor should you rely on store-bought quotes to tell the story of who you are.

The Manhattan Project

2010-09-08T15:13:00.001-04:00

After an agonizingly drawn-out summer of trying to train through the heat and humidity, the weather broke exactly long enough to complete the Atomic Man half-Ironman in Oak Ridge.

Just 10 days after blistering my feet beyond belief on an eight-mile tempo run with 90 degrees of late-afternoon sun beating down on me, I lined up to contest the third leg of our relay. Jennifer had already swum 1.2 miles in 26 minutes, exiting the water as the second relay swimmer. Incidentally, her wave started six minutes behind the first wave, and she was still ahead of the majority of the pack.

She handed off the timing chip to Allan, who proceeded to ride faster than approximately a bajillion people on the 56-mile bike ride -- which included several trips up and over K2, Everest and the Continental Divide. He put another nail in the coffin, passing a guy while running his bike down a grassy knoll into transition. Then it was my turn not to let those two bad-asses down.

Maybe I started off a little quick; I didn't start my watch until after mile 1, but the next 8 miles were all in the 6:28 to 6:58 range. It was only in the last four or five miles that the rolling hills and side stitches caught up to me, but that's my usual race plan: go out hard and risk an epic implosion. And in reality, my pace only dropped to a still-faster-than-normal clip, for a race average of 6:52/mile (7 seconds off my goal pace).

My race nutrition included one apple-pie-flavored Hammer Gel around mile 7, several splashes of water and a couple sips of Gatorade. The liquids were as likely to wind up in my shoes or behind my sunglasses as they were to find my mouth, which was the price I paid for not slowing down at most of the aid stations. But the relatively cool temperature, abundant shade and pre-race whole-wheat bagel with Nutella kept me from cramping -- even after the uphill finish atop the overlook.

Now I'm left with a couple questions. First and most important, Do I really enjoy racing 13.1 miles? My argument against the distance includes the hours of stomach discomfort afterwards; the aching in my legs two days removed; and the increased mental and physical recovery to be ready for more training and racing.

Second, Am I better suited to shorter races given my current training volume? I'm young and healthy enough to fake it, but even most competitive 5K runners train twice as much per week as I do.

Answers: I don't know yet / Who cares? I'm not getting paid to race, so I'll do whatever I (and my friends) want. We rocked the Atomic Man: first relay, third overall. I added another towel to my "RaceDay Events" Home Furnishings collection. And I had an awesome Labor Day weekend with friends, food, football and fireworks.

Next up is either the Symphony Classic 5K, or the Flintstone Sprint Triathlon. I'm ready to mix up my training with some mountain biking, hiking, trail running (yes, Cathi -- I will make time in my busy schedule) and fried apple pies -- fresh from the Apple Barn in Pigeon Forge, not a plastic tear-off packet.

The Last Cup

2010-08-27T09:20:00.002-04:00

The Last Cup

He hesitated after flicking the Splenda packet three times with his middle finger to settle its contents at the bottom. A familiar thought--is this the packet that's going to kill me?--crossed his mind. His lips pursed slightly; his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. Then he tore open the tiny paper container and dumped it into the mug.

It was impossible to know, really. Everybody died from something. If he used real sugar (either pure cane or turbinado -- everybody knew that refined granulated sugar directly caused diabetes, love handles and general unattractiveness) he would die from that, too. Maybe it would be the creamer: 40 calories per teaspoon which he would have to account for later by tacking an extra half mile onto his run. Or maybe the coffee itself was the culprit: no calories, fat or sugar, but it was just a matter of time until he succumbed to debilitating heart palpitations. He should quit.

But he still had enough grounds for at least three days, and he hated wasting food. He would drink his last cup on Friday morning. That way, the headaches would last through Sunday, and by Monday he would be ready to face work without a crippling caffeine deficit.

Maybe he would try green tea. It didn't taste as good, but it was equally cheap and easy to make, and thus a suitable replacement for his morning habit. It's worth noting that he was only 22, and had only been a coffee drinker for a year. The graveyard hours of his part-time job necessitated something to keep him awake and occupied, so coffee it was. In reality, he didn't ever feel more awake or alert after ingesting caffeine. He had just grown used to having a hot drink that took him approximately half an hour to finish, and those 30 minutes made him feel like the Real College Students for whom coffee was a way of life -- but not like those Last-Minute-Crammers who lived on 5-Hour Energy and Adderall through finals week. They were just dumb.

Coffee also presented an intellectual challenge that he both reveled in and rebelled against. Learning the different roasts; various brewing methods; proper bean harvesting locales -- he could be a pseudo-expert just by reading and drinking. Also, why did other people know so much more than he did? He didn't like being out of the loop. But the hipster-artisan-barista trend, and his disdain for hipsters and overly expensive consumer goods, was one he hoped he could bypass. He wanted to be a Classic Coffee Drinker, the type who could tell a good cup from a great cup, but who also understood its more utilitarian properties. He didn't want to be a Starbucks Pro, a champion of flavored syrups and seasonal creations and disposable income.

He had read somewhere that coffee, like any addiction, wasn't love at first taste. If the author was right, that meant he'd had to learn to like it. Of course he'd hated coffee when he tried it as a 12-year-old, but he had also hated asparagus, macaroni and cheese and anything that wasn't chicken fingers. He remembered drinking iced coffee a year ago and enjoying it. It wasn't an addiction that deserved to be lumped in with cigarettes and Robitussin; it was an acquired taste, like wine. People drank wine all the time without being addicted to it. And if coffee was really dangerous, it would have its own laws, besides that fair-trade liberal bullshit. That author sucked.

He sipped the coffee, burning his tongue in the process. He didn't mind. Everybody dies from something.

Put your fast foot forward

2010-08-06T10:21:00.000-04:00

It's been too long since I've been on dirt. Months of being a roadie have softened me, stolen my resolve to rip. The hiatus has killed my confidence and robbed me of my dirt legs. I feel vaguely soilsick as I buck over the whoop-dee-doos that used to disappear under my wheels.

But most tragically, I feel slow.

I can still outride my dad and his friends, of course, though not by much. The long breathers I used to take every so often -- long enough for the fog to disappear from my glasses and the sweat to dry on my face -- have been reduced to minor lapses in my suffering. I can already hear tires rumbling toward me on the trail, and I haven't yet grabbed my water bottle.

Conventional wisdom says the person who rides fastest gets the longest breaks. Conventional wisdom forgets that the person who rides fastest might also hurt the most.

Indeed my lungs hurt, my legs hurt, and so does my pride. I'm caught between multiple rocks and at least one hard place. I'm quick enough not to really be slow, but I'm too slow to really be fast.

What ever happened to pounding pavement in the quest of becoming better XC racers? Cadel Evans, once a cross country racer, now has a second career as a GC contender at the Grand Tours. Lance Armstrong can show up to the Leadville 100 and make 14,000 feet of off-road climbing look like a weekend spin in his pancake-flat native Texas.

On the other hand, I approach this 6.5-mile loop as enemy territory, every rock and tree stump a threat to my flow.

Feeling fast isn't just about the numbers on my computer, or the time it takes to complete one lap. Those kinds of metrics can be influenced, favorably or not, by soil conditions and humidity -- even whether I ate Italian or Indian the night before.

Really feeling fast is about being deaf to everything but the whoosh of air in my ears. It's about riding so hard uphill that sweat washes over my top tube, then dropping off the backside and being bone-dry at the bottom. Fast is when smooth banked corners feel like straightaways, and horizontal feels like vertical. It's about longing to session a section of trail I nailed, but knowing it won't be the same a second time.

Today, I have none of that.

It's sweltering, and my breathing is labored at the slightest incline. The soupy humidity nullifies my sweat -- nature's AC, if I could even inert myself to a sustainable cooling speed. No, I move at a snail's pace, but with a hummingbird's heart rate. I sometimes imagine a side view of my torso -- head and shoulders completely still, gliding through space, while my legs and bike absorb the rollers underneath. Today, each earthy undulation murders my momentum, reminds me that I can no more control this aluminum appendage than the sky above and the trail below.

One lap down, zero laps to go. These 6.5 miles took me nearly as long as two laps would have in my heyday. I roll into the parking lot, ready to load my bike and towel off. But I must wait -- my dad has the keys.

I'm still faster than the old guys.

Home Field Advantage: The Rev3 Report

2010-05-12T09:24:00.000-04:00

An overly dramatic race recap

* * *

The air was uncharacteristically chilly Sunday morning at 6:45 when Melissa Gill and I put the finishing touches on our transition areas. If I had to guess, there was about $20,000 in bikes and wetsuits within a water bottle squirt of my slot, rack 322. My friend and resident Ironman veteran, Todd Montgomery, was racked just one stand over. When I later passed him on the run course, he probably wished he could take back some of the pre-race advice he gave me.

