tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77848625535227733212024-03-05T04:14:50.055-08:00Triathlete DivaTriathlon humor, gossip, articles, and more from the South Bay of CA.Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.comBlogger412125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-52707416634061034892013-09-07T11:54:00.000-07:002013-09-07T12:04:53.505-07:00British Runner GPS Runs 240-Mile Tokyo 2020 Emblem<a href="http://josephta.me/topics/the-art-of-running/">Joseph Tame</a> is probably the world's most well-recognized GPS runner. (GPS runner meaning he creates images out of his workouts' GPS coordinates.) He's definitely the most recognizable runner in his adopted hometown of Tokyo, where he can't hide his tallness or his Britishness. And he doesn't try to, either, opting for neon getups and wielding multiple iPhones on every run. For several years, he's livestreamed himself runnning the Tokyo Marathon with a show-stopping <a href="http://josephta.me/2012/02/nhk-live-streaming-and-the-art-of-running/">homemade contraption dubbed the iTame</a>.<br />
<br />
In 2011, soon after the Fukushima nuclear disaster, I flew out to meet him and we ran a ginormous heart around Tokyo, a runner's tribute to the city. (Check out the <a href="http://josephta.me/2011/07/the-art-of-running-50km-heart-around-tokyo-the-city-i-love/"> story published in Competitor Magazine</a>!) Ginormous being about 50K, the biggest design he'd completed at that point.<br />
<br />
Now Tame's outdone himself. To support his beloved city's Olympic bid, he plotted out and ran the Tokyo 2020 emblem, featuring 83 flower petals between 1.2 and 5 miles each for a grand total of about 240 miles. He finished the "running art" yesterday, and it's pretty freaking awesome. <a href="http://josephta.me/2013/09/the-art-of-running-385km-tokyo-2020/">Check out Tame's account of the drawing here</a>.<br />
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<a href="http://josephta.me/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/artofrunning_Tokyo2020_8001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://josephta.me/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/artofrunning_Tokyo2020_8001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Now let's see if Tame's Tokyo wins the Olympic host bid!<br />
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<br />Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-62057970986365089492013-08-12T14:37:00.000-07:002013-08-12T14:49:56.096-07:00No littering on the course!I was being eco-conscious. I'd slammed two mint chocolate Gus on the bike and didn't have anywhere to put the wrappers, so I shoved them under my shorts. Only when I finished Flagstaff's Mountain Man oly tri did I realize why I got so many weird looks on the run.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1ce7nuRy1QJZIpmqtYM16R7YGm6n3LwvtmNMDeEahNE5XiLzQXUKuTwO4EqwOwUcMwcTLpYLwyY45tb5H2-VpObIE7iCPRXv-ECDrrkAe4jIzsdzpVAFIGH8kqAgqJ2Fn4EoUJtablMJ/s1600/BRaR8kvCQAEqqm4.jpg-large.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1ce7nuRy1QJZIpmqtYM16R7YGm6n3LwvtmNMDeEahNE5XiLzQXUKuTwO4EqwOwUcMwcTLpYLwyY45tb5H2-VpObIE7iCPRXv-ECDrrkAe4jIzsdzpVAFIGH8kqAgqJ2Fn4EoUJtablMJ/s400/BRaR8kvCQAEqqm4.jpg-large.jpeg" width="171" /></a></div>
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Note to self: When tucking gel wrappers into shorts, do not place them upside down! </div>
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Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-33160408791073177652012-04-18T16:03:00.001-07:002012-04-19T10:35:36.922-07:00How I ran in my first Boston Marathon, but didn’t<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some higher power really, really didn’t want me to run
Boston this year. First an Achilles injury struck me down, so my last
long run was an insufficient 2 hours 45 minutes completed eight weeks before the race. I hadn’t
run at all in seven weeks. But my doctor told me he thought I wouldn’t rupture
my Achilles if I did run Boston, I’d just set back my healing. That's all I needed to hear. I prepared for pain.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs4cDlpJe6l4GI6nm1n-skNFa_DBcgPDk41iCFXFDyu5MShfAzm5JfG4kwjETuRik7bIYIvZQ8Cvc1D6I8BOUQhXfHsqxddvS97F5oehwmugaBDHjnqFeK_ZaSKnYLI3GaXmK87VfP50t4/s1600/IMG_0641.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs4cDlpJe6l4GI6nm1n-skNFa_DBcgPDk41iCFXFDyu5MShfAzm5JfG4kwjETuRik7bIYIvZQ8Cvc1D6I8BOUQhXfHsqxddvS97F5oehwmugaBDHjnqFeK_ZaSKnYLI3GaXmK87VfP50t4/s320/IMG_0641.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the Expo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">T-1 week until race
day</b>. I go for a 2-hour bike ride and feel off. Sluggish. No energy. Two
days later I have a fever and can’t move or eat anything except soup made of
98% water, 2% noodles. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">T-3 days until race
day</b>. I go to the doctor because I'm not sure I'll be able to
get on the plane to Boston the next day. The doctor puts on a facemask before
entering the room, then does all he can to examine me without touching me too much, paranoid I have a late case of the flu. I do have a
fever. It’s 101. I don’t, thank goodness, have the flu. I get a Z-pack and an
inhaler.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">T-2 days until race
day</b>. I pray the three Z-pack pills I’ve already taken will destroy every
evil thing in my body, and, as an unintended but miraculous side effect, repair
my Achilles to their pre-Birkebeiner form. I still have a fever. I want to run.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At LAX, the Boston marathoners form a little circle in front
of our gate. You can tell who they are because they’re all wearing Boston
jackets, mostly from last year, but one guy had the balls to buy the new
Halloween themed 2012 jacket <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">before</i>
running the race. Also, they're all talking about Boston.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The runners are surprised to find out I’m participating.
When I breathe it sounds either like someone’s popping corn in my throat or slowly
opening a rusty door. What’s left of my voice is a gender-neutral smoker’s
rasp. Now would be a good time to prank call someone to say, “I’m watching
you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Karen, a best friend from college, picks coachubby and me up
from the airport in Boston. We are crashing at her place. When we walk 10
minutes to get ice cream that night, I realize I can’t walk and breathe at the
same time. Unless I’m eating ice cream. I contemplate how I’m going to supply
myself with ice cream throughout all 26.2 miles of what promises to be the
hottest Boston Marathon ever. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">T-1 day until race
day</b>. To discourage people like me who really, really don’t want to have to
qualify again and are therefore willing to destroy themselves to complete their
one Boston Marathon, the BAA has decided to allow deferrals to next year.
Perfectly rational, healthy racers might need medical attention on the course. People
like me who are undertrained and overheating without moving should not be
hogging the hot EMTs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thank
88-degrees for both being my favorite temperature, and, apparently, hot enough
to scare race organizers into letting me run next year without having to
qualify again. Clearly, none of them were raised in Phoenix.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5kJHNhnDyrFrNVm_BrpUhjjZzgghyoz4YpTFk0cfPtK9PkYiKwDuaqWrk_hcJG8bdu_sIavxZYKtK5mDj9JoNJ2VEcROp8cafo69IrKseV5K1hoYPYr6Uggu_4M70QooHRz78yubnfk6j/s1600/IMG_0636.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5kJHNhnDyrFrNVm_BrpUhjjZzgghyoz4YpTFk0cfPtK9PkYiKwDuaqWrk_hcJG8bdu_sIavxZYKtK5mDj9JoNJ2VEcROp8cafo69IrKseV5K1hoYPYr6Uggu_4M70QooHRz78yubnfk6j/s200/IMG_0636.jpg" width="149" /></a><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Race day</b>. Karen
and I drop coachubby off at the busses in Boston Common. I return to Karen’s
place and pass out. When I get up just in time to watch the race start on T.V.,
I put on exactly what I would’ve worn to run: hot pink compression socks,
rainbow colored tiny shorts, and a blue tank top. Sparkly nails complete the
ensemble. If I can’t run and must feel like crap, at least I will look like I
can run and feel awesome. I take two puffs of Albuterol but still have a hard
time walking the two miles to Mile 23. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpzpypxPolz3IHQj933XelleMXaTpghrq_kwkhQ1_tOIhziPAUznfDH1WVdcdYMu_b-ep_kaSBBCEMjHXwBup9z-STpQeT_g9Zmf1yDYkdZqNilfeuj5Gu8LSYCmD7IPeEs25Z4u_JCJZf/s1600/IMG_0656.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpzpypxPolz3IHQj933XelleMXaTpghrq_kwkhQ1_tOIhziPAUznfDH1WVdcdYMu_b-ep_kaSBBCEMjHXwBup9z-STpQeT_g9Zmf1yDYkdZqNilfeuj5Gu8LSYCmD7IPeEs25Z4u_JCJZf/s320/IMG_0656.JPG" width="320" /></a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We set up camp alongside the T. We cheer for wheelchair
racers, for the pro women, for the pro men. For that guy in the checkered spandex. We get text message alerts of coachubby’s
whereabouts so we’ll be ready to cheer when he runs by. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He never runs by. I get
a text from his cousin: Jimmy bonk? I don’t know, I write back. I
haven’t seen him. Maybe he’s fighting an EMT who’s trying to give him an IV for
heatstroke. He has a history of doing that. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I get a call. It’s coachubby. He’s at mile 24, where am I?
I’m at mile 23, I say. I clearly suck at spectating. Oh, I wanted to see you
guys, he says. I’m moving really slowly. You can probably catch me. </div>
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<br /></div>
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And so I run in my first Boston Marathon. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I take off down the course, cell phone in hand. People
applaud my pace, held for all of approximately 10 seconds. Cops don’t even
flinch when I run by. It’s exhilarating! I’m in the Boston Marathon! It’s the
first time I’ve run in seven weeks and I feel…awful. I duck under a rope and
back onto a sidewalk after about 20 seconds. I walk toward mile 24, sucking
air. Then the coughing attack starts. Tears jump out of my eye sockets, snot
dumps out of my nose. I can barely breathe. I spot a half-drunk water bottle in
a windowsill. I grab it without breaking stride and down it. I’m still
coughing. I sit on a curb next to two teenage boys guarding their family’s
coolers. One of them hands me a water. Then they whisper to each other. I tell
them I wasn’t running—that I was supposed to but couldn’t because of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i>, and made a motion to my snot and
tear-covered face. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I find coachubby by the family waiting area. He’s done. He
did it. He ran the hottest Boston Marathon in history, earning permanent marathon rockstar status. He survived my fever and
the sympathy non-training he did when I couldn’t run. He gives me a hug and
lets me eat half of the Hawaiian sweet rolls out of his post-race goody bag. <br />
<br />
Ouch, he says. Yeah, I think. That pretty much sums it up. The last two months. The last week. This day: Ouch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We begin plotting my debut at the 117<sup>th</sup> Boston Marathon, where I plan on running for more than 20 seconds. It will be glorious.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-18863998943001243002012-03-14T17:35:00.001-07:002012-03-14T17:52:03.846-07:00The Killer Achilles Tendon, and other stupid sports injuries<br />
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It
all started with a walk. I walked about half a mile down the street with a friend from Japan who needed to experience a Wahoo’s burrito and
American Starbucks. My left heel was on fire. Well, this is strange, I thought.
