Mourning Athleticism Lost

I just received an email from Planet Ultra informing me that the Camino Real Double Century went well this year.

And it made me a little sad.

OK, a lot sad.

That means it's been over a year since I did my first double century with my favorite ultracycling buddies Robyn and coachubby. That means that at this time last year, I could swing my right leg over the Silver Bullet, clip in, and ride for 18 hours straight. Up mountains, down mountains, up mountains again. Just out there, enjoying my buddies' company. Or, you know, huddling together in a ditch on the side of the road in the freezing rain. That's fun, too.

And so, this evening, I mourn for my long lost ultrafitness, which has been obliterated by training weeks so short they don't even count as training, revenge of the hambutt, and a fondness for frosted bite-size chocolate mini wheats.

At least my brain is getting toned.

Proof? It hurts.

Social Networking Etiquette--Digital PDA

Facebook updates are a fabulous waste of time.

But with the new technology comes new boundary issues that too many people overstep, athletes included.

For example: It is completely unnecessary and a majorly strange for someone who is engaged or married to somebody else to constantly write sweet nothings on their significant other's wall.

If your fiancé / husband has to look at his Facebook page to read you say, "I love you," something is amiss. It's a new era of digital PDA, and yes, it makes your friends want to gag or even vomit just as much as real, in-person PDA. Maybe even more.

Athletes are not immune to overstepping personal boundaries on the internet, either. Frequent daily updates of all of the "awesome" workouts you have accomplished are unnecessary. In fact, how can you sneak in a win over your buddies when you've been posting splits from every track workout and time trial you've been doing leading up to your A race?

If you're not concerned about bombarding your friends with your athleticism, at least consider it from this angle: it's self sabotage.

UNLESS you're a pro. Then please do post absolutely everything you've been doing, eating, etc...throughout the day. We'd all like to be as fast as you are.

In conclusion, it's easy to overstep social boundaries using Facebook, Twitter, and other social networking tools. Posting a love note on your significant other's wall or updating everyone on a rad workout is not an inherently bad thing to do--in moderation.

It's all about the frequency with which you post this stuff.

So before you get your panties in a twist, because you've done one or both of these things, do this little self-test to see if your friends are secretly plotting the demise of your friend/twitter feeds:

Look at your wall. Is almost every update from you, about a workout? If you answer yes, cool it. If not, give yourself a pat on the back an go for a ride.

Now look at your significant other's wall. Is almost every wall post from you? If yes, work on having more face/phone time. If not, give yourself a pat on the back for not needing your friends and family to validate your e-relationship.

Now look at your wall again. If you passed tests #1 and #2, but your wall is covered in posts from your significant other, it's time to have a talk. Yeah, one of those talks. Even in the digital era, if your sig. other has trouble verbally expressing him/herself, cards--real, physical cards--are a far more romantic way to go.

Capisce? Va bene.

P.S. Want to read about a major digital boundary violation committed by thousands of people getting divorced? Check out this Salon.com article.

How to Make Athletes Dislike Your Race Before Even Participating: The Santa Cruz Triathlon

I am a fan of race-morning packet pick-up. In fact, I believe it should be an immutable truth of racing for all races that don't involve ridiculous planning logistics (like an Ironman). No Olympic distance race should be without this option.

What if your car breaks down? What if you get there late the night before, because you're coming from some other family/work obligation? What if you simply can't afford to spend the night in your race's location, but are willing to get up at the butt crack of dawn to enthusiastically participate?

Santa Cruz Triathlon, I hope you're listening. This race ironically opened itself up as a collegiate race, offering a student discount, hoping to draw competition, while at the same time making packet pick-up available only until 3pm the day BEFORE the race. I say ironically, because a student discount will not cover the price of a hotel in Santa Cruz, where the cheapest, crappiest motels start at $130/night in September. To cover that, you'd have to offer entirely free entries.

That is how to make athletes dislike your organization before they have even participated in your race.