Professionals hit the water at 7:45. They were already passing the dock ten minutes later when it was time for my wave to start. If the air was cold, the water felt at least tepid through my wetsuit. I swam the straight out-and-back course on cruise control, slapping at ankles in front of me, trying to conserve energy. The extra 400 meters, compared to an Olympic-distance race, were noticeable but not overly draining. And I have yet to sprout extra limbs or feel my stomach ripped apart by water-borne bacteria from the Tennessee River (knock on wood).

T1 was a flourish of cowbells, Gatorade and a chat with my wetsuit twin. My first flying bike mount worked flawlessly, and soon I was cruising down Martin Mill Pike. Two police motorcycles came into view, and a blur on a Cervelo P4 (Bjorn Andersson) whooshed by. Seconds later, the power train of Chris Lieto, Matt Reed and Terenzo Bozzone also passed. They were less than 40 minutes from the end of their race, and I was less than 40 minutes into mine. I savored the proximity to greatness for a moment, then put my head down and cranked.

Before the race, my plan was to take the bike easy. But Todd told me to let it all hang out; I would probably run the same speed either way. As it turned out, that was good advice. I held my position the whole ride, even passing a few people on the hills with which I am excruciatingly familiar. Three instances of discomfort stuck out. At mile 9.67, a number etched indefinitely in my brain, I hit rough asphalt and my computer ceased functioning. As the proper Euro cyclist would attest, I rode strictly according to feel -- and the sensations were good. Around mile 35, my glutes and hamstrings started to fatigue, prompting some low-gear spinning until the burn died down. And the sharp plastic corners of the Gu packs taped to my top tube clawed into my knees. Lesson learned.

At T2, I heard shouts from familiar voices, although I couldn't exactly make out where they were coming from, or to whom they belonged. Todd had told me about the blisters he suffered at his last 70.3, so I pulled on socks. With my visor, watch and race belt, I started my first half-marathon. Fast. And why not? The sensations were good.

Allan sneaked up beside me on his bike. "Hey man, how do you feel? Good? Yeah, you're looking pretty strong right now." Then he peeled off, leaving me to my thoughts. What if I bonk? What if I totally rock this thing? There are a lot of sponsors here...what if I got some kind of offer? What if my parents don't make it on time for the finish? When am I going to hit the wall?

My legs did start to feel heavy after a few miles. But (warning: gross stuff ahead) I had been trying to pee on myself for the last five miles of the bike and the first three miles of the run -- and it just wasn't happening. So I had to duck off the greenway to relieve myself, which gave my legs just enough of a break. I caught Todd and we talked for a minute; I'm not sure what race etiquette dictates, but I kept pushing. I wasn't trying to race Todd directly. I was racing myself and the possibility of an epic slow-down, so I just wanted to pad my time until I reached the crash point.

But I never broke stride. I steadily picked runners off, all the way to the final turnaround at mile 13. I choked up when I entered the finish chute, just as I had choked up two or three times before on the run, when I realized I was going to be alive and well at the end of the day. Nearly the whole crew -- Allan, Leslie, Justin, Emily, Matt, Ali, Devon, my parents -- were at the finish line. And Melissa was crossing the line not too long after that.

So my first 70.3 is in the books. In short, I exceeded my very ambitious goal of breaking five hours, finishing in 4:56. I ran a 1:32 half-marathon (a PR by default). I won 2nd place in my age group and placed top-20 overall. And I have the best friends and parents in the world (or at least ZIP code 37916), all of whom helped me get through my biggest race in practically my own backyard.

Terrenzo Bozzone: great athlete, cool dude...and orange glasses.

Thanks to my friends, parents and Rev3 volunteers for making it a great race!

Track Workout

2010-05-02T13:41:00.001-04:00

The title is not what you think. I'm not talking about repeat quarters, or a tempo run. The New York Times Magazine ran an interesting story about people who record myriad personal data, from the basics like weight and sleep, to minutiae like intake of caffeine and flaxseed.

Most self-respecting (and self-classified) athletes keep some kind of workout log. With new gadgetry, it's becoming easier to analyze your performance down to the footstep. Personally, I only keep track of distance, time, and pace if I get really adventurous. Anecdotally, I seem to be performing better and getting injured less since I've cut out extraneous sweets, for budget reasons as much as health. But I could have just been having a long string of bad luck.

I relate to this sentiment, pulled from the NYT story:

"Watch out for those machines, though. Humans know a special trick of self-observation: when to avert our gaze. Machines don’t understand the value of forgiving a lapse, or of treating an unpleasant detail with tactful silence. A graph or a spreadsheet talks only in numbers, but there is a policeman inside all of our heads who is well equipped with punishing words. 'Each day my self-worth was tied to the data,' Alexandra Carmichael, one of the founders of the self-tracking site CureTogether, wrote in a heartfelt blog post about why she recently stopped tracking. 'One pound heavier this morning? You’re fat. Skipped a day of running? You’re lazy. It felt like being back in school. Less than 100 percent on an exam? You’re dumb.' Carmichael had been tracking 40 different things about herself. The data she was seeing every day didn’t respect her wishes or her self-esteem. It was awful, and she had to stop."

The idea of self-punishment rings true. At the point you realize that eating well, sleeping 8 hours a night and maintaining a certain weight amounts to better performance, you are naturally inclined to kick yourself if you deviate too much from that formula. If you are the type of person to have a performance goal, like a 5-hour Half-Ironman, you are probably the type of person to worry about each step on your path to that goal.

With that knowledge, there's a decision to make. Stick to your guns, track your progress, and attribute your performance (good or bad) to the rigor of your plan; or, take a step back, relax, and accept that whatever happens, will happen.

Neither of these is more right than the other. Each extreme will work for some people and not for others. In fact, elements of both probably infiltrate most peoples' decision-making process. If there's one thing I preach (and try to practice), it's moderation. Now, excuse me while I get off my soap box; I have a big race next week and it's time to go swim.

Introducing the New Site

2010-04-27T22:01:00.000-04:00

I'm proud to finally unveil the fruit of my labors: The Triathlon Lifestyle, Made Easy

This is a website devoted to triathlons, food, friends, and anything else I care to throw in there. It was created during JEM 422, and I hope to make it applicable to all readers.

This introduction comes with a few caveats:

It was created with iWeb on a Mac. Therefore, I need to find a reliable way to keep it updated.
My domain might expire in two weeks when I graduate; I should probably check on that.

This blog will continue to chronicle the trial (pun wholly intended) and errors of The Word Magician as he embarks on his career search. I'm beating the path; all you have to do is follow it. As always, thanks for reading!

Dogwood 5K Race Recap

2010-04-25T23:13:00.000-04:00

*Note: I was waiting until pictures of the race were posted so I could steal one. But, just like the TriDeltathon, they managed not to take a single picture of me. C'est la vie.

I made a promise to myself (and to Jennifer Torrance) Friday night: that I would rise with the sun to race the Dogwood 5K on Saturday morning. The forecast predicted rain, thunder, lightning, gale-force winds; basically, the end-times.

My promise came with a caveat to myself, though. If it was raining terribly hard, I was hitting Snooze. I went to bed early, though I had a terrible night of sleep. I took it as a bad omen that I woke at 2 a.m. to use the bathroom and felt my toe in undeniable pain. And I outfoxed my alarm by a good 15 minutes. But even with the early waking time, the rains appeared to have bypassed Knoxville.

Somewhat grudgingly, I pulled warm-ups over my singlet and shorts. I planned to get there early to make sure I at least got a T-shirt for my troubles (they aren't guaranteed for "game-time decision" entrants). It's a pleasant sage-green, though -- a color conspicuously absent from my wardrobe until now.

I've been working out once a week lately with the group of fast guys from the Knoxville Track Club, so I had an idea of who I could try to keep up with. The runner in question was Greg Johnson, a master's runner whose speed seems to increase with his age. I last ran a 5K exactly one year ago at this race; Greg has done at least two in the last three weeks. Needless to say, he has a better awareness of his capabilities. So he was my rabbit.

First mile, I came through in 5:30. I was about five steps behind Greg the whole time, and felt comfortable. Second mile, my split was 5:38. I slipped past Greg and one other kid who was visibly (and audibly) hitting the wall. It was a miracle, in my mind, that I didn't blow up and bog down. Maybe the training actually works!

Then, the guy who won the 5K at the Knoxville Marathon tried to pass me. I decided to stick with him; then I surged, and opened up a gap. That space grew until the end, where I stopped my watch at 17:19 -- a new personal best by 1:20. To top it off, I won a $20 gift certificate to the Runner's Market for the age-group victory.

So what's the grand conclusion -- work hard? Sleep 8 hours a night? Eat your vegetables? Maybe. What I learned is this: Only run a race once a year, and a PR is almost guaranteed.

An Open Letter to: Sara Nasab

2010-04-20T05:17:00.002-04:00

Dear Sara,

You had the chance to live the American dream on Sunday: to bring diversity and unity to the sport of triathlon where there is none (scroll all the way down); to ride on the front, not the back, of the proverbial tandem bicycle; to sit at the proverbial lunch counter while TriDelts serve you; to to stand at the proverbial Brandenburg Gate and say, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this giant blue inflatable arch!"