I’d jogged maybe nine miles the day before, done a one-hour interval workout on
my trainer and jogged a few miles down the beach that morning. Those are not
weird workouts. But here I was, with my foot on fire, wondering what the hell
went wrong.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh
yeah, there was also <a href="http://www.birkie.com/">the Birkie</a>, a 54-kilometer (that’s 33.5 miles,
Americanos!) cross-country ski race held annually in Wisconsin. I had <a href="http://www.outsideonline.com/fitness/skiing/Yes-You-Can-Ski-the-Birkebeiner.html">written about it for Outside</a>, and decided I couldn’t give up the opportunity to see real-life
people who talk like Frances McDormand in Fargo. I had never ever cross-country
skied before, nor had I worked out much in the last five months. A fitness-crushing
bout with mono (diagnosed post-mono) made it almost impossible for me to
move for more than 20 minutes without being overcome by sleepiness. And that’s
when I could actually get out of bed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-U8_l33k3XVC6xp3el3RCt_UHzLW8r-ARLZKoJZ6hk0SZfqusgBuFaqACY_DGr3eipvv4XwgCQ3lwr72wCEY4N0aCumpL3WoiwPcSonD8r2CtG_OEXQfHTeKEDk7bUZ8QnKkK0V8M0DhE/s1600/DSCN0032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-U8_l33k3XVC6xp3el3RCt_UHzLW8r-ARLZKoJZ6hk0SZfqusgBuFaqACY_DGr3eipvv4XwgCQ3lwr72wCEY4N0aCumpL3WoiwPcSonD8r2CtG_OEXQfHTeKEDk7bUZ8QnKkK0V8M0DhE/s320/DSCN0032.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe
two weeks before the Birkie, I started feeling better. I’d been running through
the mono anyway, because I had no idea what was going on, only that I didn’t
like it or agree with my body’s decision to play Sleeping Beauty. The week
before the Birkie, I covered a nice hilly 2 hour 45 minute loop in the Santa
Monica mountains. I declared myself good enough for America’s biggest XC ski
race. I was an idiot.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigiKt_UFxeAmrDBdxBAzDntqSz2SZ4COQCtQ5EQb3pyV5CboC4iIC4r1vqMKcBf7YkM11Eq5OgQIOsFcCfdkkxwvxoqg9zop-gaQQHApYEY69I2heDlZrloenrjAgtJVyC9c_oTc7vzofF/s1600/DSCN0040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigiKt_UFxeAmrDBdxBAzDntqSz2SZ4COQCtQ5EQb3pyV5CboC4iIC4r1vqMKcBf7YkM11Eq5OgQIOsFcCfdkkxwvxoqg9zop-gaQQHApYEY69I2heDlZrloenrjAgtJVyC9c_oTc7vzofF/s320/DSCN0040.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Coachubby and I hoped the Birkie
would take us 6 hours. After the first 5K, we realized we were off. We crossed
the finish line of the hilly course, after several faceplants, in 7 hours and
20 minutes. (Story to come.)</div>
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<br /></div>
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Besides
a mildly sprained wrist that I’ll attribute to faceplant #2, I seemed to make
it out of the event unscathed. But the stress from 7.5 hours of cross country
skiing on flat feet took its toll on my Achilles tendons, making them ticking
time bombs ready to explode under any additional pressure. The bike
interval/beach jog did them in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now
it’s less than five weeks before the Boston Marathon, an event I qualified for
at the Rock N Roll San Diego marathon last June. I’d hoped I could best my
qualifying time of 3:33 by at least a minute. (I’d have hoped for more, but the
mono made me scale back expectations long ago.) Now I just hope I can run by
then. </div>
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<br /></div>
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After
an entirely injury free build up to <a href="http://ultramancanada.com/">Ultraman Canada</a> last year (story still to come. Sorry!), and a subsequently
injury-free race (the only thing that got injured, apparently, was my immune
system), it’s a frustrating place to be. After more than a decade of competing
in sports, I look back and realize that very often, I am still an idiot. I like
to go long and hard, and have a difficult time telling when my body is telling
me not to because it’s literally going to break, or when it’s telling me not to
because it’s being a wuss. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So
if you see me spinning slowly down LA’s flat Strand, please don’t challenge me
to a race, because my mind will tear my Achilles’ apart to hang onto your wheel.
Especially if we’re on a <a href="http://app.strava.com/">Strava</a> segment.</div>Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-39298024265398318502012-01-12T11:10:00.000-08:002012-01-12T11:12:31.113-08:00Outside's Guide to TriathlonWhy triathlon is booming, why you should do it, and how to get started. Outside Magazine's comprehensive guide, complete with celebrity endorsements, training plans, and <a href="http://outsideinaspen.com/?page_id=912">a triathlon in Aspen</a>. (Written by yours truly!) Find it in the February issue, on newsstands now. Look for the incredibly hot hurdler Lolo Jones on the cover. Also online here:
<br />
<h3>
<a href="http://www.outsideonline.com/fitness/triathlons/Transition-Time.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #e06666;">TRANSITION TIME</span></a></h3>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.erinberesini.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/UMCRun.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" class="size-medium wp-image-151" height="300" src="http://www.erinberesini.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/UMCRun-274x300.jpg" title="UMCRun" width="274" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Photo of me on the Ultraman Canada 2011 run. Courtesy of Rick Kent.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-3674573548901836522011-12-13T13:54:00.000-08:002011-12-13T18:49:13.521-08:00Strange encounters of the Ironman kind: IMAZ 2011<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s somewhere around 5 p.m. on Nov. 20. The sun is low and
it’s getting chilly in the shadow of a tall condo complex where coachubby and I
stand. We’re next to the elevated dirt road that serves as miles four-ish, 13-ish, and 22-ish on the Ironman Arizona course, and we’re on the lookout for green calf
sleeves, a blue tank top, a pink shirt, and a hot couple.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The blue tank top, covering a buff 27-year old blonde,
should be approaching. Instead, a dude in his 50s wearing a baggy grey shirt
runs straight at me. His face is contorted in either pain or anger or both, and
although he’s surely tired, he looks like he still has enough energy to rip my
face off. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He stops an inch from my nose, raises his left eyebrow, and
stares into my brain with his big, sweaty, creepy left eye.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is there a bug in my eye?” he says. I can’t tell if there’s
a right answer—he might punch me either way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No? I don’t see one?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He blinks and rolls his eye around.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There’s nothing there?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A tiny black dot reveals itself when he looks up. “Oh yeah, there’s a speck. I see it.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Get it out!” he demands. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Get it out? I’m supposed to shove my finger into this angry
stranger's eye? No way. “You get it, Jimmy!” I pass him on. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The guy blinks a few times in the trade to coachubby.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Look up,” coachubby says. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The guy rolls his eyes up as the vein in his forehead
bulges.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mmm nope, don’t see it anymore,” coachubby says. I can’t
tell if it’s true or if coachubby is saving his finger a trip into the guy’s
eyeball.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The guy grunts then runs away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Cue Twilight Zone music. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>This has been a presentation of strange encounters of the
Ironman kind.</i></div>Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-10643107281353362282011-10-07T12:26:00.000-07:002011-10-07T12:30:56.579-07:00Triathlon Swim Safety Reviewed and a Killer 10K Training PlanMy latest for Outside Magazine online:<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 29px; text-transform: uppercase;"><a href="http://www.outsideonline.com/outdoor-adventure/the-gist/Open-Water-Triathlon-Swim-Deaths.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">THERE'S SOMETHING IN THE WATER</span></a></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3qP_q947Ux5XREGyl1zxBkaqdpXurEmnqxA83QNgZkPSRMb6HMHjdBCF6OaiLXLD4EwftvDjeaP4iwO2QNqoe-PfOHEoP-hYBcvRrnMzGEzkX1wShiuvHZtDbndgjX1NqdNNe2nk4h2Sm/s1600/IMAZ09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3qP_q947Ux5XREGyl1zxBkaqdpXurEmnqxA83QNgZkPSRMb6HMHjdBCF6OaiLXLD4EwftvDjeaP4iwO2QNqoe-PfOHEoP-hYBcvRrnMzGEzkX1wShiuvHZtDbndgjX1NqdNNe2nk4h2Sm/s320/IMAZ09.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">IMAZ '09</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div id="article-summary" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #636466; font: normal normal lighter 19px/normal Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; line-height: 23px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; width: 626px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Last August, two athletes died during the swim leg of the New York City </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Triathlon. Since then, articles on event safety have piled up—and two </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">more athletes have lost their lives. Is it time for USA Triathlon to </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">rethink its rules?</span></div>
<div id="article-summary" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font: normal normal lighter 19px/normal Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline; width: 626px;">
<div style="color: #636466; line-height: 23px;">
<a href="http://www.outsideonline.com/fitness/running/Office-Crush.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: sans-serif; font-weight: normal; line-height: 0px;"></span></a></div>
<h3 style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-weight: normal; line-height: 29px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-transform: uppercase; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.outsideonline.com/fitness/running/Office-Crush.html">OFFICE CRUSH</a></span></h3>
<h3 style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-weight: normal; line-height: 29px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-transform: uppercase; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #636466; font-size: small; font-weight: 300; line-height: 23px; text-transform: none;">Want to make next year memorable? Start training now and destroy </span></h3>
<h3 style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-weight: normal; line-height: 29px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-transform: uppercase; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #636466; font-size: small; font-weight: 300; line-height: 23px; text-transform: none;">your office mates in a New Year’s Day 10K.</span></h3>
</div>
Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-84700590667642363292011-09-06T11:41:00.000-07:002011-09-06T12:13:04.037-07:00A Totally Tri Reading ListHi Trilovers! Because you like things in threes, here's a trio of new triathlon stories to read, written by yours truly:<br />
<br />
1. <a href="http://espn.go.com/espnw/features-profiles/6904049/pro-triathlete-dede-griesbauer-favors-racing-finance">Pro Dede Griesbauer</a> gave up a lucrative career on Wall Street to race the Ironman circuit. Could you do that?<br />
2. I raced Ultraman Canada at the end of July. WTF is UMC? <a href="http://espn.go.com/espnw/features-profiles/6911118/why-do-do-love-goes-distance">Here's what you need to know</a>.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjerPfWvtniJDLaOOj_Gd8WYAYj5ocj1qLF5bJ4jDXMdjbgtb_rhSmPYwe-BHpPgm22mDSnwiHeaWyNM5r-7C-4bO6qdlOzmOU1EfE3npDLNU3zHHA9MyGIUsW2nvzPtudUVltrsWwHNItV/s1600/286207_1455984057325_1765062571_691814_4677574_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjerPfWvtniJDLaOOj_Gd8WYAYj5ocj1qLF5bJ4jDXMdjbgtb_rhSmPYwe-BHpPgm22mDSnwiHeaWyNM5r-7C-4bO6qdlOzmOU1EfE3npDLNU3zHHA9MyGIUsW2nvzPtudUVltrsWwHNItV/s320/286207_1455984057325_1765062571_691814_4677574_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Rachel Eads. I = Purple hat on left.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
