Video: Fast Twitch/Slow Twitch Muscle People

Endurance sports performance art.

This is what happens when I've been staring at my computer too long. Twitching. And videos about twitching.

--Erin

I'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!)

-Erin

Ironman St. George--Funky

The inaugural Ironman St. George is this Saturday. The already brutal event currently has a weather forecast of possible rain.

Curious to see what my fit friends have gotten themselves into, I went to IM St. George's official site.

I was greeted by this interesting header:

The mesas of Utah have arms and legs! Run for your life before they run over to your general vicinity and sit on you!

It reminds me of Monty Python cartoons where things like clouds have arms and legs.

So, IM St. Georgers, when you need to dig deeper and run a little harder, imagine one of the mesas of Utah is running after you. Because, according to the WTC, it could happen. They have pictures to prove it.

How to Look Thinner in Your Race Photos

Forget dieting, the glycemic index, and all the other painful stuff you do to try to look like Michael Lovato in your race photos.

On my way to a practice Treeathlon (Stanford's triathlon) yesterday, I picked up a fellow triathlete and aerospace engineer who let me in on a little secret:

The faster you run, the thinner you'll look in your race photos.

OK, so he didn't say it like that. But that's what I got out of our conversation about the principle of length contraction.

The faster an object goes, the shorter it will appear in the direction parallel to the direction it's traveling.

So say the race photographer is off to the side of the course. If you go really, really fast straight down the course, you'll look thinner to the photographer who's observing you from the side.

And by really, really fast, I mean close to the speed of light.

According to my genius triathlete passenger, if you ran at half the speed of light (150,000km/second), you would look 13.4% thinner from the side of the course.

So keep up those track workouts and don't worry about grabbing that extra doughnut in the break room. Because when you get even half-way close to running at the speed of light, you'll look fantastic in your photos!

Happy Valentine's Day!

Ironman Arizona 2009--Spousal Competition

When Iron-couple Jim and Meredith Davidson take on IMAZ together, competition takes a back seat to love.

Or does it?

Using Denture Cleaner to Rid Cycling Bottles of Nasty Mold

I admit it. I once had a water bottle that looked like it could've spawned mutant sea-life inside, but I couldn't see the creatures through all of the mold.

That's what happens if you leave Gatorade or (especially) CarboPro in your bottle post-ride. But if your ride was 18 hours long (or, you know, spinning at the gym), sometimes you just don't feel like cleaning when you get home. Cue the spawning of mutant bottlefish.

However, there is a cure for your disgusting piece of plastic other than being wasteful, throwing it out, and buying a new one. Or waiting for the next race that hands out water bottles in their goody bag.

The answer to all of your problems is in this little pill:

If you ever had retainers, you probably encountered the miracle that is denture cleaner. Drop one pill in, let it fizz. In the case of Efferdent, it'll turn clear when its done cleaning. (At least its supposed to...in my experiment, the water still looked blue...maybe the bottle was just that bad.)

(Turns blue. Nasty stuff rises to top.)

Then dump the stuff out and rinse. All the algae and grime and fuzz and stuff in your bottle will scrub off easily now, if

it didn't already jump ship at the sight of the Efferdent tablet.

Voilà. Like-new bottle.

So the next time your spouse or training partner gets on your case for your inability to rinse your bottles after every ride, whip out your denture cleaner and tell him/her you've got it covered.

Then laugh when they start staring curiously at your teeth.

The Original Pain in the Ass

"Turns out this lady was freaky-deaky and hurt her back on a sex swing," says the 5'6", 32-year old, short brown-haired dude who pulled my pants down and was jabbing his thumbs into my butt.

Let's back this up a bit.

I went to physical therapy every day before Christmas with one goal in mind: to fix the pain in my ass.

My left butt started hurting November 6th. By mid-December it still hurt, and stopped me from running the California International Marathon. I was not pleased. The pain in my ass was becoming a true pain in the ass. Something had to be done.

And so for four days straight, I walked over to PT to have my pants pulled down by a brown-haired, lawyer-wannabe-turned physical therapist/bar mitzvah DJ, then have my left bum manipulated, stretched, stimulated with tingly pads, and iced.