But instead, you painted your face so as to hide amongst the fairer-skinned masses, indistinguishable from the other WASPs only by the fact that you weren't wearing The Emperor's New Compression Clothes (from 2XU, as seen in the spring/summer '10 catalog) and pushing around a bike that cost your kid's first semester of prep school tuition when you were struggling to put broccoli on the table but told your family you were just saving extra money for the family vacation to Cabo.

A wise author once wrote that the best-laid plans of rice and (ra)men go oft awry. Well, at least they had a plan. This could have been you. But you blew it.

Love,

Drew

Intensity

2010-04-19T18:01:00.001-04:00

I'll just get it out of the way early. By far, the funniest moment of the weekend was watching one of the later finishers of the Trideltathon run across the finish line with her helmet in hand. She was so intense and focused that she forgot to take off her protective headgear after cycling.

We could all learn something from her single-minded determination to get to the finish line as quickly as possible, with total disregard for the conventions of triathlon. Cold? When everybody else is shivering in little more than glorified, sweat-wicking skivvies, wear stylish pink and black sweats.

Of course this is in jest. She is just one of the 325 people who entered the race, each of whom has some fatal flaw which is probably deserving of its own blog post, a la Stuff White People Like. I should mention that triathlon is just begging to be on that list; the above competitor might have been the only non-white person at the entire event. Triathlon is dangerously approaching the whiteness level of tennis, pre-Serena and Venus Williams.

This weekend also saw Collegiate Nationals come and go -- and I don't regret missing it at all. The swim course was cut in half; water temperature was 54 degrees; heavy rains flooded (and rerouted) the run course and caused confusion on the bike. For the people who built their seasons around this race, it was surely a disappointment as two relatively unknown athletes claimed the titles.

Meanwhile, in Tennessee, the TriVols were dominating the Trideltathon. Matt Robbins took second; Ashley Quinn, Leslie Cagle and Emily Mitchell destroyed the 20-24 age group; Victoria Moss raced her first triathlon. I finished third overall, a pretty solid improvement from this race two years ago when I was competing in my first triathlon. All I have left is the REV3 long-course triathlon . . . and graduation. I'll take the race.

Observations of the Week

2010-04-16T19:18:00.000-04:00

Besides being busy and highly stressful, this week represents something more comforting. Well...I take that back. This observation is also stressful: There are just three weeks (21 days) until the half-Ironman, and my graduation follows three days later.

Time is short, so I'm paying attention to every little thing I do. Here's what I've noticed about both training and life in general.

1. Stay hydrated. I tried a 40-minute tempo run last night, but I spent three hours walking around the Knoxville Zoo without water. So around 35 minutes, the wheels came off, leaving me lightheaded, dizzy and with a little bit of chest pain.

2. It doesn't matter how fit you look -- it matters how fit you are. "You look fit" is the best, most nebulous compliment you can pay a runner, as this blog entry points out. Read the comments, and it's amazing how often this is thrown around. I've heard variations ("Your legs are skinny! I mean, you have runners' legs..." and "You look thin. . .") just in the two days since I read this.

3. Pay somebody to work on your bike. I've been riding bikes for 17 years, and I still screwed up my drivetrain in less than five seconds with a few wrong twists of the barrel adjuster. It took me 30 minutes to even get it close to fixed. Either take up an apprenticeship, or get a favorite bike shop and mechanic.

4. Take care of yourself. Get in a habit of eating right after a workout, taking cold/ice baths after hard runs and bike rides, using anti-chafe cream, wearing proper clothing, stretching...the list goes on. Neglecting any one of those things can throw off all the hard training you do. That's why my website is called "an active lifestyle." To race your best, you have to live your best.

Until next time, peace, love and chain grease.

Beware the Fred

2010-04-10T17:51:00.003-04:00

This morning, I set out to ride 62 soothing, relatively flat miles on my bike. I drove down from Knoxville to Chattanooga, then woke up at 6:30 to drive another hour to Cohutta, Ga. Then I (and by "I," I mean my dad) paid $35 which presumably covered a donation to the Cohutta Fire Department, some good-ass post-ride chili and hot dogs, and a woefully misspelled T-shirt that reads "Peddle faster - I hear banjo music!"

The turnout was halved from last year, ostensibly owing to another charity ride -- darn those guilty cancer sympathizers! -- which started in Bradley County and overlapped part of our route. So that meant, mediocre cyclist though I may be, that I found myself at the front of the ride. Not riding too hard, but fast enough to overcome the basic forces of friction, gravity and rolling resistance.

Then the Freds swooped in and swept me up, the guys who ride $3,000 bikes at a whopping three-tenths of a mile per hour faster than me. I generally dislike avid-recreational cyclists as they tend to be exclusionary, elitist, and laugh-at-their-own-jokes funny, which is to say not terribly humorous.

They also are apparently colorblind.

This year's route was marked in green (100k) and orange (50k). There were some leftover marks in a pleasant, though visibly aged, bluish-green (that's my best Blogger replica) from past rides which I dutifully ignored until I got called back and told to turn around. Again, I rode off the front, confident in my ability to distinguish neon-green spray paint from turquoise, until I reached a road clearly not on the cue sheet. A "local" rider tried to fix the errs of the group, and while we got back on course, we cut 17 miles off the ride.

That doesn't cut it for me. I went pretty far out of my way to get jerked around by some morons can't differentiate between new and old paint. This spring, I'm 0-for-2 in the "Paid Events In Which I've Been Led Astray" category, and I don't appreciate it. An eagerly anticipated training ride turned into a pedestrian pissing contest because I trusted other people more than myself.

To which I say, No more! Save your pseudo-upper echelon Chattanooga Bike Club / KnoxVelo lack-of-pace-lines for somebody who gives two spokes about being "part of the club." And definitely don't send me off course, then draft off me for 10 miles without taking pulls, then make some snarky comment at lunch while I'm right behind you about how that Tennessee guy was pushing the pace. Go home -- or do you need a cue sheet and GPS system for that, too?

Efficiency or Efficacy: a choice

2010-04-08T23:04:00.001-04:00

The first week of "intense" training is done, and I came out of it unscathed. By the numbers:

Swimming: 2.4 miles
Biking: 115 miles
Running: 23 miles

Once upon a time, running 23 miles in one week was bound to lay me up for two more. But now I'm uninjured, training smart, eating plenty, getting sleep and not doing anything stupid. This weekend is my first metric century (pdf) -- 100km or 62 miles of relatively flat terrain. That's about three hours on a bike. If you choose to go out with me in spirit, remember to wear sunscreen and comfortable bike shorts, or you'll be in a world of hurt.

On another note, I found an intriguing blog discussing the merits (or demerits, as the writer points out) of drafting in a triathlon. He argues that falling into the slipstream of other cyclists destroys the integrity of this individual race against the clock. He says there's one solution: a time-trial swim start to separate everybody.

I contend that starting five seconds apart (rather than in waves) won't help. It only serves to draw the race out much longer, and when catching and/or passing somebody on the bike, riders are likely to use the draft as an added burst of passing speed.

I also argue that starting individually takes away the fun of competition, the thrill of knowing your opponents, of being in the moment with the other competitors -- all trying to reach the finish line first. Anybody can race against the clock, but the psychological component of working with your opponents is a skill that I think enriches all triathletes, regardless of race type.

So I ask: If you had the opportunity to go faster and save energy by working with an opponent, versus forging ahead on your own and earning the glory of being the lone leader for a while, which would you choose? The comment section is open ;-)

No-Go for TriVols in Texas

2010-03-31T14:50:00.000-04:00

The word is out: the TriVols will not be competing in Texas at Collegiate Nationals.

On one hand, it is bad news for my project because my goal for the spring initially was to top my performance from last year. On the other, bigger, better hand, it gives our team some stress relief and new, easier goals.

In the next two months there will be about six local triathlons, including the TriDeltathon on campus, which always falls during Nationals. These short "sprints" are a great way to jump into the sport, and they offer us the opportunity to volunteer and promote our club.

My personal goal, however, is the Rev3 Half Ironman-distance race. It is the next step up from an Olympic-distance race, the longest I've attempted thus far. It comprises a 1.2-mile swim, 56-mile bike and 13.1-mile run. Taken individually, I know I can do each event. Even together, I know I can finish. But I don't want to just finish; I want to race for speed, time and overall placement.

That means I need to really step up in the next few weeks. So this is an open invitation for training partners outside the normal tri club schedule. I need to do long rides, long runs, and agonizing swims -- all while staying uninjured.

Can I do it? We'll see on May 9th.

I (didn't) Shave My Legs For This?

2010-03-23T06:13:00.000-04:00

The first race of the season has come and gone, but the results sheet doesn't tell the whole story--not even close.