3. Pick up the latest issue of <i>Triathlete Magazine</i> (October) for a fun story on Kona hopeful and Biggest Loser graduate, <a href="http://www.taracosta.com/">Tara Costa</a>, whose first Ironman was foiled by a fat suit.<br />
<br />
Happy Tuesday!<br />
-Erin<br />
<br />
<br />Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-27463677059423345822011-07-21T10:30:00.000-07:002011-07-21T10:30:56.877-07:00Coconut Chocolate Chip Clif Bars-Come and Get 'EmIf you like sweet and coconutty things, this is the Clif Bar for you. Finally, after months of impatiently waiting, I've been alerted that the Coconut Chocolate Clif bar is available in stores. Note: May also be used as dessert. Double note: Clif Bar says they've changed their Apricot and Peanut Toffee Buzz recipes to include more of the namesake ingredients. If you're into fruity or toffee bars and were previously disappointed by a lack of frutiness or toffeeness, try them out to see how they stack up against the older versions.<br />
<br />
Enjoy!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><img alt="mail.jpg" src="webkit-fake-url://9835EED3-9C56-4BE1-8915-916B57BB6F71/mail.jpg" /></div>Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-73255089307719853352011-07-14T21:26:00.000-07:002011-07-15T13:38:34.174-07:00Living Apart Together: My 5 City, 8 Home Journey Back to My Husband (And Some Triathlon Stuff)<div class="MsoNormal">Dearest Readers and TriGeeks,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My professional journalistic training, which began almost two years ago, has made me hesitant to discuss myself (unless, apparently, <a href="http://triathletediva.blogspot.com/2011/03/how-i-got-hypothermia-on-50-degree-day.html">I’m discussing myself lying naked under plastic wrap on an ER gurney</a>). Therefore, I apologize for the gaps in posting, but promise there are good reasons why I disappeared. One of them being that I did disappear. In the past two years, I have lived in eight different places in five different cities (including two adjacent cities that should really count as one). During that time, Coachubby, my uber-rad triathlete coach/husband, has lived in 3.5 of those places in three of those cities. Which, if you're doing the math, means I have lived in 4.5 different places in five cities without my husband in search of knowledge and a career. Both of which I attained, one of which I had to reinvent in order to finally, once again, live with Coachubby. Allow me to show my work:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the fall of 2009, I enrolled at Stanford University, excited to be the dumbest person on a campus stuffed with the world’s geniuses. I filled my role perfectly. In nine months, I wrote stories for Pulitzer prize winners who were somewhat encouraging of my writing skills (perhaps because they were paid to be); took classes about sports branding and marketing at the business school with tomorrow’s leaders; stood up and made an ass of myself in front of those leaders and the CEO of the Atlanta Falcons…and the CEO of Mountain Hardwear; moved out of one house with two roommates and into a studio where I entertained a weekend lover (Coachubby); raced collegiate nationals on broken hamstrings with the triathlon team; and in general, became <a href="http://www.erinberesini.com/?page_id=17">a respectable reporter</a>. (If you’re counting, that makes three places I lived in so far: the one in Los Angeles before I moved and two at Stanford.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I did not graduate.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At least, not in the traditional sense. I did get a diploma, sent to my parents in the mail. I did not get a cap and robe. I did not walk or hear my name called out by someone s’habillé-ed in an even more ridiculous cap and robe. Instead, I headed for Oceanside to live in a minivan with strange men for two weeks. Oh, we had a reason to be driving the Dodge Caravan across the country: we were chasing cyclists. Not just any cyclists. Hallucinating, sunburned ultracyclists who were hell-bent on cycling across the United States in nine days or less. When you look at it that way, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">driving </i>across our ginourmous country with strangers who were vetted for their photographic, videographic and beer-drinking capabilities is not an odd decision for a 26-year old woman to make. (No, I did not count the minivan as a place of residence; we’re still at three.)<br />
<br />
</div><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/unMa1lV3I88" width="560"></iframe><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">During this scholastic and ultra nonsense, Coachubby moved into a tiny apartment across from a hardware store and above a small vacated space that was once, according to a decaying sign, called “The Gym.” You could call it “The Gym” or “That Place I Did Shrooms Once” as a friend of a friend referred to the rotting structure. I lived there whenever I wasn’t sleeping in minivans or in transition to city number three: Santa Fe, New Mexico. (That makes The Gym residence number 4.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Après chasing the late Slovenian Jure Robic and his hounds for two weeks, I returned to The Gym where I met a Mexican named Vin who dragged my craigslist finds and fleet of bicycles down the stairs and into a nondescript white van that was supposed to—I hoped and prayed—end up in Santa Fe when Coachubby and I sent for it. Coachubby would move into a big house on a hill with our friends and we would live in a house the only place we could afford to live in a house of our own: New Mexico. I say we, because Coachubby would live there every other Wednesday through Wednesday. His boss was nice like that. So even though I was a lowly intern at the nation’s most magnificent adventure magazine, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Outside</i>, I had a house-husband to grill and sweep. Life was awesome. Except for the weeks Coachubby wasn’t there. And the week when Coachubby wasn’t there and a real-life murderer broke out of prison and headed through New Mexico where he burned a couple in their RV. Every scratch and creek was someone coming to get me. It’s quiet in New Mexico. Piercingly, hauntingly quiet. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGpapBHkD_iBT7PTCrR8buUj-IcNLwQz1OMSTZayUzJ_9XsKUyUv1ulYqHeo_I8cfyJfVECgL1_e56gs-5wj1n7NQrXVUSDfPEXaLuqaNuVIhSM8LDhJj0vUfyyi8MoRCiQtKm39MA3x39/s1600/DSCN0655.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGpapBHkD_iBT7PTCrR8buUj-IcNLwQz1OMSTZayUzJ_9XsKUyUv1ulYqHeo_I8cfyJfVECgL1_e56gs-5wj1n7NQrXVUSDfPEXaLuqaNuVIhSM8LDhJj0vUfyyi8MoRCiQtKm39MA3x39/s320/DSCN0655.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At home in Santa Fe.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Come December 2010, I believed my dream job was an internship at <i>Outside</i> (or, you know, a job at <i>Outside</i>). But as Coachubby could not fly to New Mexico every other week for eternity and all internships must come to an end so editors don’t have to continuously take gabby, question-slinging interns to coffee at expensive railway cafés, I applied to the next best job I could find: Senior Editor at <i>Competitor</i> (an endurance sports!) magazine in San Diego. It was as close as Coachubby and I had lived in 1.5 years. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And it was a dream. We explored the hotbed of triathlon and decided San Diego would be a most wonderful place to live. If we raised kids here, we said to each other, they would have better values than if we raised them in LA. They would have nice friends because my cousin’s nice and he’s from San Diego. They might have a yard or even a house. Oh, to live together in San Diego! I had a small one-bedroom in Del Mar that I rented in my name alone. I had money! I had a job! I was going to have my dream career as an editor at a magazine whose subject matter I encapsulated to my very core! I flew to Tokyo to write <a href="http://www.erinberesini.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/IHeartTokyoP.pdf">a story about running with a funny British guy</a>. I called coaches and race directors and athletes every day. I tightened up stories and flipped them around and when I wasn’t writing or editing or reporting I was training for <a href="http://www.ultramancanada.com/">Ultraman Canada</a> and riding up Mount Palomar and swimming in the Solana Beach pool. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But Coachubby wasn’t there. Oh, he was there on the weekends. Or I was at the house in LA. (Residence number 6. The Del Mar apartment makes 7.) He rode from dawn to dusk with me, swam with me, test rode Cervélos and Pinarellos and downed Rubio’s burritos with me. It was like a whirlwind date every weekend. (Which, by the way, might be a great way to invigorate a sagging marriage. But I wouldn’t know. I went to Stanford approximately 1.5 years into our marriage, having just turned 26; nothing was sagging.) But the drive, though beautiful, became a chore. Life, with no one to go home to—but knowing I did, actually, have someone to go home to—became redundant. Sad. From the outside, I knew, our relationship was strange. Enviable to some, but strange. But for us, it was fun. Stressful, but fun. We got to check out Palo Alto, San Francisco, and the Santa Cruz Mountains. We got to explore Santa Fe and Taos. We got to meet and befriend all sorts of interesting characters. We trained for <a href="http://triathletediva.blogspot.com/2010/11/dear-arizona-wtf-ironman-az-and-other.html">Ironman Arizona</a> and the <a href="http://triathletediva.blogspot.com/2010/09/tahoe-sierra-100-mountain-bike-race-so.html">Tahoe-Sierra 100-mile mountain bike race</a> on Santa Fe’s legendary Dale Ball trails, and did the bulk of my Ultraman training on the peaceful, rolling hills north of San Diego and the trails in Del Mar and Torrey Pines. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And now, we get to decorate a home together. And by home, I mean apartment—I did have to quit my job to move back to Los Angeles to live with Coachubby. Incidentally, writing and editing under a title like Senior Editor must be done from a cubicle facing a void in a repurposed warehouse. Not an antique desk in an apartment building built by the beach in 1937. (The building, not the desk. This, my friends, makes residence number 8.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We have, after almost two years, been reunited. As several people, including people I’ve written about, have asked me (very seriously): How do you even know you like him? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What’s not to love about a guy who sacrificed everything so you could go back to school, then work for your favorite magazine, then try to make a name for yourself all while carrying extra Gu and cash for unexpected bonks on 14-hour weekend training rides--for your race, not his--up and down mountains named Palomar and Sangre de Cristo that are located in the middle of nowhere?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was going to end this by saying it was my turn to make a sacrifice for Coachubby. And it was. And I did. However he will be my crew leader aka Erin’s Commander of Awesome, as he prefers to be called, at Ultraman. And for one more week, it will be all about me again. But when I’m done swimming, cycling and running 320 miles around British Columbia, we will return to Los Angeles together to one home. Our home. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So that’s enough about me for now. What have you been up to?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">XOXO,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Erin</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-81122598223656382002011-03-23T20:52:00.000-07:002011-03-24T12:59:18.049-07:00How I Got Hypothermia on a 50 Degree Day in Los Angeles or My First Road Marathon<div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 19.0pt; margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><a href="http://articles.latimes.com/2011/mar/20/sports/la-sp-la-marathon-20110321">Ethiopian runner, Markos Geneti</a>, shattered the Los Angeles Marathon course record by two minutes on Sunday. <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/03/21/mcrunner-sets-personal-re_n_838382.html">Joeseph D’Amico ate only McDonalds</a> for 30 days before the race and set a personal record of 2:36:14. Heck, a 400-pound <a href="http://newsfeed.time.com/2011/03/21/from-sumo-wrestling-to-running-400-pound-man-completes-l-a-marathon/">Sumo wrestler</a> set the record for being the heaviest person to complete the LA Marathon—ever. It’s like no one cared it was the stormiest day in the city’s history with <a href="http://www.ktla.com/news/landing/ktla-weekend-storm-mar-18,0,7498915.story">2.54 inches of rain</a> pummeling downtown L.A.