It is clear that you've made a promise to bring revenue into the city of Santa Cruz, as giving back to the community is your non-profit race's primary goal, but by making packet pick-up available only until 3pm the day before the race, and making it mandatory, you are grossly alienating the one faction of athletes you were so enthusiastically courting: college students. And, for that matter, you're ticking off anyone else who loves triathlon, and lives close enough to make the trek to participate in your race--but not twice in two days. The cost in gas alone to make the double trek is ridiculous.

We will still spend money in Santa Cruz. We will eat at Saturn Café. And we will be glad to pay the entry fee, knowing that it will help the local community. And we might have even gladly shelled out the cash to spend the night, but being forced to do so only embitters what would have been an otherwise enjoyable decision. Let us decide if we'd like to stay or not.

So, Santa Cruz Triathlon, your race looks fabulous. It is sure to be a ton of fun, and to do a lot of good for Santa Cruz, as was originally intended. But do not force your athletes into difficult financial decisions beyond deciding whether or not to pay your entry fee. The only difficult thing you should be forcing us to do is jump into the freezing ocean at 8am on Sunday.

Burned Out? Shorten Things Up!

In the weeks following Race Across Oregon, I experienced a burnout worse than anything I could've imagined. I thought I'd never move again. I hated everything about sports. My body was beyond sore, but my brain was fried. I never thought it could get so bad, or last so long. A nice wallop of depression, surely mostly from endorphin withdrawal, sealed my fate as a zoned out, down-on-myself, anti-social couch hugger.

But I am moving again!

And what got me going? The thought of racing again. Really racing--not just outlasting--my competitors.

I want to be fast.

It's a goal of which I will never tire. Probably because I am not innately so.

Just like that, short triathlon is back in my life, because it's possible to see measurable improvements week after week without expending too much time working at it. Which means a lot less time forcing my brain to focus, which means hopefully, it'll come back around soon. Switching it up between sports helps, too.

Ironically (or probably it was planned this way), Triathlete's "mental issue" (aka sports psychology edition) came out right when I was in the throes of mental attrition. I'm taking this as a sign that I'm not the only athlete who has burned out mid-July-August. I'm just surprised at how long the burnout has lasted.

We triathletes are strange and amazing. Most articles on athlete burnout pertain to young athletes (10-20 years old) who are on teams with crazy coaches and who have no control over their schedules. Amateur adult triathletes, like myself, compete only at their own will and have only themselves to answer to at the end of the day. There is nobody else to dissapoint, and participating at all is our own decision.

It is incredible that we can push ourselves so far as to become burned out on a sport, that for many of us, we got into to stay in shape, meet new people, have fun, see new places, and set athletic goals.

If you've committed to racing longer than 24 hours recently, it may seem like training as little as 7 hours/week is failing.

What helped me destroy that thought is realizing that I can still reach a goal (in my current case, an olympic distance tri) training just as little as my brain will currently allow, even if that means it wants to take off 2+ days in a row.

So if you're racing sprints and Olympic distance races this year, please look for me and give me a cheer--my brain could use the boost!

Perhaps this burnout was a blessing in disquise so I'd be psyched for collegiate racing this year and not attempt anything crazy for the duration of my masters' program.

Bring it, collegiate triathlon!

Why Hello Officer! Admiring My '96 Raleigh M7000?

Why, hello, ociffer!

Don't ask me why, but that's what I had imagined I'd say if I ever got pulled over.

Instead, it went something like this:

EXT. Day. A deserted beach street.
Erin rides her 13-year old mtn. bike into the left turn lane of an intersection. She is wearing sneakers, a t-shirt, and a black back pack. The light turns red. She patiently track stands for as long as possible. There is nobody anywhere. (I know, hard to believe in LA.) She looks left and sees the light in the other direction turn yellow. Rather than destroy a fab track stand by letting a foot touch the ground, she proceeds before her light turns green.

She makes her way down a side street. A cop silently rolls up next to her, and hand motions for her to pull over.