A sunny Saturday gave way to a soggy Sunday as we were greeted at 7:30 a.m. by rain pelting our hotel room window. We were lucky the race started at 10 Central time, which is at least two more hours of sleep and prep time than we're accustomed to. Continental breakfast and two servings of coffee from an undersized Styrofoam cup later, we drove to the race site.

The emcee, standing under an RV's awning, broke the news: there would be no swim. We weren't surprised, considering the water was 51 degrees and the air temperature was about 45. The event would be a duathlon (its technical term, although swimming specialists call it "the shaft").

Wearing just a triathlon suit, arm warmers and rose-lensed glasses, I toed the starting line. The race began uphill for the better part of a mile, followed by a wild dash down the same incline. Every footstrike reverberated through my legs. I was terrified of slipping, but it would have been more dangerous to fight the momentum.

Once on the bike, which was to be 15 miles, I realized I'd forgotten my computer. Aside from not knowing my current speed and distance, though, it was a small loss. I told myself I would just ride as hard as possible while trying not to get passed. And that strategy worked for a while; when six or seven familiar faces crept by, I increased my speed and worked to keep up.

I held on for a long time. A really long time--almost too long. The group ahead of me slowed, and I looked at the Interstate 75 on-ramp with confusion.

"They sent us off course!"

"We're already at 15 miles. What the @#!&?"

It was then that a red hatchback drove up behind us and confirmed that Yes, we had missed a turn, and Yes, we would have to cover the full distance. It was an angry mile or two before we all sped up again, knowing our race was ruined. In T2, after having ridden 23.8 miles, Joe Peeden and I discussed our options: quit, or run?

We ran. Mostly together, mostly with numb feet, through mostly mud puddles and quicksand bogs (OK, not really quicksand--though the mud did eat one of Joe's racing flats). We passed people who thought we were running a second lap, or a cool-down. We still picked off (and maybe pissed off) other runners. We flew down that same hill, though our feet were so numb that we actually ran faster; who cares how much it hurts if you can't feel it? And we crossed the line together, jumping in sarcastic glee as we finished one of the dumbest races ever. Joe and Drew, 38th and 39th out of 46.

Ironically, if you calculate my actual bike speed based on the distance we rode, this might have been my fastest bike race ever at 21.1 mph. It's a shame that our results don't reflect how well we did or could've done. All things equal, we would have gotten 11th and 12th with the correct bike distance; I suspect Joe would have run much faster without nine extra miles on his legs, and I might also have been able to go a little quicker.

But for all the complaining---no swimming, too cold, too wet, poor course management, blisters, sore legs, ruined shoes, skewed results---we always manage to say, "Remember that race? Yeah, that was a good trip."

Coping Mechanisms: A Checklist

2010-03-18T20:51:00.000-04:00

Today, I had the chance to use my time-honored method for dealing with undue stress. My debit cards and $60 in cash were stolen from my locker at the pool yesterday. Besides working on the police report and talking to customer support until midnight, I found out today that more transactions appeared after the banks had credited my accounts. So I had money, then I had no money, then I got my money back . . . then I lost it again. I've been preoccupied all day, even taking UTPD phone calls during class today. So how do I deal with it?

Avoid people. But if I have to interact with them, acting surly and/or sarcastic is highly encouraged. Skirt obligations by saying I have work to do, or that I don't feel well.
Do absolutely no work. The "I'm busy" thing is just smoke and mirrors. It's a fact that I will not get anything when I'm under mental duress.
Go for a run that gets increasingly faster until my stomach hurts and I have to walk. Yes, I skipped the spin class. It helped me avoid people and "do no work." I ran out my door for 26:37 today, eventually peaking at slightly less than 6:00/mile. And I was still a mile from my apartment.
Obsess over my body hair for at least 15 minutes. Will shaving my legs make this situation go away? No? Well, shit.
Make (and devour) a BBQ chicken pizza. I have $31 to my name right now. This pizza tastes like it would cost half of that at Mellow Mushroom. Somehow, I've come out ahead.

This weekend is our first triathlon at the Natchez Trace State Park. I predict a cold, cold swim . . . or a mandatory duathlon.

And, Dr. Koella, you can take one thing away from this post. I may completely skip all my real work, but I will not neglect to blog about it.

Frankenpizza

2010-03-17T21:06:00.001-04:00

Stuffed portobello mushroom pizza!

P.S. This meal probably cost less than $3.50 and is way awesome.

Review: "Green Zone"

2010-03-13T11:22:00.000-05:00

This is probably the first and only time I'll ever see a movie before my good friend and self-made film critic Devon Holbrook of Rushmore Movies fame, so I want to take advantage of it.

Green Zone, a not-so-subtle dig at the policies of the George W. Bush administration, exposes some of the untruths of the early days of the Iraq war -- specifically, the lack of Weapons of Mass Destruction (WMD) operations.

Matt Damon (Dogma, The Bourne _____) stars as Chief Warrant Officer Roy Miller, tasked with locating and securing WMD storage zones. Not surprisingly, he becomes disenchanted when three consecutive sites prove to be duds and his unit suffers unnecessary casualties.

But in the military, there is such a thing as a stupid question. So Clark Poundstone, a Washington spin doctor played by Greg Kinnear (Stuck on You, Little Miss Sunshine), forces Miller to take the investigation into his own hands. With the help of CIA provocateur Martin Brown, Miller learns the source of the faulty intelligence. And in a fairytale ending, he briefs the top international news outlets on what really happened. Miller's report suddenly and dramatically changed public opinion on the war and caused Bush to admit his lies, and the public ousted Bush from office in the 2004 election.

Except it didn't, and he didn't, and we didn't. It's still a movie, after all. Green Zone is a provocative look at the state of our military and the internal power struggles between front-line soldiers, Washington bureaucrats and less-than-intrepid journalists. (Please, don't assume that all journalists are as stupid as Lawrie Dayne, the reporter in the movie who broke the WMD story without verifying her sources.)

Rating: 4/5
Description: Part war movie, part who-dunnit, part expose` on Washington, Green Zone questions whether our government wants us to know, or simply to believe.

*Note: I know a journalist who worked in the Green Zone at the palace who avoided being blown up by a matter of seconds. His friend, whom he'd stopped to talk with while she was sunning herself by the pool, wasn't so lucky. There's no safe place in a time of war.

Like a Boss

2010-03-11T16:53:00.000-05:00

Maybe college doesn't deserve quite the bad rap I tend to give it. According to this list of ways to live like a professional triathlete, UT-Knoxville actually does a great job of keeping me in the fray.

For example:

1 // Live near your training venues. Bike rides out my front door? Check. Ten-mile runs from my apartment? Check. Aquatic center within walking/biking distance, and a gym to boot? Check.

5 // Sleep lots. I don't care if it means going to bed at 11 p.m. I consistently get 8-9 hours a night now, after suffering through my late-late-night desk job last summer. By the end of two months working shifts from 4 a.m. to 8 a.m., my body was wrecked. Of course, the tiny paychecks tied in with #7.

7 // Keep your overhead low. Really? I'm in college. This doesn't need explaining.

9 // Keep it fun. The foremost reason I joined the triathlon club. The best friends, the best exercise, the balance I needed to stay sane.

Sure, the idea of being a professional is far-fetched. And no, I'm not having a Breaking Away moment. The point is, have a dream and make it happen. Follow a few basic rules and your quality of existence will be exponentially better. Now, back to SPRING BREAK OH-TEN!!

A Theory on Speed

2010-03-05T20:44:00.000-05:00

Imagine there are only three types of terrain: 6% uphill grade, flat, and 6% downhill. Also imagine that wind speed is constant for each, and road friction is equal.

If you're riding a bike, do you think it's easier to increase your speed by 2 miles per hour on an uphill, flat ground, or a downhill (ex: to go from 13 to 15 mph, or from 20 to 22 mph, or from 26 to 28 mph)?

If you guessed downhill, I would say you are correct. Even if you don't have any practical experience on a bike, here's my advice.

1. Use gravity. You can coast down a hill thanks to gravity. You can't coast up a hill from a complete stop. It has something to do with potential and kinetic energy. Look it up.

2. . . . that's pretty much it. Gravity is awesome. Newton was awesome. Fig Newtons are awesome, despite what some of the ~~organic food Nazis~~ commenters on that particular forum say. Go fast on the downhills and save your legs the misery of trying to crank any harder up an incline.

*Full disclosure: I am not a scientist. I remember a little bit about physics from 11th grade. I put this theory to the test during the Dogwood Time Trial and it seemed to work. Have fun trying it out!

Dogwood Trail Time Trial

2010-03-02T14:24:00.001-05:00

All the endurance sports outlets made a big deal last week about the Lance Armstrong/Chris Lieto Twitter Time Trial on Hawaii's Queen K highway. Well, I challenged Knoxville's own Allan J. Hamilton to a Dogwood Trail Time Trial (pdf) this past Sunday.