—an inch more than the previous record set in 1943—and wind gusts of up to 40 miles per hour. Except the reported <a href="http://articles.latimes.com/2011/mar/20/sports/la-sp-la-marathon-20110321">thousands of runners</a> evaluated for hypothermia and the 26 runners taken to the hospital. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 19.0pt; margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I was one of those 26 runners.<o:p></o:p></span></div></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">***</i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh my God. I’m going to pass out. I can’t feel my arms!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m walking down San Vicente Boulevard in the pouring rain, drenched and holding my arms up to my chest. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Don’t slow down or you’ll freeze!” a runner yells to me as he passes by, chugging through the last two-and-a-half miles of the Los Angeles Marathon on Sunday.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Too late.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Another runner stops to walk with me. “You can do this!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m pretty frozen. Don’t walk because of me!” I say. He jogs off.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to walk two more miles. I’m going to pass out.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Just then a lady in scrubs signals for me to come over to her. I hobble across the newly formed river that was once the eastbound lane of San Vicente.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The lady takes one look at me, then opens up the back doors to an ambulance to reveal a teenage boy covered in blankets on a gurney and two pretty EMTs. One of them strips off my shirt, socks and shoes, puts a blanket around me then tries to take my temperature with a disposable thermometer. It doesn’t register.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Can you get in the front seat? It’s a lot warmer up there,” she says.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I try to stand up but my legs don’t work. My quads have gone rogue. I drag myself into the driver’s seat with my arms, then rest my head on the steering wheel directly in front of the heater vent. I have company; a man who looks about my age sits in the passenger seat, contemplating running the final 2.2 miles. He looks at me, then jumps out of the ambulance. We’re at mile 24.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The EMTs hand me heat packs and more blankets. I’m not shivering. I’m trying to control my heart rate by breathing against pursed lips. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m going to pass out.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Another plastic thermometer gets shoved into my mouth. Again, nothing registers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“We’re going to take you to the hospital to get you warmed up, OK?” someone says. I start to cry. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s OK. You’ll run another marathon.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I don’t care about the marathon—I’ve run four before. I can’t feel my arms.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A gorgeous man opens the ambulance door and puts me on a gurney. I wish I had put cover up on the giant forehead zit that my visor is no longer hiding. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m lifted into the back of another ambulance. Hottie EMT and his buddies say how crazy it is—how so many people are “dropping” at mile 24. The EMTs can’t keep up. They’ve already taken half a dozen people to the hospital and more are pouring in. Hottie EMT and the ambulance driver try to get my vitals. They can’t get my pulse. They ask for my social security number and I spit out nine numbers—I’m clearly coherent. Oh well, they’ll get my pulse at the hospital.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I begin to shake like a spaz. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The doors slam shut, the siren starts, and Hottie EMT stares at me, failed marathoner number seven. So embarrassing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I wanted to run a 3:30. The only other marathons I had ever run were at the end of Ironmans or on Catalina Island and my only strategy was to not walk. That worked well. But for a stand-alone marathon, I wanted to run. I put my 10K time from February’s Redondo Beach 10K into an online calculator that told me I could run a 3:23 marathon. I decided 3:30 would be a good goal. I didn’t wear a Garmin and decided I’d rely on a pace group to get me to the finish. I was in the back of the chute with the masses at the start, not seeded, so when I finally crossed the start line, I was over two minutes behind the pace group. I ran to catch up.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I zig zagged around walkers and joggers, passing the 3:50 pace group early on. I ran a few more miles and saw a little flag up ahead. That had to be the 3:30 group. I got closer and read the sign: 3:40. It began to rain. I pressed on, concentrating on a man in a tutu up ahead. When I got closer, I realized it was my friend, Guillaume. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Where the hell is the 3:30 pace group?” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“They’re going way too fast,” said Guillaume.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I kept going. The wind blew. It rained harder. Then I saw Jason. Just the weekend before, Jason and I had decided we’d run together since we both had the same goal. I blew by him looking for the pacer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I finally caught up around 10K. I thought I’d settle in with the 3:30 group, and I did for about another 10K. Then they started to slip away. I couldn’t let that happen. I wanted to run this race for my Grandpa—I spoke at his funeral six days ago. I wanted to qualify for Boston for him. For me. I kept the 3:30 group in my sights until about mile 18, then I started to slow down. The rain poured relentlessly. The wind picked up. My muscles screamed. I never paid any attention to the scenery, noting for a split second when we ran by Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. I noticed when we crossed under the 10. We were so close to Santa Monica. So close to the finish. Jason ran by me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I slogged through Veteran’s Park, soaking my shoes in a stream I didn’t have the springiness to jump across. My orthotics absorbed the water like diapers. I got colder. The rain picked up. The wind blew. My muscles throbbed. I slowed down. I got colder.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I passed under the 23 mile banner, I stopped running. My legs stopped running. I couldn’t move my legs to run. Guillaume ran by me. I began to walk along the grassy median. I got colder. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My watch is still running when I arrive at St. John’s Hospital in Santa Monica. If I were crossing the finish line right now, instead of moving into a hospital bed, I’d clock a 4:15. Instead, I’m learning that Hottie EMT’s name is Robbie—right after the ER nurse takes off all of my clothes in front of him and asks when my last menstrual period was in front of him. Robbie leaves to rescue more waterlogged damsels in distress while the ER nurse covers me in human bubble wrap—a plastic, air-filled blanket that blows up full of hot air. I shiver. My heart rate shows on a screen, hovering around 100. My normal resting heart rate is around 40.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The ER nurse turns on March Madness and lets me hang in my cocoon. She comes back to take my temperature. It’s now an unshocking 96.9 degrees.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Who’s going to pick you up?” she says.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I only know two phone numbers by heart,” I say. Coachubby’s and my mom’s. My mom lives in Arizona and Coachubby is most likely waiting for me by the meet up letter Z, like we had planned, because how many people’s names start with Z? His phone is at home. I call mom.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hi mom. I got hypothermia.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What?!”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m fine. I need you to go on Facebook and look up our housemate. Go to his Facebook page. In the upper right hand side it says ‘send message’. Tell him I’m at the hospital. He has a smartphone. He’ll get the message.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Duke sinks several more baskets while Michigan tries to catch up. I call my mom back.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I think I poked your friend Mo,” she says. “What’s a poke?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh my God.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Let me know when you get home.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I try to sleep. Then the nurse comes in.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Your husband is here to see you. Do you want to see him?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do I want to see him? Nah, I’ll just stay here naked in my bubble wrap all afternoon.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Coachubby walks in. Our housemate got the message and dropped him off. Coachubby died late in the race too, he says. He wanted to run 2:50. He ran 3:05. He qualified for Boston. Jason ran a 3:30.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am an idiot.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Not fair,” I say. “Now I have to run another one so we can run Boston together.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The nurse drops off a pair of hideous gray sweat pants for me to change into. My other clothes are wet and my favorite blue shirt with my race number didn’t make it into my “patient belongings” bag. I look like a homeless crackhead. Coachubby gives me a piggyback ride through the rain and puts me in the back seat of our housemate’s Prius. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Back at home, the rain still pours. The trees shake like the wind will uproot them. I imagine we’re in a hurricane. I lie on the couch and decide to check the race results for my splits. The Los Angeles Marathon website says I ran a 3:36. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now I wonder who has my shirt.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-86171823367753786182011-03-15T21:42:00.000-07:002011-03-15T21:42:41.417-07:00Video: Fast Twitch/Slow Twitch Muscle PeopleEndurance sports performance art.<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/87433QcQQWg" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><br />
This is what happens when I've been staring at my computer too long. Twitching. And videos about twitching.<br />
<br />
--ErinErinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-49904311748709045542011-03-12T09:44:00.000-08:002011-03-12T09:44:36.567-08:00How to Legally Roll Through a Stop Sign<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3505/3248283617_c23445ea31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3505/3248283617_c23445ea31.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">photo courtesy of thecrazyfilmgirl on Flickr</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>The answer: You must live in Idaho. Or possibly New Mexico.<br />
<br />