COP: Do you know why I'm pulling you over?
Erin: Because I turned left from the left lane.
COP: On a red light.
Erin doesn't say anything. She's watched enough COPS shows to know that cops basically want you to call yourself an idiot in front of them, then appologize.
COP: You just want to be a pedestrian and get to use the road, don't you.
Erin: That was a dumbass move. I'm very sorry.
COP: Where do you live?
Erin: 21st St.
Gut-wrenching pause.
COP: Watch out for traffic.
Cop drives away.

Erin almost pukes.

Aparently, the streets weren't entirely deserted after all. And it was a dumbass move worthy of getting pulled over. But I figured it was like farting when nobody else is around; nobody's going to call you on it. Plus, I had just read about Idaho's cycling laws, where stop signs mean "yield" for cyclists, and red lights are like stop signs. I want a piece of that heavenly cycling pie.

Thank goodness I looked like a ditzy beach bum instead of a cyclist. The Raleigh's state of rustiness, my sneakers, and shabby t-shirt saved my financial life. Either that, or the cop didn't want to follow me all the way to 21st street to see my license.

To conclude, I am an idiot, and I appologize for making bikeists look bad.

Now let's pass some Idaho-inspired cycling laws!

The California Triple-T: On Hold

Starting to look past your summer race schedule and into fall triathlon options, you might've been excited to read a slew of press releases about the famous American Triple-T coming to CA.

The California Triple-T, scheduled for September 18-20 in Lake County, CA, has sadly been called off this year. HFP Racing customer service rep, Dan Davis, said it was canceled due to a lack of interest.

The killer triathlon weekend, traditionally held at the end of May in Ohio, was going to make its West Coast debut this September.

A 3-day extravaganza, the event would've treated triathletes to 4 races: a Friday night super sprint, 2 olympic-distance races on Saturday, and a half-iron distance race on Sunday. Athletes can choose to go it alone or as a part of a team. (But they must do all of the races!)

Basically, it's like breaking up an Ironman and doing it over 2 days--in the hopes that athletes can keep their race intensity far above what they would've done in Ironman. And if the athlete participates on a team, the team members can draft one another in the third and fourth races--but they must finish together.

When HFP tries to put the California race on in 2010, DO NOT wait until the last minute to sign up (like I usually do). As Mr. Davis says, "the Cali race is dependent on early registrations."

Let them know you're coming, so we can get our West Coast Triple-T on!

Becoming an Ultra Geek--The Cycling Fashion Hierarchy

It happened somewhat gradually.
First, I started wearing a jersey with three big pockets instead of two cute ones.
Then, I began wearing an acid-yellow wind vest for visibility on PCH.
And pink arm-warmers.
And purple leg warmers.
Then came the acid-yellow jersey when it got too warm for the vest.
And the white arm coolers, to shield my arms from hours of sun.
And the stick-on reflective stickers that run down the back of my bike, placed there for my first double and never since removed.

And then, the straw that broke the cycling fashonista's back: the Camelbak.

Riding longer and longer meant I began to favor visibility and hydration over cycling fashion.

It never occurred to me, until this past Saturday, that I had become a wholehearted ultra dork, fashion-wise, until I rode with the group of cyclists that pure cyclists abhor: triathletes.

It seems that triathletes (make that Los Angeles-based triathletes), in an effort to put someone down for their cycling fashion choices just as they are put down by pure cyclists, have chosen the ultracyclist as their prey. It's a strange situation to be in, considering most ultracyclists, obviously including myself, are triathletes.

The first sign that I was not worthy to ride in a peloton of aerobar-ed triathletes: nobody, of the 30+ people gathered in Santa Monica to start the ride, talked to me.

The second sign came later on in the ride, when the only people still riding were me, and 5 dudes in their 30s-40s: The ride's leader asked me why the hell I was wearing a Camelbak.

I had several options for my response:
I'm doing a mountain bike race next weekend, so I have to get used to wearing it.
I need the extra weight for training; this ride isn't hard enough as it is, suckas!
I went with the harshest truth I could think of, thinking they'd back off.

"Because I have an arrhythmia and I need to drink more on my long rides." Boo-ya. Try to say something mean to me now.

"So you have to drink more, not carry more," said the ride leader.