By the numbers:

2 men
2 pairs of reflective tights
1 pair of insulated shoe covers
9.1 miles
39 degrees

Bitter winds took their toll on my fingers. Halfway through, I could barely shift gears. At the end, my lungs felt like they were lined with liquid nitrogen. If I haven't mentioned it before, I'm not a cold-weather guy; I do much better in the heat.

Still, though, I mustered one of my fastest rides of the year to take the win. In 28:02, at a speed of 19.5 mph, I beat Allan by just over two minutes. The last time I tried this, back in August, it took me 28:45 at 18.9 mph. It was a good, fair race, and it led me to postulate a theorem on average speed, which will be found in my next post.

Train smart, not hard

2010-02-27T11:23:00.001-05:00

Xtri blogger extraordinaire Chuckie V. rubs me the wrong way. I'm not sure if it's his kiss-my-ass writing style or his ridiculous training advice, but I don't quite understand why he has a relatively large public forum.

His latest post favors "overly aggressive progressive overload." In short, that's a terrible idea for all but the most highly trained (and highly lucky) athletes. Even somebody as competitive as myself can only handle a little bit of added training stress at a time. My list of injuries, past and present, proves that fact:

Stress fracture (ankle)
Achilles tendonitis
Plantar fasciitis
Bursitis
Morton's neuroma

And I don't even train that much (20 miles/week running, a couple bike rides, a few swims)!

Ironically enough, right now on Xtri's homepage, Chuckie's article is right next to an article about ITU world champion Alistair Brownlee suffering a stress fracture from overtraining -- and he is one of the best runners in the world.

So take it easy -- life is too short to spend sitting on a couch watching "Adventureland" with an ice pack around your ankle.

Food Works

2010-02-25T21:32:00.000-05:00

This week was a great week in the kitchen of Drew Streip: omelettes on three separate occasions, served over cornbread, with spinach and diced tomatoes on top; lemon-pepper chicken, browned whole wheat gnocchi and sauteed spinach; fruit-and-yogurt smoothies to help keep my weight up. Maybe I went heavy on the produce this week, but you can never have too many veggies.

I encountered this article on inflammation, which I have been fighting all week in my ankle and IT-band (read: knee). So in addition to my firefighting foods, I've been on a steady diet of ibuprofen. And I checked with a researcher at UT Medical Center who basically confirmed that my intestines aren't going to hemorrhage if I take a little bit more than the bottle says.

Yay, science!

We're a month away from our first race at the Natchez Trace state park, so now is the time to take care of ourselves and start really training for the event. A spin class tonight at TRECS should help that.
UPDATE: It didn't help. My legs are now Jell-O.

Working the Splits

2010-02-19T09:11:00.000-05:00

This semester, I volunteered to participate in a study that researches the effects of sports drink supplements on endurance athletic events. In my case, I do a series of four 12-mile runs around a 1k track in Alcoa. I drink 4oz of a supplement every four laps, or 2.5 miles. The first 17 laps are done at a medium pace, and the last two laps are at a maximum effort.

Run 1 // 1:29:44
Run 2 // 1:30:08

Splits (0.63 miles) // 4:30, 4:30, 4:37, 4:39, 4:54 (drink), 4:44, 4:40, 4:42, 4:57 (drink), 4:48, 4:44, 4:48, 6:05 (drink, tie shoes), 4:51, 4:47, 4:50, 5:07 (drink), 3:47, 4:01

Run 3 // 1:26:20

Splits (0.63 miles) // 4:31, 4:39, 4:22, 4:31, 4:41 (drink), 4:36, 4:40, 4:36, 4:53 (drink), 4:34, 4:37, 4:36, 4:44 (drink), 4:34, 4:39, 4:37. 5:00 (drink), 3:37, 3:42
Note: I ran faster, but my average heart rate was lower. Perhaps I controlled my body temperature better. Last week I didn't feel great anyway, but both my max effort laps were faster than even my first one.

Just one more one run, this Sunday (weather permitting). It's been real, but I'm ready to not run practically a half-marathon every week.

Weekend Roundup

2010-02-15T21:11:00.001-05:00

What a weekend. A heroic Friday night venture to the Strip; a Tri Club engagement (Congrats, future Mrs. Nelson!); a great 12-mile run. Saw my parents, got some jeans that actually fit, ate some delicious cupcakes. Life is pretty good.

Except for former Tour de France ~~winner~~ cheater Floyd Landis, who has a warrant out for his arrest. The warrant will apparently only be served, however, if he goes to France. He'd be dumb to go there anyway, for two reasons:

1. His "team" will never get an invitation to compete in the Tour.
2. Everybody in France hates him. Why subject himself to the ridicule?

Landis was found by a French anti-doping lab to have hacked into test results and altered data, presumably in an effort to help his case and clear his name.

Irony: getting caught in a dishonest attempt to clear your name from allegations of cheating, thereby sullying your name even more. It's so beautiful.

Jobs I Want--And Why I Can't Get Them (Yet)

2010-02-11T14:23:00.000-05:00

In the last few weeks, Competitor Group, the publisher of Inside Triathlon, has announced two openings as their editors have left. I should apply, because they are as close to my "dream" jobs as I can reasonably expect to find.

One problem: I haven't graduated yet.

UPDATE: I applied.

Yesterday (Wednesday) was a breakthrough day. Shouldered with the task of creating a last-minute spread for the Fall '09 issue of Scoop in the in the hours before it hit the printing press, Carly Bushong and I cranked out a darn-fine story, "First Look: Scripps Convergence Lab," by the afternoon.

The process led me to two conclusions:
1. Other people trust me with stuff that will be sent to 15,000 people.
2. I trust myself with stuff that will be sent to 15,000 people.

So why not see if Triathlete Magazine will take a chance on me? I wrote a cover letter, tweaked my resume, and sent them off last night around 11 p.m. Who knows how long it'll take to hear a response...but as soon as I do, I'll let you know.

Coincidentally, it was a rotten day for training. Snow in the morning, deadlines in the afternoon, meeting in the evening. And I ate a metric ton of Hibachi chicken and shrimp for dinner. And I fretted over missing my swim. But it led me to The Top Three Reasons Triathletes Should Not Swim Year-Round.

Read and enjoy!

Lindsay Vonn's SI Cover Is Not Controversial. Here's Why.

2010-02-05T14:42:00.001-05:00

The "controversy" surrounding this month's issue of Sports Illustrated is not US skier Lindsey Vonn's butt-in-the-air pose, but rather Oh-my-God-that-suit-is-ugly.

Google "Lindsey Vonn" and the current top hit is from Chicago Breaking Sports. In the article, kinesiology expert Nicole LaVoi-ces her concern about the "sexualized" pose and the objectification of female athletes.

Unfortunately, every other article on LaVoi's personal website is devoted to the "controversies" of misogyny in sports. But what about the guys who ~~waste~~ spend all their time trying to grow Dwight Howard-esque boulder shoulders?

Vonn deserves the SI cover, exactly as it is, for obvious reasons. The facts:

Everybody has a butt. Vonn's is better than most. Not because she starves herself, but because she is an exceptional athlete with tremendous dedication to her sport.
Female athletes need attention in media. As LaVoi mentions, SI doesn't give a lot of covers to women. This is a step in the right direction.
It makes the Winter Olympics a little more interesting. Put an attractive face (besides the Flying Tomato or Apollo Ohno, for cryin' out loud) with the event and see if it doesn't get more viewers. ~~Ice dancing~~ Figure skating has done it for years.
She's wearing more clothes than all Swimsuit Issue covers over the last three decades combined.

She is one of the best in the world at her sport, and she also has very fortunate facial features--not unlike Michael Phelps, whose nipples we've seen way too often, chiseled though his torso may be.

Return of the Word Jedi

2010-02-04T21:29:00.002-05:00

It has been a long while since the last post, but this entry marks my new commitment to updates. Although it is for a project, it'll no doubt alert you to my whereabouts on pretty solid intervals.

For JEM 422//Managing News Websites, I will be exploring the lifestyle I know best: active, exciting and reasonably healthy. In a word, triathlon.

This new sense of purpose has a double meaning. At 1:55 p.m. today, I finished my last session of three weeks of physical therapy at Foothills Physical Therapy. With my back feeling like a million bucks, I'm finally ready to put the last three months behind me and resume full-time training.

(For the record, in early November I had a mountain bike accident, resulting in a knot in my serratus posterior inferior that even the saltiest of sailors would have trouble untying. Huge, HUGE thanks to Amy Gregory for digging her elbows into my back on a thrice-weekly basis.)

Today's workout:

20 minutes, stationary bike

2 x 1 mile running @ 5:40

Dinner:

Spanish rice w/ sausage

New Belgium 1554 Enlightened Black Ale (my favorite)

The Extra Mile

2009-10-10T05:29:00.004-04:00

I don't mean to turn this forum into a look-at-me-because-I'm-so-different-and-special! blog -- I really don't. But what else should I be thinking about while working the desk at 5:31 a.m. on a Saturday?