Merry Christmas to my butt.

In order to decrease the awkwardness of the situation that broken butt syndrome (aka piriformis syndrome) creates, I tried to chat up Dr. DJ. Maybe it would keep his eyes off of the, um, prize.

"What's the most common injury that you see here?" I asked.
"Oh, usually a lot of lower back pain."
"Do you get a lot of older people with that problem?" It seemed like a logical question. One that would conjure up images of his grandma and keep his eyes off of my left butt cheek.
"Well, this one woman came in when I was an intern."
"Uh huh." Good. Grandma stories. It's working.
"And she told me she was having intense back pain."
"Uh huh." Maybe she hurt it picking up the dog or something.
"So I had to ask her how she did it to get an idea of what I'd do to treat it."

"That makes sense."

"Then she blushed and got all embarrassed."

"Oh God!" I scream.

"You don't even know what happens next!"

"No! Freaking-A! That hurts!" He found the evil spot.

"Oh. Well, it's supposed to hurt."

"OK, continue."

"She tells me she did it having sex."

Holy Lord this is awkward.

"So I go to tell my attending, since I have to ask permission before doing anything since I'm just an intern. He says I have to get more detail so we know how to treat her."

He squeezes out more lotion and jabs his thumbs into my butt. Coachubby is gonna love this story.

"Uh huh."

"So I have her write it down on the treatment form. Turns out this lady was freaky-deaky and hurt her back on a sex swing."

"No way!" I start fiddling with my wedding ring.

"So after she left, we took her name off of the form, and framed it and put it up on the wall."

"Ha. That's...funny," I say.

Dr. DJ pulls my my pants back up over my left butt and begins to stretch my hamstring. That innocent stretch never seemed so awkward. It was a relief when he had his young, blond sidekick take me to the "stim machine", where he wiped my bum down with alcohol and stuck pads onto it.

Maybe it was all done in that order to make "bum stimulation" not seem as embarassing.

Either way, lesson learned: Do not injure your bum. Fixing it is awkward. And a pain in the ass.

Merry Christmas! Holiday Speedo Run

Twas the Saturday before Christmas, when all through the mall
Hundreds of people were shopping, and taking phone calls
Gift receipts were printed with care
And that's when people started to stare.

'Cuz out on the Promenade there rose such a clatter
People sprung from J. Crew to see what was the matter

The children hid all snug behind moms
While Speedo-clad runners ran along

30 triathletes so lively and quick
Ran singing carols with bodies so sick
People whistled and shouted and whipped out their iPhones
To send pictures to friends and family at home

The triathletes jumped and they sang with glee
Shaking their booties and posing merrily
Their abs- how they twinkled! Their cheeks-how Merry!
(Maybe because they drank all that Sherry.)

Then away they all flew down Santa Monica Boulevard
To Ye Ol' King's Head Bar where this all start (ed)
But as they ran past, shoppers heard them all shout,
"Merry Christmas to all, now let's pour some more Stout!"

Merry Christmas!

Total Injustice: Tiger Woods and Cops who Kill Christmas

Only in America could a man drive an SUV into a tree while being attacked by a golf-club wielding wife and get fined a measly $14 more than a cyclist who rolled through a stop sign alongside a car on a country road.

Tiger Woods was fined $164 for careless driving. Coachubby and I were charged $150--each--for rolling the stop sign at a T intersection (going from the left of the T top to the right) along with a car. Apparently we cyclists were more of a threat to the public than Tiger Woods was behind the wheel of a massive SUV. (In his case, he got 4 points vs. his driver's license, we got none.)

There are several conclusions we can draw from this:

1. I need to be a celebrity to keep my momentum without paying for it.

2. Cops in Orlando are nicer than cops in Woodside.

3. My Silver Bullet frankenbike is more intimidating than an Escalade.

4. Woodside cops discriminate against pink spandex.

5. Santa decided coachubby and I deserve coal for Xmas and has appeared in the uniform of a Woodside cop to tell us so because his suit was getting dry cleaned.

Happy Holidays!