Point taken. I looked like a major dweeb. But a dweeb worth waiting for, apparently, as they didn't ditch me on the last few climbs. In fact, they were waiting for me at the top of the last major climb, so I stopped to down some salt pills.

Then one of the 5 remaining dudes took to dissecting my Silver Bullet, aka Frankenbike, aka my only road bike who was recently remodeled and, I thought, was looking pretty flashy.

"Did you build this yourself?" one of them asked.
"Yes. I got the shifters from being hit by a car." Will you zip it now?

If only my legs hadn't felt crispy-fried before beginning the ride that morning. Then I'd have kept up and shown those dudes that it's not the bike that matters, it's the engine.

At first, I was concerned that I had lost my fashion edge; my cycling fashion has recently been taking cues from Rainbow Bright rather than Bicycling.

Then I realized a simple truth: the most fashionable people on earth are always ridiculed for the risks they take. However, taking risks is what makes them seriously fashionable in the first place à la Lady Gaga.

Therefore, though the cycling fashion hierarchy is traditionally viewed as follows:
Pure cyclists --> triathletes --> ultracyclists
in truth, the inverse might be the true order of cycling haute couture.

Ride on, ultra trigeeks!

The $17,000 Triathlon--XTERRA Deuces Wild

The drive up the 60 from Phoenix to Show Low is supposed to be spectacularly scenic. I wouldn't know. Every marked scenic overlook looked into a dark abyss.

Coachubby and I did, however, see several deer. I hoped they weren't suicidal--Laree did not need any body damage in his first 24-hours in our hands.

We arrived at the KC Motel at 12:30am on Sunday. I was pleasantly suprised at how nice it was. I pictured a cold dumpy place, not a quaint place to stay filled with fellow Xterra people.

I passed out, only to be awakened at 5:15am. Time to race! I seriously contemplated sleeping through it, but coachubby would have none of that.
(Coachubby's self portrait.)
We sunscreened up, picked up our packets, and joined the other 150+ people getting ready to race. I finally saw Xterra 29er and his wife, my favorite fellow Xterra people with whom we were going to spend the weekend.

And thus God's 2nd Goal of the weekend for Erin (GoGoFoE#2) manifested itself: I can pull together a decent race on 4 hours of sleep.

I sprinted out of the swim start. I don't know why. But I never dreamed I'd actually be the first person in the swim, therefore I'd never bothered to look at the buoy placement, and had no idea where to go. After I settled into a comfortable pace, a few other women overtook me and my glorious start was put to an end. That's what I get for having a sprint-swim background.

One of these women had pink feet. I kid you not. She taped them or something, thereby making them very recognizable and easy to follow. I followed her right out of the water, then had the luck of getting a better wetsuit stripper (hell yes, wetsuit strippers! Love them!) And dashed into transition only to take a small eternity trying to get my gloves over my wet hands.

Then out onto the bike. I haven't mountain biked since the Xterra West Cup, and Qeee was ready to go. Then we hit something we'd never encountered before: mud. Tons of mud. Qeee was ecstatic; now she actually had a reason for being outfitted with fancy schmancy disc brakes.














At one point, I had to stop to clear the mud out of her vital organs. The back wheel was hardly spinning. Apparently, Xterra 29er had the same problem, only he's a better mountain bike racer and didn't want to take the time to stop...so he wound up breaking a chain and bending his deraileur into his back wheel, and running the last 2.5 miles.


















I was happy to see him run out of transition while I was biking in.
"I'm coming to get you!" I shouted. I had no idea he'd already been running forever. With a bike. And an old-man back.

The run course was fun, and the "Eliminator" was a cute little hill that was actually labeled so you'd know it was the "Eliminator". There was a "mini eliminator" as well, but I'm not sure where.

Coming into the final miles, I heard water moving, and wondered who on earth wanted to jump back into the freezing lake to rinse off. Then I realized nobody wanted to--we had to run across a damed up part of the lake.

So much for new shoes.