I discovered the website XTri.com yesterday, and it is shockingly accurate at reflecting the thoughts that run through my ever-churning little mind.

Take, for example, this article on why triathletes shave their legs. It isn't about saving precious nanoseconds in a race. I do it, along with everybody else, for two basic reasons: it looks good, and it feels good.

Many guys will never know the pleasure of slipping into a cool, clean set of 300-thread count cotton sheets following a hot shower and some TLC on their lower limbs. Provided you take your time and don't go all Edward-Scissorhands on the man-fur, a clean shave on your legs feels as good as, if not better than, a clean shave on your face. And when those calf notches and formerly invisible veins are allowed to see daylight, you'll catch yourself looking down as you walk past full-length windows, thinking, "Damn, I look like an athlete!"

Or how about this simple, yet brilliant, guide to training? I feel like I've regularly deserted my friends during the last month, opting instead to take a 50-mile bike ride by myself, or push an extra run out of my legs.

Why? Because I know I have just hours each week to get better. My goal is to make my improvements appear effortless, just another piece of my daily puzzle. I've been reading The Perfect Mile by Neal Bascomb, a story not just about an athletic achievement, but of sacrifice and composure (particularly Roger Bannister, who, at the time of breaking the 4:00 minute mile, was a full-time medical student, 95% of the way to being a doctor).

I offer this as a reason/excuse/apology to my friends, both in and out of the Triathlon Club, who have noticed my absence. After fall break, when I hope to see the results of my recent dedication to training at the Hickory Knob Triathlon, I'll be more fun.

I promise.

Profile of a Triathlete

2009-10-08T13:47:00.007-04:00

After waking for work at 4:30 a.m. and spending much of the next 3 1/2 hours reading articles like this New York Times brief on eating healthfully, I decided to track how much I eat in a normal day.

Note: I decided to do this after I had eaten lunch. Therefore, all the food is food I would've normally eaten; I didn't "watch my calories"; and the exercise is my normal volume. Leah Soro cooked dinner for me, so I only had control over how much I chose to eat (which, besides tasting delicious, felt like quite a lot).

4:30 a.m. snack:

Fig bar (1) = 160 cal

Grapes (bunch) = 75 cal

Coffee w/ creamer (2 cups) = 30 cal

Breakfast:

Scrambled eggs (2) = 140 cal

Whole-grain toast (2 slices) = 200 cal

Blackberry jam (2 tbsp) = 100 cal

Milk, 1% (1 cup) = 100 cal

Lunch:

Sandwich

Chicken (3 oz) = 100 cal

Provologne (1 slice) = 70 cal

Whole-grain bread (2 slices) = 200 cal

Pesto (1 tbsp) = 40 cal

Bell pepper / Spinach (1 cup) = 50 cal

Pretzels w/ mustard (20) = 110 cal

Orange (1) = 65

Post-swim snack:

Trail mix (2 oz) = 150 cal

Post-spin class snack:

Milk, 1% and Ovaltine (1 cup/2 tbsp) = 150 cal

Grapes (bunch) = 60

Dinner:

Chicken breast, wrapped in prosciutto (1) = 200 cal

Asparagus, roasted (5 spears) = 20 cal

Potatoes, roasted (about 1 whole) = 250 cal

Dos XX Amber (1) = 220 cal

Daily total: 2490 calories

Exercise:

Open-water swim (1 hour) = 600 calories

Spin class (45 min) = 350 calories

Based on the website Calorie Count, which was used in conjunction with my body measurements (5'9'', 142 pounds) and activity level, I was actually at a slight calorie deficit for the day. They estimate that I burn 2830 calories each day, counting my basal metabolic rate and exercise.

The good news? I eat a fairly balanced diet, exercise my fair share and have room for nearly 350 calories worth of dessert left over.

The bad news? I don't have any dessert. Anybody wishing to bring cookies to Vol Hall, apt. 1144, is more than welcome. I'll even give you a glass of milk to dunk in.

Poise and Ivy, Part 2

2009-08-14T07:14:00.004-04:00

I've been racing for approximately 17 minutes, and my body and bike are basically fucked. I didn't waste time taking inventory of the damages, but the scraping of my CamelBak strap against my chest and the sharp pain from each deep breath tell me I might regret my choice to keep racing.

Soon I realize that my lower back feels like I've worked in a stock room for the past decade. I constantly get out of the saddle to stretch it while losing any and all momentum I was fortunate enough to have accumulated on the undulating trail.

Allow me to describe the loop: a 7.25-mile loop that seems to climb for the first three miles, twist and turn for another three, and end with relatively flat, fast doubletrack. At the bottom of one singularly difficult switchback that starts an impossible climb (both the girl directly in front me and I have to walk it both times) a course spotter shouts encouragement.

"Alright man, lookin' good! You're in sixth place!" he tells me the second time around. This surprises me just a bit; I've spent the last hour and a half riding as hard as I can, which is not as fast as it would be sans wreck, yet somehow I haven't lost much ground.

I've halted to catch my breath. I've walked up hills. I've scooted around corners, over roots, through mud. I've come to a complete stop to drink from my CamelBak, totally defeating its purpose.

Without bragging, I'm possibly more filthy than I have ever been in my life. Every inch of bare skin is carpeted in a seemingly impermeable veil of wet, dank mud. Leaves cling to my freshly shaven legs and to my previously clean drivetrain. The fall already made my chain about as useful as a wet noodle, but the mud bogs it down without regard to its already flimsy state.

Not all of the dirt is on my outside, though. I eat a heaping tablespoon of soil during the race, taking in grit and sludge every time I drink from my water bottle or eat a packet of Gu.

Another spotter stands near the end of the loop, pointing out mile 7 and 14. I don't have a computer, which makes judging how far I've raced (and conserving the necessary energy) nearly impossible the first time around. The second loop should be easier, but I'm tired from being restricted to three gears, and from throwing my chain every time an incline taunts me.

I thought mountain biking was my bread and butter, but the course makes me momentarily reconsider. As my mud-caked knobbies hum down the asphalt toward transition, I realize I have rarely been so relieved to dismount the old aluminum hardtail that is painted black and blue, much like the current state of my torso.

Poise and Ivy, Part 1

2009-08-13T14:33:00.004-04:00

This is not an exposition on life. It's a story about a bike wreck, and about the pain that comes from winning (yes, winning). And maybe perseverance. If somehow it reveals the secret of happiness, all the better. But the thick skin of mud and grease and urushiol really is the centerpiece.

August 8, 2009. Morristown, Tennessee. The alarm is set for 6 a.m., early enough to repack the truck and find the registration table for the XTERRA Panther Creek Triathlon.

Unfortunately, because Allan and I have been sleeping cramped in the bed of my truck on a pallet of four flannel sleeping bags, slow-cooking for the last eight hours in 90+ degree heat while rain seeps in through the screen windows and eventually the tailgate, we are reluctantly awake at 5:51.

The ends of our sleeping bags (and, subsequently, our feet) are damp from the downpour. With just the pale glow of campground lights to guide us, we stumble around, trying to repack our bikes and gear into the truck. The day brightens with each passing minute, as much as a bleary, rain-soaked day can. We find the transition area at the boat dock, and as I try to keep my checkbook dry, the volunteer tells me I will have to pay $15 extra for a T-shirt because I didn't pre-register. Needless to say, I'm not a happy camper.

During a brief hiatus in the rain, we start the 800-meter swim. Whether by talent, luck or some combination of the two, I am one of the first to exit the water and start preparing for the 14.5-mile mountain bike ride. Though the transition is relatively slow -- putting on gloves and a CamelBak takes nearly 60 precious seconds -- I feel good as I mount my trusty Trek 6700 and and turn left onto Deer Run trail.

Within the first 200 yards, I've passed one competitor, a guy who looks to be a little older than me and also a serious cyclist. Racing in the wet is new to me; I normally respect Mother Nature and stay off trails in such conditions because, by nature, I'm an "environmentalist." But I feel good. Confident, like my tires are sticky, like they belong on the rain-slicked roots and limestone.

I'm wrong. I'm too fast--not the usual complaint of a semi-serious competitor. The trail is too eroded; the roots are too diagonal. I'm too cocky. I'm also hurtling over the handlebars, toward a still-unidentified blunt object with which my ribs become forcibly acquainted.

A groan / expletive escapes. The pain in my tailbone and lower back don't register until I pull myself to my knees. The wind is out of my sails, "sails" being a pleasantly nautical-themed substitution for "lungs." I can't move.

He passes me and asks if I'm ok. I don't know yet, and I say so. I can talk; that's a good sign.

Two more guys pass me, also checking on my condition. Yeah, I say.

A girl passes me, with an obligatory "Alright?" All she gets is a grunt.

Back on my bike, my ass isn't sure it wants to continue. There surely are scrapes, but it's not the time to check. I start pedaling slowly, approaching the next turn cautiously. So far, so good, except for the clicking sound from my chain. Soon, my rear derailleur ghost-shifts one gear higher and returns. After about 20 more pedal strokes, it happens again. This is going to be a long day.