On Tuesday, New Mexico's House passed a bill that would allow cyclists to treat stop signs as yield signs, almost 30 years after <a href="http://www.bicyclelaw.com/blog/index.cfm/2009/3/7/Origins-of-Idahos-Stop-as-Yield-Law">cyclists in Idaho won the privilege</a>. <a href="http://www.santafenewmexican.com/Local%20News/Legislative-roundup--March-9--2011">The Santa Fe New Mexican reports</a> that the bill's sponsor, Rep. Miguel Garcia, said once Idaho passed their bike law, the bicycle injury rate fell 15 percent. He also argued that passing such a law would help to prevent cyclists from getting rear-ended at stop signs. (A problem I have never heard much about.)<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.bclu.org/stops.html">Cyclists argue</a> in favor of the law for several reasons, including that we have better awareness of our surroundings and can stop faster than vehicles. <a href="http://bicycles.stackexchange.com/questions/1055/which-states-or-countries-have-stop-sign-as-yield-laws-for-bicyclists-idaho-stop">Other cyclists argue</a> that the law establishes cyclists as something "other" than drivers and might set a precedent to limit cyclists' road use privileges. And that it's good for everyone on the road to be predictable.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, New Mexican cyclists shouldn't party yet; Oregon's House passed a similar bill in 2003 that their Senate killed. Oregon's <a href="http://bikeportland.org/2009/01/14/exclusive-bta-will-go-for-idaho-style-stop-sign-law-13382">Bicycle Transportation Alliance tried again</a> in 2009, to no avail. According to the now defunct cycling advocacy nonprofit, the <a href="http://www.bclu.org/">Bicycle Civil Liberties Union</a>, cyclists in California, Oregon, Arizona and Virginia have all tried to pass a similar law.<br />
<br />
As someone who has received a $150ish ticket for rolling a T-stop on a rural road with nobody around except a cop who apparently liked to spend his Saturday mornings hiding in a bush, I'm all for the stop-as-yield law. And if you have the tenacity and connections to get it passed in CA, I'll buy you a beer. Or 20.Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-14514892794330265132011-03-07T10:01:00.000-08:002011-03-07T10:12:07.238-08:00Enduro Word of the Week (WOW): Neapolitan<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px; line-height: 16px;"></span><br />
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Hi Tri peeps! I have so much to tell you! I've been AWOL because I finished up an internship with Outside Magazine in Santa Fe then moved to San Diego to work for Competitor Magazine. I'll be posting frequently on Competitor.com. More about me to come (I signed up for Ultraman Canada, so I'm sure most of it will be about that.) Party on. <br />
-Erin</div><div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">neapolitan</strong></em> (neapoli-tan) n. : the color an endurance athlete’s legs turn after riding a bike and running in shorts of different lengths. Like the italian ice cream, the quads become a delicious mix of never-exposed lightness, peek-a-boo shaded and sun-loving dark. Most often observed when triathletes run in tiny shorts.</div><div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">My goodness, check out that guy’s neapolitan!</em></div><div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Can also be used as a verb, as in: <em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I’m switching up my tri shorts today because I’m neapolitanning</em>.</div><div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Sometimes seen as sexy, the neapolitan identifies the multisport athlete when he/she hits the pool. Men must wear speedos to observe this benefit.</div><div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br />
</div>Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-69406416563392230952011-01-04T14:16:00.000-08:002011-01-04T14:16:49.191-08:00Phoenix FailsDo you ever go home for the holidays and marvel at how your neighborhood has changed? Most of my neighbor's homes are gone (razed), my favorite backyard bike trail is fenced off (maximize that property line!), and the tree in front of my house is cut... strangely. Which brings us to our first Phoenix Fail:<br />
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<b>Neighbor Fail</b><b> </b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQuN-5b5oaddrG0JWfvwyQAmqkqGKspYb31NHdn47fw-s3Pfv1dneGMF10Umi3lJzmrYKsuvmuZpRs-Qby6eGZrH29u0Drokohkjgxw6RDLHwIfLLAWyPPZMvQF_pghAJc7fY9lK03jP3J/s1600/tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQuN-5b5oaddrG0JWfvwyQAmqkqGKspYb31NHdn47fw-s3Pfv1dneGMF10Umi3lJzmrYKsuvmuZpRs-Qby6eGZrH29u0Drokohkjgxw6RDLHwIfLLAWyPPZMvQF_pghAJc7fY9lK03jP3J/s400/tree.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Yes, the branches overhanging the property on the left are chopped off at the property line.<br />
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And the lady in that house on the left wonders why nobody welcomed her to the neighborhood.<br />
<div style="font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><br />
<b>Cactus Fail</b><br />
<a href="http://www.utilitycamo.com/photos/saguaro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.utilitycamo.com/photos/saguaro.jpg" width="213" /></a>I knew something was off with the cactus down the street so I went to inspect and found a little door on its trunk. Turns out Phoenix was not overcome by saguaro-dwelling leprechauns (my first guess), but <a href="http://www.utilitycamo.com/sites.html">sneaky cell-phone tower builders</a>. Maybe now I won't have to walk out of the house to answer the phone.<br />
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<-- This is not a cactus!<br />
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<b>Christmas Light Fail</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsVtKD4jY9cSoRkI1vc45qgleuRfRjvr2FVkvs-qt8ut2HpmoSedYihm6akjK3gzoPTztS40JVX1XSyIHay7z_jKBqx6XGZTsAYlGUgPJK7cmCDPLrA6XyW8ECwk1r-lwF9nawF9Pr9kZT/s1600/xmas+shaft+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsVtKD4jY9cSoRkI1vc45qgleuRfRjvr2FVkvs-qt8ut2HpmoSedYihm6akjK3gzoPTztS40JVX1XSyIHay7z_jKBqx6XGZTsAYlGUgPJK7cmCDPLrA6XyW8ECwk1r-lwF9nawF9Pr9kZT/s320/xmas+shaft+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGn8N3KHUGDHoxXfImNi3AFFXPIvbLU9rUBc222TyRys9O-l1-ZfDCe2Kk03lpt-bGw4ImCyH-SHkwAn5TSMiWH_wwPy__D70nvG9AvcClKAT2yzIEIlsGxmrMVaQhiIqLwgcvrGdI0JrC/s1600/xmas+shaft+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGn8N3KHUGDHoxXfImNi3AFFXPIvbLU9rUBc222TyRys9O-l1-ZfDCe2Kk03lpt-bGw4ImCyH-SHkwAn5TSMiWH_wwPy__D70nvG9AvcClKAT2yzIEIlsGxmrMVaQhiIqLwgcvrGdI0JrC/s320/xmas+shaft+4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
You know something is wrong when even your super-Christian relatives comment on the, um, interesting lighting situation down the street. (Palm trees by day...)<br />
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Happy New Year!<br />
-ErinErinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-50139429883886108592010-12-11T09:09:00.000-08:002010-12-11T09:09:16.229-08:00I'm Training for an Ironman!If you're training for an Ironman, rest assured there's always someone more maniacal about his training than you. Like this guy. (Or maybe you'll find you're kindred spirits!)<br />
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-Erin</div>Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-30862992186907946752010-12-08T09:59:00.000-08:002010-12-08T09:59:36.477-08:00Jure Robic: Insomniac, Maniac, MiracleIf there's a limit to what the human body can endure, the late Jure Robic was the one drawing the line.<br />
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My article on Jure Robic is out in the December issue of Outside (on newsstands now) and <a href="http://outsideonline.com/adventure/travel-ta-122010-jure-robic-road-biking-athletes-sidwcmdev_153126.html">here online</a>.<br />
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-ErinErinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-41079184620939409192010-11-24T10:31:00.000-08:002010-11-24T10:31:32.368-08:00Dear Arizona, WTF? Ironman AZ and other stuffDear Arizona,<br />
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WTF? I thought we were friends. More than friends--lovers even. I know I left you nine years ago, but I always come back to see how you're doing. To hike and bike your trails. To go out to dinner. To just hang out.<br />
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I always defend you when people say you're too hot (there's no such thing!) or that there's no vegetation in the desert (there is, too!) or that you're flat (hello, Flagstaff!). I'm your biggest fan. I love you and will always love you.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwUqjU8T6F7ArVcGlmFlxsS70157mLq9HbgkX5Vg9ionjVNMK6dAscF_m6r-q70mZQWUihHPKYdKYiWXCqQdHI8UDeuRdS_WWmrZOuuOJkg_2Y4xZ_FWt7kz1KD5uMdJP925XDFkaGRIjg/s1600/swim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwUqjU8T6F7ArVcGlmFlxsS70157mLq9HbgkX5Vg9ionjVNMK6dAscF_m6r-q70mZQWUihHPKYdKYiWXCqQdHI8UDeuRdS_WWmrZOuuOJkg_2Y4xZ_FWt7kz1KD5uMdJP925XDFkaGRIjg/s400/swim.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>So I am hurt that the only two times I have come to compete in Tempe's Ironman, you have raged against me with a tidal wave of dust storms, gale-force winds and now, random patches of torrential rain.<br />
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Let's review your misbehaving, shall we?<br />
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IMAZ, April 2007. My very first Ironman and my very first marathon. I saved myself for you. And how do you repay me? With a pre-race sand storm that colored my teeth brown and made my mom refuse to let my sandy bum in her car to take me home. Then, on race day, you blew so hard on the bike that if I didn't pedal for a few seconds, I'd stop completely, even on a downhill.<br />
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IMAZ, April 2008, November 2008 and 2009. You were gorgeous and seemed so happy. You caressed my friends with curls of sunshine, let the air hang in place and seemed to be a true Ironman fan. I rode my bike out to the Beeline to cheer, happily and without fear of retaliation on your part. Whatever pissed you off in 2007 seemed to have passed.<br />
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IMAZ 2010. Sunday. I arrived Wednesday night to a gorgeous Phoenician evening. For three days, you almost made it up to 80 degrees, my favorite temperature. No clouds in the sky. When I arrived, my sinuses were flaring and my lungs were burning, but you helped bring me back to un-couch-ridden life by Saturday, just in time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaj89IMhdl5ussCFNBkniF4h4S-0_PX2p2BUNRuUR5KnvT1tF95xwCPVuKuswXyOKgWq3-rb-BZtSBBv64W0lvy5Xe60StAC41W4qWT1vlIEjwoNDGsYN2UGPLS1DRwOdOEMWrGLumGK34/s1600/ebike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="353" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaj89IMhdl5ussCFNBkniF4h4S-0_PX2p2BUNRuUR5KnvT1tF95xwCPVuKuswXyOKgWq3-rb-BZtSBBv64W0lvy5Xe60StAC41W4qWT1vlIEjwoNDGsYN2UGPLS1DRwOdOEMWrGLumGK34/s400/ebike.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Just in time for you to blow me backwards on the bike again. To pelt me with rain. To play mind tricks with my already fragile head. To rain so hard right before I finished the bike that instead of finishing to throngs of people admiring my hot-pink knee socks, I cycled into what looked like the aftermath of an explosion--a deserted intersection with a water bottle slowly rolling across the road.<br />
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I read in the paper yesterday that I should be making a list of what I'm thankful for right now. So instead of railing on you any further for Sunday's hissy-fit, I will now praise you for what you did right.<br />
<br />
Despite the rain and wind, your temperature was absolute perfection. I was never hot or cold--even in Tempe Town Lake. For that, I cannot thank you enough. I didn't mind the rain because the bike course is not technical, and it was not cold. (The wind, however, was unforgivable. Particularly because you started blowing right at the swim turn around, creating a current that sucked me away from the swim finish.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTIvI0LSOYt7iCu7F9ldSE4mbOt0Rl9KlIw_l-J-ho4A6Sg5pK0CVBzUclwj12UIUfpsoaT-Xegayf_xlQ1G3c_6QdNKDc-H5aX_z7A4HBjCSbSba78y2eRqFMyHEH7SMHWxwePlxflgKj/s1600/erun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTIvI0LSOYt7iCu7F9ldSE4mbOt0Rl9KlIw_l-J-ho4A6Sg5pK0CVBzUclwj12UIUfpsoaT-Xegayf_xlQ1G3c_6QdNKDc-H5aX_z7A4HBjCSbSba78y2eRqFMyHEH7SMHWxwePlxflgKj/s400/erun.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>Because of your clouds, I did not get sunburned, despite not putting any sunscreen on, except for on my face during the run. Apparently I looked pretty funny. People laughed at me. But I will take un-rubbed in sunscreen any day for a 1:29 Ironman T2.<br />
<br />
Monday you were gorgeous again, leading me to believe that you are hell-bent on keeping me from achieving an Ironman personal record here, but that you still love me because you know how much I like warmth and sunshine.<br />
<br />
So, Arizona, even though you cried and huffed and puffed about on Sunday, I know you still love me because if there's anything I dislike more than a whomping headwind, it's being cold--and you didn't let me get cold.<br />
<br />
It's OK. Don't be shy about it. I still love you, too. And I'll be back. And next time--the third time I do IMAZ--maybe we can work together to create the most spectacular race day ever.<br />