Xterra Lake Tahoe, Pulmonary Embolisms, And People with Sticks Up Their Butts: A Race Report, Backwards

My mom taught me to take the "high road" whenever other people stoop low, insinuating that they are somehow better than I am for whatever incomprehensible reason. And I always do.

Not because I think about "being the better person", but because my brain has a 2-10 minute witty comeback delay. The incident is always over before the comeback is fully formed.

So, to the man lying on a beach chair on the beach in Incline Village next to his fat, bejeweled wife, and bratty kids, who was appalled that coachubby and I should rinse off in his lake post-race, telling us to get a room and oh, by the way, you put your stuff on my beach chair, that was rude, I have something to say other than, "OK, maybe we'll do that next year" or, "It's all yours!" after removing our bags from the chair-in-question:

Maybe if you did an Xterra, it would help loosen up that stick in your ass.
And maybe if your wife did an Xterra, you'd see that you have an extra beach chair; she's currently using one for each cheek.

What do You Suffer From? Need a Cure for Cankles?

A friend recently sent me this WSJ video. Unlike yesterday's WSJ article, this "health" video serves no purpose to help further your well being whatsoever. Kudos to WSJ for trying to serve up lighter fare, but when you start insinuating that people "suffer" from things that might just be annoying, your video may be ridiculed.


Perhaps if you have "cankles", you might have felt compelled to watch this video. Far from being an ailment, however, it's simply a body feature that is most likely 85% inherited, and 15% fixable with a good calf-strengthening / body-fat reducing routine. (Numbers based on no scientific data whatsoever.)

What bugs me is the suggestion that there's something wrong with a woman in the first place if she doesn't have well-defined, skinny ankles.

Fitness guru, C.J. Ong, Jr., worries that the fitness industry's exploitation of the "the desperate, overweight American public" is only perpetuating the American health issue of being overweight, by constantly "feeding upon the lost consumer as the proverbial cash cow." Probably by making them think they "suffer" from issues that do not actually cause suffering.

A person can suffer from arthritis, for example. She cannot "suffer" from being tired when she gets up in the morning. Although I'm sure something will be marketed for that "ailment" before too long.

Yoga for Dummies- The 3 Commandments of Yoga

I am getting older.

I can tell because the days when I thought people were crazy for expending any extra energy before workouts and races "warming up" are over.

I had convinced myself while on the high school swim team that every extra 100 yards of race day warm up was sapping me of potential forward thrust in sprint freestyle events.

That belief has been crushed by injury and age. The ominous hambutt injury from last year has left my right hamstring quite tight. Still unmotivated to stretch alone, I decided it was time to try yoga. Thus, over the course of an hour, I loosened up my hammie and discovered some very important truths about the ancient activity.


The Yoga Commandments

1. Thou shalt not wear short shorts or loose t-shirts. Unless you want to lay out your nether parts for all to see, wear something capri-length on bottom and form-fitting on top. That way, you won't offend, or eat your shirt.

2. Thou shalt not eat too much fiber before class. Should you disobey this commandment, downward dog will haunt you forever.

3. If seeking tranquility, or your own personal zen, thou shalt not practice yoga in a free class at 24-hour Fitness, where you will be separated from the meatheads by a paper-thin wall, and subjected to hearing their evenly-spaced grunts and the subsequent slam of heavy weights on the ground while you are in the (somewhat morbidly named) final resting pose meditating on the hour you have just spent with your bum in the air. (See commandment #1.)

Happy trying-to-achieve-your-teenage-flexibility!

Things You Don't Want to Know About Your New Apartment

Besides the obvious:
"it's noisy",
"it's on a main street",
"your neighbor's welcome rug smells like pee",
"oh, there is no mailbox",
"no parking either",
"no dishwasher!",
"oh yea, and no washer/dryer",
(but it still costs more than the average American's mortgage!)
"your bathroom looks like the one in SAW",
and "you're within a 2 minute walk of a huge porn store",

it struck me as odd that two people, who do not know each other in any way that I know of, told us,
"Hey! I did mushrooms in that living room a bunch of times!"
and "Hey, that's where my brother hung out during his 'drug phase'."