Harold and Kumar storm the White House

2009-04-07T19:34:00.003-04:00

Actor Kal Penn has become the latest example of celeb-turned-political activist.

All congratulations to an already-successful person taking one of the jobs that normal people would have gotten.

Wait, who am I kidding? This post was created specifically for a celebrity (and it doesn't hurt to add a little more color to the White House). However, it does beg the question: how long until the release of the straight-to-DVD movie "Harold and Kumar fix U.S. / Asia relations"?

In defense of Twitter

2009-03-31T11:23:00.006-04:00

While businesses and professionals have embraced Twitter as the new revolution, the news and entertainment media have been quick to dismiss the service as a superfluous addition to the smorgasbord that lies before my generation of techno-wastrels. Everybody from CNN to The Daily Beacon is accusing "tweets" of marginalizing organized thought and perpetuating the myth that minutiae matters.

Well, the time has come for an honest and decent man to give the ubiquitous microblog a helping hand.

To begin, some questions: Is Twitter a vice, one of which to be ashamed? Is it hurting anybody? Would staging an intervention be appropriate? If congressmen stopped tweeting, would the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan come to a halt? Would North Korea cease the launch of their satellite / missile? Would the economy stop its seemingly endless free-fall?

The answer to each question, of course, is an emphatic "No way, Jose!"

So how bad can it really be?

In defense of Twitter, it is a harmless outlet for the delusions of importance that every single human feels from time to time. From the actually important (Barack Obama, Bill Gates) to the faux-famous (Mark Zuckerberg) to the so-unimportant-that-they're-somehow-important (Paris Hilton), the endless stream of tweets, twitterers and followers is nothing more than an expression of freedom of speech.

Twitter has plenty of good qualities, too. For starters, it's absolutely, totally free. If you tweet from a computer, it's free. If you tweet from your iPhone, Blackberry or PDA, it's free---except for your monthly service, which you pay anyway and are unlikely to give up. If you tweet from a standard cell phone, it's free---standard text charges apply, but what the hell? Compose an update or two.

The next best thing? Absolutely nobody can force you to use it or update it. My journalism teachers recommended I get an account, so I did. Do I think it's kind of dumb? Sure---but nobody can accuse me of neglecting to follow orders. I have "device updates" turned off, so I am not bombarded 24/7 with "tinyurls" I can't even access on my basic cell phone. Essentially, it is just a bunch of status updates that I only check on a computer. No harm, no foul.

So if people want to pretend that other people actually follow them, go ahead. I'm not part of Gawker's "Twitterati," nor do I want to be. Maybe people Facebook-stalk me; maybe they follow my few tweets; maybe they read my blog...or maybe they don't. This blog is no more legitimate than my own Twitter account, except that it is more well-written and thoughtful (I hope), and longer than 140 characters.

The point is, Twitter is not hurting anybody. Except, of course, the rare update-whore who gets his fix during class or a board meeting. But if it wasn't Twitter, it might be something else more dangerously addictive, like Facebook's Scramble or online Sudoku.

Twitter = my anti-drug

If you know me, this will make sense

2009-03-11T09:31:00.007-04:00

Newrotic... mellow dramatic... what do these seemingly incorrect word combos have in common, besides being totally made-up? They're part of my new school of philosophy, as related to the cycles of my ever-developing thought processes.

Not unlike Stephen Colbert's "truthiness," these descriptors are meant to appeal to the guilty pleasures we all have, but can't describe or admit to without suffering embarrassment at the hands of our supposedly more level-headed peers. It's time somebody came clean and gave these internal conflicts the attention they deserve. I'm no Freud (who would want to be?), but I suspect I'm not the only person experiencing these influxes and withdrawals of emotion.

I dream big, but maybe not big enough. I don't want to be a modern-day robber baron/press mogul like Rupert Murdoch...but I sure don't want anybody to outperform me at what I do choose to pursue. It's evident, then, why I was sick to my stomach upon earning a C-minus on my editing midterm. Pardon my slang, but WTF? I know I'm not yet a trained professional, but come on--that's my career choice.

When I was forced Tuesday to acknowledge a factual mistake at work and issue a correction, it compounded my miseries. All at once, I lost credibility; now I'm tasked with starting at the bottom and earning back the trust of my readers (and editors).

The challenge, however, is in how I handle the situation. Do I complain to everybody I come into contact with? Yes--and I'm sorry. But I don't want to be "that guy" who complains about all the (mostly voluntary) work he does, so I play it off with dry sarcasm to deflect the criticism. Hence, freaking out while still trying to appear cool, calm and collected = mellow dramatic.

And sure--I'm a little neurotic. Once upon a time, it was hip to be a worrisome, sexually frustrated, self-examining dude (think High Fidelity), but that ship has sailed. Now it's an antiquated way to steal a cheap laugh. It's still fine to turn the camera inward, but don't assume that everybody is fascinated by an uber-introspective loner. Learn and teach, but don't preach. Maybe others feel the same way; be a guiding light. That's newrotic--worrying about the little things, and applying them to the outside world. It's not all about you.

This made more sense when it was only in my head. I'll try to develop it later.

Five days...

2009-03-02T09:30:00.003-05:00

...is how long I made it without eating any meat. And you know what? I'm fine with that. Those 15 meals were long enough to prove that 1) I can survive without the animal flesh, and 2) I'm a happier, healthier person with it.

The first two days weren't too inconvenient. If you think about it, all my meals of PB&J sandwiches, bagels or pasta exclude meat on a regular basis, so I felt like I was giving up surprisingly little.

Then the hunger set in: a constant gnawing within my stomach walls. I was unsatisfied, even when I had just eaten.

"But you're not full," my stomach would say. Well, yeah...that's true. Being a little hungry doesn't necessarily mean you didn't eat enough, though.

"But wouldn't you feel better if you ate some more hash browns, or maybe that doughnut? How about a handful of chocolate chip cookies?" It was beginning to taunt me.

I gave in to the demands. Sometime Sunday, I realized that cutting out meat was leaving me with unrealistic cravings. Hash browns fried into oblivion have absolutely no nutritional value. Two slices of bacon would have provided me protein and fat, at about the same caloric cost.

To dedicated vegetarians, I say: Give me animal flesh or give me death!

Not really; I actually admire people who can eat a veggie diet with no significant shortcomings. But I was sluggish, tired, hungry, cranky and quite possibly unpleasant to be around (although a 3rd party source would have to confirm that). All I could talk about was my diet. And I don't want to be that guy.

To "celebrate," I ate a well-made regular-size Baja Chicken sandwich on wheat bread from Quizno's. I think I can keep the red meat out of my diet for the most part, but without my bird flesh, I'm a fowl person.

(Let that one sink in.)

Homecoming

2009-02-22T15:29:00.008-05:00

Sunday, the Delta Co. 4th CEB came back to Knoxville from a 7-month deployment to Iraq on missions that included minesweeping, bunker building and demolition.

Before the buses pulled in, I talked to two wives who were waiting. Both had given birth while their husbands were gone, and both Marines were on the phone with their wives during the delivery. Both men met their children, one son and one daughter, for the first time Sunday. Both men are barely older than I am. And both men had to leave the country knowing that they would be leaving their wives to care for the children alone.

So it's clear why, when the Marines cautiously stepped off the buses still wearing camo and carrying M16 assault rifles, I was swept up in the same wave of emotion that flooded the wives (and mothers, fathers, girlfriends, sons and daughters). I wanted to capture the moment with the cell phone-sized Flip video camera; I wanted to show everyone who wasn't at the Marine Corps Reserve Center what it's like to embrace a lover and an infnant after missing the entire pregnancy.

But I didn't realize that I would be on the verge of crying myself, as the troops wove through the crowd.

It was almost enough to keep me from doing my job properly. For starters, it's hard to hold that tiny camera steady anyway. Throw in a choked-back sob, and that's a recipe for shaky footage.

Second, I felt like I was destroying the unity. I would love to be the omniscient, omnipotent reporter: hearing all the stories at once, seeing all the tears fall in unison, feeling all the sighs of relief - without a single person noticing my presence.

That's not the way news works, though. When there is a story, you cling to it and try to extract every bit of useful information - all without annoying, berating or otherwise insulting your subject.

It is a draining process, then, to come back to the news desk and condense all the worries and reliefs of the past seven months into a 15-inch story, devoid of 95 percent of the raw emotion that surrounded the homecoming. I can't give you the American flag flapping in the breeze; I can't give you the snowflakes sticking to the desert camo fatigues; and I sure as hell can't give you drool of 14-week-old Derrick Sloan on the front of his tiny cheap white cotton homemade T-shirt.

But they were all there Sunday, and they won't be forgotten.

P.S. I was scared out of my mind when I arrived at the reserve center. Two Marines, both carrying loaded M16s, stopped me; one put his hand on the hood of my truck as if he would personally stop me if I tried any funny business. He questioned the media presence, and when a man carrying a fully automatic machine gun doubted my legitimacy, my first instinct was to tip my (imaginary) hat, throw the truck in reverse, and head home.