<br />
Love your (still) biggest fan,<br />
ErinErinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-34425225571873098512010-11-12T08:22:00.000-08:002010-11-12T09:15:55.501-08:00Badass Bike Handling SkillsA friend forwarded this rad video. It's like pairs ice skating. Except with two girls, bikes and a bball court. From the 2009 European Junior Championships for Indoor Cycling, apparently.<br />
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<div style="background: #000000; height: 272px; width: 440px;"><embed allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" flashvars="playerVars=showStats=no|autoPlay=no|videoTitle=Kunstrad EM 2009 Carla Und Henriette Hochdorfer" height="272" name="Metacafe_3381279" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" src="http://www.metacafe.com/fplayer/3381279/kunstrad_em_2009_carla_und_henriette_hochdorfer.swf" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="440" wmode="transparent"></embed></div><div style="font-size: 12px;"><a href="http://www.metacafe.com/watch/3381279/kunstrad_em_2009_carla_und_henriette_hochdorfer/">Kunstrad EM 2009 Carla Und Henriette Hochdorfer</a> - <a href="http://www.metacafe.com/">The most popular videos are here</a></div>Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-22245752749680704932010-11-10T16:07:00.000-08:002010-11-10T16:36:17.697-08:00The Sexy Hotness Sleeping BagIt's not everyday something inanimate like a sleeping bag can make me laugh, but the <a href="http://www.alitedesigns.com/sexy-hotness-sleeping-bag-4">ALITE "sexy hotness" sleeping bag</a> did just that.<br />
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I came across this puffy purple creation today. It lets you walk around in your sleeping bag, zip it to other bags to create one giant bag and is lined with Kama Sutra poses. Hotness is rated to 20 degrees Fahrenheit, so if you're going on a fun camping trip with buddies, it seems like a viable choice. As the company says, "Sexy Hotness is the perfect sleeping bag for making love in the woods."<br />
<iframe frameborder="0" height="225" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/12654102?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0&color=ffffff" width="400"></iframe><br />
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Maybe I'll give it a try.Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-38237458674292134312010-10-24T18:13:00.000-07:002010-10-24T18:13:22.820-07:00Distance Runners Are a Paradox for InsurersThat's the title of <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/25/sports/25coverage.html?pagewanted=2&_r=1&hp">my latest NY Times article. Check it out online now</a> or in the paper tomorrow! (Monday, Oct. 25.)<br />
<br />
Woo hoo!<br />
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</h1>Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-25523688569957648402010-09-24T15:57:00.000-07:002010-09-25T17:05:18.699-07:00Jure Robic Dies in Collision with Car<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSAYhpo2ETOSrK-6_m2861CtsaGILTdJPHK2IMJB-XsytpZ_r3wFeXnNBfXk8BE2a6rcg9OchMQmX6Ao5YAtyHzmLFzwdj4TKX_0of6llUtgiYGPqg3aH75B3bi-WMpDO6_pWME3xACx-i/s1600/Jure+2010+RAAM-2248.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSAYhpo2ETOSrK-6_m2861CtsaGILTdJPHK2IMJB-XsytpZ_r3wFeXnNBfXk8BE2a6rcg9OchMQmX6Ao5YAtyHzmLFzwdj4TKX_0of6llUtgiYGPqg3aH75B3bi-WMpDO6_pWME3xACx-i/s1600/Jure+2010+RAAM-2248.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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I was shocked and upset when a friend from the Race Across America media crew sent me a link this morning to a Slovenian news site that said ultracyclist (and this year's RAAM champion) Jure Robic, was killed today.<br />
<br />
I was on this year's RAAM media team, chasing far behind Jure and his crew. I had also just spoken with Jure's friend and crew chief, Matjaz Planinsek on Tuesday.<br />
<br />
I didn't know Jure, but the one thing I will remember from our few encounters was his smile. He had a big, bright, child-like mischievous smile that popped up frequently--even a thousand miles into RAAM.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://outside-blog.away.com/blog/2010/09/ultracyclist-jure-robic-dies-in-car-crash.html">Here's the Outside post</a>.<br />
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Photo of Jure at the beginning of RAAM 2010 courtesy of <a href="http://jakenorthphotography.com/">Jake North Photography</a>.Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-52018545848288858032010-09-17T14:17:00.000-07:002010-09-17T14:31:06.338-07:00The Tahoe Sierra 100 Mountain Bike Race-- So F'n Easy<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“This is gonna be so f*(#ing easy!” Jimmy says.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">It’s just before 6:30 am and we are straddling our mountain bikes behind a couple hundred spandex-clad ultraracers. Me, my husband Jimmy, and our friend A-ron. (Thus named because I’m Erin and he’s Aaron and it gets confusing.) </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The sun hasn’t come up over Soda Springs, CA, a tiny ski-town northeast of Lake Tahoe just off of the I-80. My numb hands ache as we wait for the countdown to the start of Tahoe Sierra, a 100-mile mountain bike race with a reported 13,000 feet of climbing that shares part of its route with the Western States 100 ultramarathon.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Somewhere up ahead is my friend Holly, the silent killer. She’s tiny. She’s unassuming. And she’ll kick your ass. If she weren’t so dedicated to performing surgery on mice as part of her graduate mechanical engineering research at Stanford, she’d probably be pro. I am not racing Holly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The race director, Jimmyboy, mentions something about the race being hard. Something about bears and mountain lions. Then something about loggers and hunters. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“This is gonna be so so f*(#ing easy!” Jimmy repeats the motto he adopted from an adventure race he ran with his college buddies. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Ha!” grunts the guy next to him. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Five! Four! Three!” Jimmyboy counts down. “Two! One!” And we’re off, rolling down double track through the twilight. The dust glitters in a cloud that engulfs my face and immediately latches onto my nose.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I re-discovered pink zinc just before the race and thought it would be the perfect nose-cheek protector for an all-day adventure. It smells like a coconutty beach, just like it did in the ‘80s. But after 10 minutes of riding through “moon dust” in a fat-tired peloton, my coconutty pink nose has become a dirt trap. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">This must be how healthy, non-smokers get lung cancer, I think as I look at the dude next to me. He’s wearing a surgical mask. The guy just ahead of me has a bandana covering his mouth. I try to hold my breath, but that doesn’t last very long.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">We turn a corner to face a short, steep sandy section. People are falling left and right. A few men tiptoe their bikes around the carnage while I ski down on my feet. When I get to the bottom, A-ron and Jimmy are already out of sight. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I’ve only been riding 15 minutes and my legs are sore. I know the boys are infinitely better riders than I am, but I don’t want to be out there alone—something about bears, remember?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"></div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div style="text-indent: 48px;">I don’t remember what possessed us to sign up for this race. The rationalization looked something like this: Each of us had, in the past, completed multiple Ironman triathlons. Each of us liked mountain biking. So each of us should be able to mountain bike 100 miles relatively easily. Right? It can take less than six hours to ride 100 miles on the road, so double that (to be safe) and this should only take around 12 hours, getting us back in time for a dip in Donner Lake, dinner, and bad reality TV.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The 14-hour cut-off seemed generous.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">**</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I turn a corner onto a rocky dirt road and see Jimmy waiting for me. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“This is so f*(#ing easy!” he says before bombing down the road on his new-used Ellsworth Truth. If he weren’t going to be useful for conversation, at least he’d be a good bear diversion.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The first 25 miles end with a rocky road climb to an aid station. Not too steep. Not too dusty. Riders all around—many of them peeing on the side of the trail, making no effort to conceal themselves behind a tree or rock. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Now the real race begins.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Fill ‘er up here,” says the Red Star Ridge aid station guy. “This is the longest section without an aid station.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Whatever, I think. I didn’t really drink anything yet—my Camelbak is full. I decide I won’t look at my watch for the entire race. I have no bike computer either. I am going to eat and drink based on feel, not time, and now is not really the time. A-ron was chilling for a while waiting for me, so I down an Oreo and a piece of watermelon and off we go. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The 50-mile racers peel off to the right and the hundos pedal up their first hard-core single track of the day. Within a few minutes, we reach a wilderness scene few people will ever experience—remote and beautiful and creepy at the same time. It seems like everyone decided to do the 50-mile race; Jimmy, A-ron and I are the only people on the trail as far as we can see.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The sun blazes through a cloudless sky and warms my core and I feel like I am in a Disney movie. If a butterfly lands on my shoulder, we will both burst out in song. I hear the musical intro. The violins hum, the piano crescendos and—</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Frickinshitballsfugginfreak.” I look up the hill just in time to see A-ron take his bike overhead and throw it into a bush. Apparently this is the exact the moment he begins to feel the altitude. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Jimmy and A-ron stay a few minutes ahead of me. It is better that they can’t see me ski-bike down the steep dirt sections. Breaking is useless. I let Qee (my ’08 Specialized Era) slide wherever she wants like a feisty horse. Somehow, she doesn’t buck me off.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Just when I think we are seriously and unconditionally as far out into the middle of nowhere we could possibly be, we pop out onto a paved road—a welcome respite from the pounding and mental punishment of sandy single-track. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Those five minutes of joint-sparing bliss are quickly replaced by rocktastic double track. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">And gunshots.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">**</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">BAM! BAM!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Is someone shooting at us?” I ask as we trudge up steep, technical terrain. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I wish someone would shoot me, then this would be over,” Aaron says.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">BAM!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“That’s one less bear to worry about,” Jimmy says.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">We climb in silence. When the road turns vertical, we dismount and shove our full-suspension rigs upward. Nobody wants to talk. This is our fate. We probably look like easy prey for the bear that got away. Or for the hunter that can’t tell the difference between black spandex and fur. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“This is so f*(#ing easy!” Jimmy says.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I kick dirt at him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Just when the road becomes manageable to ride, POP! TSssss. A-ron rolls right over a thorn. I watch his back tire deflate instantly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Brain-fried and pissed off, A-ron dumps his bike in front of Jimmy so Jimmy can work on the flat. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“You know the aid station is just around the corner?” Jimmy says in a miraculous return to the English language, saying something other than his favorite five-word phrase.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Flat fixed, we ride on. Then a sign pops up on the right side of the road.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Got tacos?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Then another one: “Smell the…” and another: “Bacon!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Shit. Bacon? That sounds disgusting,” A-ron says.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Turns out the bacon-taco aid station is a full-service pit stop. Upon arrival, volunteers grab our bikes, ask us if we want oil or wax lube, anything out of our drop bag, and food. I opt for part of a Pop-Tart. And a peanut butter cookie. And part of a pb&j. And peanut m&ms. And another part of a Pop-Tart. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The sandy single track ate one of my toe warmers, so I dump the other one along with my leg warmers and hat into A-ron’s drop bag, then start up a 5-mile dirt road climb with A-ron. Jimmy will catch up.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“How does Jimmy have so much energy?” A-ron asks.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I dunno.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">After that heart-to-heart, A-ron takes off and Jimmy joins me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“How’s A-ron doing?” Jimmy asks.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“He wants to know how you have so much energy.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I’m just trying to stay positive.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“OK,” I say. We pedal up a steeper section. “You know that guy in the red kit that just passed us is on his second loop? That means he’s 25 miles ahead of us.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Not positive.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Sorry.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Then, more single track. A lot more. Gnarly, sandy, steep, technical singletrack. I bounce down it without a thought. My brain glazes over and Qee and my body swoosh through ruts and fly over rocks. It is the best I’ve ever been at technical mountain biking—I’m too tired to second-guess myself or leap off the bike. Too bad it took a painful 45-mile warm-up to get here.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">When we get to the next aid station—the head of a six-mile out-and-back section—the volunteers tell us something that makes me want to hurl:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“You know, you’re cutting it pretty close to the cut-off.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">**</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Cut off? CUT OFF? What cut off? I don’t suck that bad do I? I’ve ridden most of the course. I’ve only stopped long enough to stuff my face full of sugary goodness or squat behind a rock. Now, in addition to worrying about becoming animal food—I am the weakest link in our clan—I also have to worry about not getting to wear the hoodie I got at sign-in? I can’t wear it if I don’t officially finish; I’ll look like a tool.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I down the last handful of peanut M&Ms in the bowl in protest. Just before I take off, I see Holly coming through the other way. That puts her 6 miles and at least an hour ahead of me. Holly is a cycling goddess. If she’s only an hour ahead of me, and I’m only an hour ahead of the cut-off, this course was not designed for weekend warriors. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">A-ron takes off. I fix my Camelbak that is now soaking wet after an over-eager aid-station volunteer—who probably felt sorry for me—offered to fill it up, then screwed the cap on funky, letting the water dump all over my warm clothes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Screw you, cut-off.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Jimmy and I fly down fun single track. Rolling, not too technical. Through the trees. There’s nobody out there. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">By the time we get back to that aid station, I refuse to stop and start up a steep, dusty logging road climb. Then I hear cowbells.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">People! The next aid station! I think. Yea! Someone’s cheering for us!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Five more minutes pass. I’m still alone. Then I realize something terrible: the cowbells are on cows. It’s just me and the cows out here. A-ron is up ahead. Jimmy is behind somewhere, probably eaten by a cow. And I’m alone.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Then, I see a sign: “Got Bacon?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Shit. That sounds disgusting.” A-ron mumbles ahead of me. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">We’re back at the aid station red-spandex man scrambled through several hours ago. And this time, instead of being a bustling epicenter of clothing changes and athlete feeding, A-ron, Jimmy and I are the only bikers around. The aid station people ask the same questions. Lube? What can I get you? But this time, it seems like they’re doing it out of pity. Am I going nuts? Is that lady giving me salt pills because I look like I’m gonna die or because it’s the nice thing to do? We’re like 65 miles into this. We’re still an hour ahead of the aid-station cut off. We’re fine. Right? RIGHT? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I stuff two tender, barely-baked brownies into my mouth and shove off. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I have to make the cut off.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">**</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">A-ron rides ahead, back up the climb we did some 20 miles earlier. Jimmy rides behind me, trying to look like the group straggler so animals will eat him, not me. Somehow, I don’t think it works that way. They can smell weakness, can’t they? Jimmy is the strongest link. A-ron is pissed off. I’m fine, just slow, apparently.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">We continue on up a hill. At the next aid station, the volunteers tell us we must take our lights, because it’s going to get dark before we finish because it’s already 4:30 p.m.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">That’s the first time I’ve heard the time all day: 4:30 p.m. We’ve been riding for 10 hours. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I tell A-ron and Jimmy I have to keep going. I’m not going back to work to tell everyone I didn’t officially finish. I can’t. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">A-ron has a mental crisis. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says to Jimmy. “My stomach is jacked.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Jimmy relays the information.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I’m f^(#ing finishing,” I say.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">We’re on a dirt road that rolls along a mountain crest. To the left are rocky cliff drop offs. To the right are vistas Ansel Adams would’ve loved—no sign of civilization for hundreds of miles. Except we’re not paying attention to the scenery anymore. Jimmy is convinced he’s sprained his wrist. My right kneecap hurts so bad I can only pedal with my left leg, until the knee cap goes numb.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Then A-ron comes up from behind. He decided it would take forever to get picked up out here and re-joins the battle.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">We take a hard left into the second-to-last time station.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“How’re we doing?” Jimmy asks the time-station volunteer.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Well, you’re pretty much dead last,” he says.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Now is not the time for honesty. My mind is fragile. Tell me I’m awesome. Tell me there’s somebody to chase up ahead. Tell me we’re still an hour ahead of the cut off. Tell me I’m super-cute with a dirty brown nose. Tell me anything but the truth.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I stuff some more peanut M&Ms down my throat and look at a young man in a Cal Poly jersey who’s sitting in a folding chair behind the food.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I really like that hoodie,” I say to Jimmy. “I want to wear it!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I guess I’ll only wear three-quarters of mine,” Cal Poly says, his head slumped.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“What’s next?” Jimmy asks the evil volunteer.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Well, you got a 2-mile uphill, then an 8-mile downhill to the next aid station,” he says. Then he turns to another volunteer as we roll out, “Hey, I think we can shut down early!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Evil scumbag, I think. Then I fantasize about the long downhill.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Immediately, the road turns down. But then we round a corner and begin a climb. A long, never-ending climb. Not only was second-to-last-aid-station man a mental tormentor, he was also a big fat liar.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“This is so f*(#ing easy!” Jimmy says.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">My right knee screams at me. A-ron and Jimmy’s stomachs quit. They can’t eat food. We know there’s a long climb after the last aid station, and it’s nowhere in sight. The sun is also going down. It’s mountain lion hunting time. I can’t return a failure, but darkness is closing in on me, and time is vanishing with the scenery.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">**</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The final aid station. It exists. And people are still there. People including the race director’s daughter, Andrea. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“How much time do we got?” Jimmy asks.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“You’ve got about 10 miles left and about an hour and a half.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I’m going to sit here for 15 minutes,” Jimmy says, “to get my brain ready for the final climb.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">We mount our lights on our helmets. I stuff 5 cookies in my mouth.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“You want a towel to wipe off your face?” a cute boy who’s playing the movie game with Andrea asks. They’re on “E.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“No. I don’t care. I don’t have to look at me,” I say.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“What’s a movie that starts with E?” Andrea asks.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Erin Brockovitch!” I say. Then I go. We can’t hang out if we’re going to make the cut off.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">We pedal in our lowest gears up a dirt road. Twilight surrounds us. Everything appears in double. It’s hard to see but I don’t want to turn on my light just yet. I swear I see paw prints in the dirt. Everywhere. Jimmy and A-ron ride up ahead.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Maybe it was just the heel of someone’s bike shoe, I think. But if I can ride this, who ahead of me would’ve walked? There are paw prints in the sand. For sure.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">When I turn my light on, I realize I mounted it so it points way to the right.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Want me to fix it?” Jimmy asks.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“We don’t have time!” I say.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“This is so f*(#ing easy!” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Shut up!” A-ron and I reply. I point my face to the left and ride on with the help of A-ron and Jimmy’s lights. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">When we get to the double track turnoff at the top of the road, A-ron consults his Garmin. We have two miles to go and 20 minutes to ride them.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">We run up the sandy chute that took out so many riders almost 14 hours ago, then hammer the rollers the best we can. A-ron and Jimmy ride ahead, kicking up dust that looks like snow in my headlamp. Then, with a mile to go, we come upon another rider. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The three of us blow by him and continue on.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“We’re finishing together,” A-ron says.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">We could see lights in the trees, but they were just homes—not the finish. It wasn’t coming. It’s not there.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Then I hear voices. Faintly through the trees.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Then I see the finish line.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Sprint! Sprint!” people shout.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I spin out my smallest gear and we roll onto pavement and under the finish line banner—at 8:25pm. Seven minutes to spare.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">We immediately fling our bikes to the ground and stand, dazed and dirty, in the middle of the finish chute. Maybe eight people are there cheering. The field full of bike-rack capped cars is empty, except for our rented gold minivan. It’s dark and cold and someone is cooking burgers under a lantern.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The race director tries to cut through our mental fog with easy conversation.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“So how was it?” he asks.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Oh, that was so f*(#ing easy,” Jimmy says.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0WSdnWkHCnyIOQjXA3MFpACeB_zy6I2qIOL9ElSsyRVbn2NA2aJjXxxTPW962JZMneI3j2nwjA0KhHAqbNxOZGpUjbJUqRXH7xPI4yKZTzk40PH_gdfcBgZYSc4mFcXp8_nThd4KCCrcC/s1600/tahoesierrame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0WSdnWkHCnyIOQjXA3MFpACeB_zy6I2qIOL9ElSsyRVbn2NA2aJjXxxTPW962JZMneI3j2nwjA0KhHAqbNxOZGpUjbJUqRXH7xPI4yKZTzk40PH_gdfcBgZYSc4mFcXp8_nThd4KCCrcC/s320/tahoesierrame.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, post-race.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div>Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-91764652869119596052010-09-09T20:02:00.000-07:002010-09-09T20:03:28.710-07:00The Toughest Endurance MTB Race There Is?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 20px;">The race director for the </span><a href="http://www.globalbiorhythmevents.com/" style="color: #72179d; text-decoration: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Tahoe Sierra 100</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, a 100-mile (actually 92.7 miles this year) mountain bike race has officially freaked me and my crew out.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Coachubby, a friend from LA (A-ron) and a friend from Stanford (Holly) and I were all revved up to do the race this Saturday. We signed up months ago. We dreamed of the scenery, of the single-track, and in A-Ron's case, of the Pop-Tarts. It was going to be an epic day of awesome. Then the race updates started flowing in.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here are tidbits from updates received on September 3, 4, 5, and 7:</span><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sept 3:</span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For all of you that may try to go out and try out the course this weekend. May be a few motos out there, hunters and crazy beer drinking 4 wheel drive people...</span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There was a bit of Eco Terrorist action on the logging operation that was going on up there yesterday.</span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">OK. Not bad. Nothing that's not usually on a mtb course. This is going to rock. It didn't hurt that the email closed with: </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Don't forget that your here to have fun!! We all will be partying after the event at Ice Lakes Lodge so please come by and enjoy the full bar and food here at the lodge as it looks out over Serene lakes.</span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Party on.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sept 4:</span></b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Saw a Nice big bear out on the trail today. Never saw one person or bike all day.</span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">OK. Bear. Bears live in the forest. Chances are slim the bear will care about me when there will be several other meal options on the trail. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Great weather. 82 in the high country at 6700 ft.</span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Rock on. Warm weather is my best friend. Yogi can hibernate while we ride.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sept 5:</span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Just to clear the air about this being a fast race course.<br />
Mohican 100 fast times: 7:33 under 9,000ft of climbing<br />
Lumberjack 100. Fast times 6:33 9,000ft of climbimg<br />
Cream Puff 100 fast times 9:44.00 about 17,500 ft of climbing<br />
High Cascades 100. Fast times about 8:37. 13,000ft of climbing 11,000ft of climbing ( single track)<br />
Leadville 100 ( almost all fire road and out and back) 12,000ft of climbing ( record set by Levi this year 6:15.00) Roadie course<br />
Break Epic. Fast times 8:31.00<br />
I would say that the </span></i><span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #ffff88; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; color: #222222;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Tahoe</span></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Sierra 100 is a fast course with the fast time of 7:24.00 and about 13,800 ft of climbing depending on your GPS and the course only being 92.7 mi</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">les.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Cool. Good riders will finish fast. The climbing surely qualifies this ride for DA status. (Disappearing a**.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sept 7</span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">:</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is your last chance. </span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">To what? To bail?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is a hard 100 mile race. This is not a roadie course. There is rock, dirt, lots of dust in some places, bears, cows, hunters, mt. lions, Big trees, small trees, white torn, buck brush, loggers, miners and a few things I may have forgotten. Oh ya, Mary Jane growers!!</span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Praying I will not be shot by Elmer Fudd, eaten by Yogi Bear or Simba, or stomped on by Cow. At least if it gets really bad, we can all zen out with the help of the local farmers.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Combine this update with the one from Aug. 16:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Just another heads up there are some cattle in the high country free grazing in the forest. Some of them are very big bulls!! If you run across any of them just yell and they will move. I have seen a few bear moving around in the last two weeks. They're just black bear and will run before you get too close.</span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And now we have full-on bearanoia. Seriously? They'll run away? As a wise friend once said, you don't have to be fast, just faster than your group. The bear will eat the slacker. There's some motivation.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I never said that this was a easy MTB 100. I just said it was a fast one.</span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And with that, Coachubby and I will fly out to Tahoe tomorrow to embark on a bear-hunter-mtn. lion-miner-logger riddled race. I slapped a red rear tire on my bike to up the rad factor. Or mask the blood.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This should be epic.</span>Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784862553522773321.post-5958623505991421632010-08-20T08:54:00.000-07:002010-08-23T20:53:45.567-07:00Tiffany Carter's 22-Mile Swim for Africa<b>UPDATE</b>: <b>Tiffany swam 20.5 miles--18 of them without a wetsuit--before an upset stomach, crampy calves and sore lungs cut the swim short. She'll be finishing the last 1.5 miles on Tuesday, the 23rd. As of Friday, the 20th, she had raised $2750 for Kenyan children.</b><br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Yea, Tiffany! That's the width of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_Channel#By_swimming">English Channel crossing at the Straight of Dover</a>! (21 miles)<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://swimforafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/PIC_0905-300x225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://swimforafrica.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/PIC_0905-300x225.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #606060; font-family: Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 21px;">Tiffany (left) at the end of a 14-mile swim with sister, Michelle. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>There must be some endurance obsession in the Beresini genes.<br />
<br />
As I write this, my cousin, <a href="http://swimforafrica.com/">Tiffany Carter, is swimming across Lake Tahoe</a> to raise money for children in Kenya.<br />
<br />
Her longest swim before taking on the width (or length...depending on how you look at it) of Lake Tahoe was 14 miles and took her seven hours. Averaging two miles-per-hour and accounting for fatigue, Tiffany expects the swim to take about 12 hours. That's an entire Ironman-worth of just swimming.<br />
<br />
I cry for her shoulders.<br />
<br />
And get this: she's not wearing a wetsuit.<br />
<br />
"I'll have my wetsuit (a long john suit) on the boat," Tiff told me yesterday, "just to make my mom happy, but I don't want to wear it." (Tiff said she hasn't looked at the water temperature the entire time she's been training. But I did. On the North side, <a href="http://www.tahoebest.com/weather/#Water">temps on Wednesday</a> ranged between 64 and 76 degrees. On the South side, they're between 65 and 67. Holy wetsuitless coldness.)<br />
<br />
Tiffany got the idea for the swim after her older sister, Sophia, visited Kenya and came back with stories about the kids there living in poverty, but didn't have to; the kids could go to school and eat for an entire year for only $50-100 per child.<br />
<br />
Tiffany wanted to help. She knew only one other native Lake Tahoe woman had ever completed the swim, and decided she'd go for it. She's been swimming since middle school and wanted to take on the Lake.<br />
<br />
It was hard for her to find people to train with, though, as most people who came along would poop out around two miles. Her friend, Howie, got cold and bailed about that far into a 10-mile training swim. He found a nice family on shore who wrapped him up, gave him warm food, and drove him back to his car.<br />
<br />
So Tiffany recruited her younger sister, Michelle, to kayak along with her on her training swims. But it hasn't been all sisterly love out on the lake.<br />
<br />
"I thought, 'Oh yea, we're sisters, it's gonna be great! We're gonna giggle and laugh...' but we'll be in the middle of the lake and she'll get so crabby sometimes and threaten to leave me," Tiffany said.<br />
<br />
So is it going to be different today? On the big day?<br />
<br />
She'll have a large crew including both of her parents, her sister, and other kayakers to help out. The local radio station is keeping people up-to-date on Tiffany's whereabouts. You can <a href="http://www.kthoradio.com/">listen to the live broadcast here</a>.<br />
<br />
Tiffany's most nervous about not making it. And of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tahoe_Tessie">Tahoe Tessie</a>, Lake Tahoe's version of the Loch Ness monster. She put glow sticks on the bottom of the kayaks for the dark start this morning and was worried they'd attract some kind of mythical Tiffany-eating fish.<br />
<br />
She'll be slurping mashed-up sweet potatoes and noshing on Clif Bars to fuel the swim.<br />
<br />
As of yesterday, Tiffany had raised $957 out of her goal of $2,000. <a href="http://swimforafrica.com/donate/">Donate to her swim here</a>--she'll be taking donations for at least another week. No amount is too small! (OK, try to make it at least a buck.)<br />
<br />
Visit Tiffany's <a href="http://swimforafrica.com/">Swim for Africa site</a>.<br />
Listen to the Q<a href="http://s7.viastreaming.net/7540/listen.qtl">uick Time radio broadcast</a>.<br />
<br />
Go Tiffany!</div>Erinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09907600647994918958noreply@blogger.com0