So said an old neighbor when we told him where we were moving.
And a girl I had never met in my life before Friday night, who is dating a friend of mine.

I suppose in a city that is only one square mile in size, all residents are only a few degrees separated. But with almost 20,000 people smushed into that space, there's still room for a bit of anonymity.

Not so for our little apartment. Apparently, he gets around.

When I came back from a run to find a cop parked out front, chillin' in his cop car, I began to wonder how hard it would be to obtain pot from my neighbors.

I'll be bolting the door at night. And stacking bikes in front of it.

Because there's no where else to put them.

You Know You're a Triathlete When...Ladies' Edition!

1. You weigh 15 lbs more than you did at your senior prom, but the bra you wore then is too big.
2. You seriously consider asking your doctor if you can stick mole skin and/or duct tape on your bum to prevent chafing while cycling.
3. Your body during high-volume training--tired, muscle crampy, irritable, and fish-like memory--mirrors that of someone with a serious thyroid problem. But you're doing it to yourself.
4. Your bike seat has spent way more crotch time with you than your boyfriend probably ever will.
5. The number of men you can date based on the following single factor is so far reduced, it'll be a miracle to find just one man meeting your expectations: he must eat more than you do.

Nude Hiking in the Alps!

Looking for some fun reading? Check out the NY Times article that includes this little snippet of hilarity (and one simply awesome photo):

In recent years, it has become fashionable for a growing number of Swiss and some foreigners to wander in the Alps clad in little more than hiking shoes and sun screen. Last summer, the number of nude hikers increased to such an extent that the hills often seemed alive with the sound of everything but the swish of trousers.

It seems nude hikers in Switzerland have no fear of shrinkage.

Why don't I ever see anyone running the Backbone trail naked? It's a misdemeanor. CA is just not as open minded about the human form as Switzerland, despite being one of the most popular places in the US for cosmetic plastic surgery, according to Forbes.com. One would think that the plastic people would be lobbying to show off their brand new boobs and butts.

"...in Switzerland there is no law against hiking in the nude," explains the NY Times.

I only hope Swiss chocolatiers put something on while working.

Chocoholics be warned.

Beating Recession Depression Session #1: The Cat

If you're bummed about the economy, a nice 100 mile bike ride will release enough endorphins to get you jazzed about life again for a day. Either that, or make you too tired to be upset.

But when a century isn't in the cards, I've got the next best thing: a cat.

Not just any cat, but the one and only Sir Gallahad. Gally for short.

Men like to spend their quiet, contemplative time on the toilet. This is not possible if you have a Gally, but sometimes laughter is just as good for a frazzled body as zenning out on a porcelain throne.

Observe:



Yes, he's under there:



Busted!



Happy Tuesday!

Home is a Funny Place

Exhibit A: The Leprechaun decoration by my parents' front door

He looks all normal and leprechauney and jovial...



















But the second you turn your back, he turns his--to pee on the pillar!


















Dad was the first to notice this phenomenon and clued me in so I could capture the mischevious decoration commiting the crime.

Exhibit B: My Dad

We go running together whenever I go home.

When I was leaving to make the trek from Phoenix to LA, my dad said, "Thanks for the runs!"

It's an excellent thing to say to someone with whom you've run numerous times.

I also, however, think that it's totally appropriate to place reflectors on your chest for better visibility on long bike rides, and that people who cross the Santa Monica Mountains' entire backbone trail should wear tshirts that say, "I'm a backboner."

It is no great mystery where my sense of humor originated.

Hula Hoop Your Way to a Trimmer Waistline!

A headline like that led my mom to buy a sparkly blue hula hoop recently.

The pretty plastic hoop becomes much more than a children's game when it's filled with water--it's a Level III or Black Diamond waist management tool that's way harder to keep going than your typical Level 1 hoop.

I am not a Level III hula hooper. But there's still hope for newbie hoopers who just can't keep the hoop up; you'll laugh so hard watching your friends/family stink at it, too, that you'll still get a belly work out!

So who's best with the belly action? Mom? Dad? Me? I'll let you decide...