Musings: The Beginning

2009-02-20T20:00:00.003-05:00

Here's the deal: I offer introspection on various and sundry topics, you give feedback, and eventually I compile the entries into some kind of volume that makes people laugh.

So, first topic: Seating in Public:

This one has bugged me since high school when I first started to going to church with any regularity. Everyone had free range to choose seats, from the front row to the balcony (yes, it was a big-ass church).

After a few months, I noticed a pattern. Cappuccino and doughnut people sat in the balcony, and upward-palmed hand-wavers sat in the first couple rows. Week in and week out, people occupied the same seats according to their worship comfort level.

The phenomenon continues in college. Eager hand-raisers / forceful answerers stick together like they're in their own gravitational field. But what's more, people sit in relation to familiar students.

I usually sit in the fifth row, left side in Anthropology 120. The outdoorsy-fratty guy sits in front of me, the annoying person who comes late (and always walks over me even though there are plenty of open seats) sits to my left, and the girl who looks like a sunken-eyed skeleton with skin sits two rows in front of me. That's just the way it is.

But if I choose to sit two rows closer in the third row, they all follow suit and sit in the same relative position. They all look really confused and uncomfortable for a minute. They all get on with class as usual, except for the kink I threw into the system.

But I'll be damned if at least one of them doesn't get there before me the next class period and sit in their "rightful" seat, putting everyone else back in their place.

I'm not sure why this occurs, but allow me to speculate:
1. It helps them pay attention better by having the same perspective of the board every day. I doubt this, but it's worth investigating. Some people swear by their habits; I prefer to move around a bit to alleviate the tedious nature of a 10 a.m. lecture.

2. People are no better than sheep (or cows, or other herd-able organisms). We shamelessly follow crowds, even for something as trivial as seating, because of mob mentality - or sheer laziness.

3. My personal favorite: Sitting in the same place in a big room makes you invisible. You'd assume the teacher would begin to recognize students; no, it's like being assigned a number. They might notice a gap on a slow day, but not enough to pinpoint the skipper. It's safety in numbers at its finest.

This is a small gripe, and not a very funny one, but they'll get better. I promise.

Why I chose this path

2009-02-04T23:32:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I just want to talk about things. Today is one of those times.

I had a mini-epiphany in my PR class today: I will be as successful as I want to be. Sitting in the third row from the front, listening to a guest speaker and the ensuing student comments, I realized I have what it takes. That is, as long as I don't get in my own way. It's not about the degree I get; it's about the skills I have.

*sigh of relief*

Second, and just as exciting, I finally felt like a runner again. The run from the Runner's Market started at probably 23 degrees, and finished probably five or six degrees cooler. But it didn't matter; I ran across Kingston Pike, into Sequoya Hills, down to Cherokee Boulevard, and made my way back in time for dinner at Agave Azul.

Seeing the snow on the ground, waving to people walking dogs, struggling to talk to friends while my own breath clouds my vision - that's why I run. Who else got to see the whole neighborhood blanketed in white powder? Only the handful of dedicated / crazy friends that runs together every Wednesday night. It snowed on us tonight, flakes coming down and clinging to my clothes, until my body heat melted them away.

That run kicked my attitude back into high-gear. It doesn't matter how fast or how far you go; it matters how much fun you have. Time for me to lace up my big-boy shoes and get back on the pavement.

Working the 9-to-5

2009-01-17T15:02:00.002-05:00

It's Saturday morning, and I just finished my first week as an intern at the Knoxville News-Sentinel. I put in seven hours yesterday, and apparently everything I write will now be in AP style...

But in a week's time, I have already submitted five stories, two of which will run front page tomorrow. 'No pressure or anything,' they say; 'it's not as if we have a circulation of 100,000 or anything.'

And the first story, seen here on the website, has already garnered 80 responses. Not too shabby.

Besides the working life, I'm trying to stay in shape. I'm getting over a chest injury at the moment, and I'm going to try a cross country race tomorrow. We'll see how it goes!

Winter Break 2008!

2008-12-11T21:15:00.002-05:00

Finished my exams today at about 1 p.m. in the middle of a rainstorm. Drove home the long way (took 2 1/2 hours) to avoid having a horrendous wreck on the interstate.

It's been an interesting last few weeks. I went mountain biking with this guy totally randomly:

http://runutsadventures.com/bike/

It's not often that somebody mourns the lack of a southern accent, but apparently it's been "educated" out of me. Boo-hoo

Now, for the more exciting news: I have landed an internship at the Knoxville News-Sentinel for spring semester! I'll be working 20 hours a week, at $10 an hour. That kills about four birds with one stone. I have an internship, a paying job, I get good experience, and my mom will be out of my hair for a while.

More updates as I see fit to post them....

Rant

2008-11-02T22:02:00.003-05:00

No particular reason, just things I have observed recently:

1. Halloween = girls dressed as slutty (insert noun here). It's ridiculous. Obscene. Embarrassing. And cool. I'll never be a part of it. One more year of college? I don't have time to catch up on 3 years of missed Halloween parties.

2. The election = plz end soon. Joe the Plumber, Joe Six-Pack, Tito the Builder.....who gives a damn about any of these individuals' opinions? I don't care what an uneducated plumber thinks. That doesn't make me an elitist; that makes me a person with a brain who thinks for himself. If Washington was attacked, I wouldn't ask Jessica Simpson her opinion. Get real. Who cares if the World Series was delayed a half hour for Obama's ad? Baseball isn't even cool - everybody likes NFL now.

3. I want to be an Ironman. 'Nuff said.

4. I just exploited a typo on a website that saved me $270 on a certain bike part...don't arrest me.

5. No-Shave November has started. Goodbye razor, hello disgusted women.

No way, Jose

2008-08-15T18:15:00.003-04:00

That's it. The wait is over: Bigfoot was found this week. So was, apparently, a chupacabra. Here are links to both videos, to help you form opinions before I give you mine.

http://www.cnn.com/2008/US/08/15/bigfoot.body/index.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LDrcOeAWeRs

Here's the long and short of it, the way I see things. The chupacabra was found in Texas; Bigfoot was found in North Georgia. Southern states, where "bigger is better" and people catch catfish that were (extends arms) "this big!!...but I had to throw it back before the line broke."

In other words, total BS. As much as I want it to be true, there's no way that two of our country's biggest myths/urban legends were found in the same week. And Bigfoot was found thousands of miles away from his supposed cold, snowy home. Who ever heard of a Sasquatch that likes humidity and red clay with all that fur?

I'm proud to be from the South: the place where rednecks put big monkey costumes in a freezer and take them to the Associated Press.

If it turns out to be real, I'll eat my words. Or revise the post, whichever is easier.

A Staggering Lack of Knowledge

2008-08-05T21:38:00.003-04:00

And no, I'm not talking about my position as a halfway-to-graduation college student, although that is a reasonable assumption. I'm referring to this:

www.cnn.com/2008/WORLD/africa/08/05/congo.gorillas/index.html

Pardon my French, but how the hell do 125,000 gorillas go unnoticed?? In a world where man has claimed to go everywhere, that's a pretty big notch on zoologists' collective bedpost. I know we're still discovering microorganisms, and life in the oceans...but mainland Africa?

Or this:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/25350389/

An undiscovered tribe of people...mind-blowing. Both of these examples make me feel a lot better about my own shortcomings. People who are paid to research have missed huge segments of the world as they thought they knew it. I, on the other hand, am paying to realize that there are huge things I don't know about my profession. When put that way, it doesn't sound as comforting, but whatever.

From Tennessee

2008-08-04T15:29:00.002-04:00

It's hot. Really hot. As in, I-should-be-cutting-grass-but-I-can't-even-go outside hot. It is good to be home, though.

I've already had some phone calls from people following up on my fact-checking work, and I don't want to have to explain that I'm back on the East Coast. It's weird to not have all my materials at my disposal every minute.

Depressing: I'm listening to my All-East TN Jazz Band CD from senior year....and my guitar playing might have been better three years ago. If you don't use it, you lose it.

First post, last day

2008-08-01T14:47:00.001-04:00

This is it, the beginning of the end. I'll try not to use too many cliches about doors opening and closing, lights at the end of the tunnel, etc.

It is the last day of my internship at Bike Magazine in San Juan Capistrano, Cali., and I should have work to do, but instead, I'm creating a blog. That's lesson #1 about this place: work starts after lunch, no matter what time you show up. Apparently, Lou and Chris have stuff for me to do...but not yet. So my time from 10-noon is usually occupied by Internet surfing, while the guys on the other side of the building are outside, actually surfing.

I'm not exactly sure if I'm supposed to take some of this work with me when I go, because there's no way everything they told me to do will get done in the approximately four hours left of my workday, including a lunch break.

Now that I have a way to keep things current, I'll post an update later.