(P.S. Sorry the videos are sideways...Lie down to watch these!)

Contestant #1: Mom


Contestant #2: Dad



Contestant #3: Me

5 Things You Never Want to Hear Your Signifigant Other Say, Part 1

...but they've probably blurted them out at some point, being a triathlete...and you might have accepted these statements as normal, being a triathlete yourself...but that the other 99.8% of the population would call into a radio station and ask someone like Ryan Seacrest's advice about how to deal with their "deranged" partner:

1. (from girlfriend) "Man, my legs are so hairy! It must've already been at least 2 months since I last shaved!" (Obviously, she's been wearing long cycling pants during the winter, and is working on creating drag to improve her swimming. She is not becoming a wildebeest.)


2. "I pooed in someone's front yard. And wiped with river rocks." (Clearly, your city-living sig. other was on a long run and the previous night's turkey chili disagreed with their athletic endeavor.)


3. (From boyfriend to hairy girlfriend) "Feel how silky smooth my legs are! It's like I'm sleeping with a man and you're sleeping with a woman!" (Boyfriend must have an upcoming race, or else is impervious to the cold. Girlfriend is hairy for reasons previously stated in #1.)


4. (From girlfriend) "I ate 5000 calories today." (Now, in the world of triathlon, this might be a huge turn-on. Not only does your girlfriend eat far more than iceburg lettuce, she is also more lean and buff than any girl you know, even if you watched her eat half a jar of peanut butter, a monster cookie, and countless other booty-building foods throughout the day.)


5. "I broke the seal on my bike / run." (This, too, in the twisted mind of the triathlon might be a turn-on as well. It's hard to get a flow going while you're on the bike or running--or out in public in general. "Awesome!" might be your reaction to this statement. You probably thought it was pretty cool your bf/gf pooed undetected in someone's yard as well. You are a rare, rare breed. Never ever say this if your sig. other does something like, say, knitting to satisfy their thrill-seeking side.)

Want to add to the list? Post a comment or email TriDiva at triathletediva@gmail.com!

Road Etiquette: Old Men and TriDivas

This one is for the ladies. And for the old men who can’t be content to take a position staring at the ladies’ bums...from far far away.

Have you ever been on a ride—one of those most fabulous rides where the weather is perfect, you’ve been going for a few hours and still feel great, and nothing, not even the honking horns or attempts on your life by evil drivers can bring you down—only to pass an old man on an uphill who takes this move as a direct threat to his manhood and subsequently feels he must silently race you to the top?

Ah yes. I will now attempt to define the mysterious behavior that occurs moments after an old man has been passed by a TriDiva. (And by old man, I mean either older than the TriDiva kicking his butt, or any man who still has his head up his own butt and can’t stand being beat by a woman.)

Upon being passed by a TriDiva, who of course will give a friendly “Hello!”, an old man cyclist will do one of three things:

1. 
   
   He will not acknowledge the friendly “hello” and silently pick up the pace, not allowing the TriDiva to complete her pass, subsequently making her stay in a traffic lane as she cannot then pull over in front of him.
   
   


2. 
   
   He will acknowledge the hello with a rude and piggish grunt, allow the TriDiva to pass, then hammer like there’s no tomorrow and try to play leap-frog up the hill with her.
   
   


3. 
   
   He will not acknowledge the “hello”, will draft the TriDiva almost all the way up the hill (not taking advantage of the view as he is blinded by a testosterone rage), then try to make a break for it as if crossing the peak of whatever hill they are going up first means he is some kind of superman.
   
   

So what’s a friendly, beautiful, competitive TriDiva to do to ensure this undeserved competition stays fun and doesn't disrupt her perfect ride? Here are some ideas:

1. 
   
   Kick his ass.
   
   


2. 
   
   Fart and/or snot in his face when he drafts you.
   
   


3. 
   
   Be overly friendly. Mean people can’t stand that.
   
   

Happy riding! And remember, most older cyclists are nice people, but if you find an OldMan Cyclist, feel free to use the suggested actions above or make your own! I’d love to hear what you come up with!