A girl my age was running just behind me with another woman. I know because I passed her pretty early on, then heard them talking to each other for the rest of the race. I tried to keep them off of me, but the mystery woman was dead set on helping the 28-year old keep pace with me. I knew she'd go for it at some point, and knew my quads wouldn't be able to lift my soaked shoes to stay with her (shoes that were a gazillion lbs heavier with soaked massive arch supports...can I get a woot woot from my flat-footed friends?!)

The other woman led her out and at about 1/4 mile to go, she made her move. My legs didn't. Goodness only knows what would've happened had I raced the half the day before. I don't know if "running" would have been the word for my movement on the third segment of the Xterra race.

Then, just before the finish, the lady running with the 28-year old in my age group peeled off, saying she wasn't in the race, and the 28-year old crossed the finish line.

SHE USED A PACER!? I'm pretty sure using a pacer who's not in the race is illegal--in any triathlon. Quite unsportsmanlike. FOR SHAME!

In the end, coachubby and I managed to nab 2nd in our respective age groups (actually 3rd for me. You gotta count the girl who got 5th overall. The race organizers took the top 5 overall out of the age group awards...)

We scarfed down a post race bbq--delicious--of pulled chicken/pork on a bun, cole slaw, beans, chips, and soda, while attending the awards ceremony. Then it took 20 minutes to clean off Qeee and Coachubby's mountain bike (kudos to him for kicking ass with v-brakes!), load 'em up, and off we went...

In the wrong direction!

When I saw a sign that said New Mexico was 43 miles away, I knew something was wrong. We had driven 25 miles in the wrong direction right off the bat, and had to return to Show Low to try again.

We were trying to drive through Flagstaff back to LA.

Once we got the hang of it, Laree transported us smoothly across the state border. And after a low-blood sugar freak out that could not be sated by any McDonalds (they are all closed inside after 11pm and we couldn't drive through with coachubby's tri bike on top. A Pilot Wendy's frosty did the trick.) we pulled into LA just minutes before midnight, with cool little race award plaques, dirty bikes, sore quads, sunburns, and a new car.

In conclusion, an approximation of our trip:

Race fees + hotel: $700
New Car + Uhaul + rental car + repair diagnostics + gas: $16300
Racing XTERRA in Show Low: Priceless

There are some things money can't buy. For everything else, there's coachubby's credit card. And a learned ability to not hurl from internally freaking out at unexpected life events.


The things we do to race 2.5 hours at an Xterra event...

The $17,000 Triathlon--Deuces Wild Part Deuce

"What condition is the Blazer in?"
My mom, dad, and I shot our eyes at coachubby.
"Uh, he runs a little rough--but he's 9 years old, so..."

We had spent the entire morning putting the Blizzay Wizzay back together, returning the UHaul, and test driving horribly wussy American crossovers and terribly girly-looking Japanese crossovers.

After the Chevy salesman tried to sell us a car that was already sold, then tried to have us test drive a car that had a dead battery, we left for lunch. Chevy is running a little rough. All of Chevy, not just the old Blazer.

After deciding Toyota's crossover options were not competitively priced, or particularly manly enough for coachubby, I suggested we go to a Jeep dealership. They're all closing--they'd give us a car!

Our salesman was friendly. He knew nothing about the cars, but that was to be expected after he explained that he was actually a laid off civil engineer. I'm guessing he didn't build cars.

When coachubby laid his eyes on a kakhi green 2006 Grand Cherokee, I knew any efforts of mine to have our next car be infinitely more fuel efficient than the Blizzay were shot. Turns out, after all of that looking, coachubby wanted a mantruck afterall.

The salesman was visibly relieved when I had finished the second half of a footlong sub, and was no longer dangerously dangling sweet onion sauce over his clean cars. It was time to make a deal.

Coachubby offered $4000 below asking price. They came back at $2000 below.

We drove away to think about it.

Half way home, a phone call came. They'd do $4000 below, everything included (taxes, etc...) out the door, if we came back right now with the Blizzay as a trade in.

SWEET!

We rushed home and prayed the Blizzay would fire up. It had that morning. All it had left to do in its entire life was go 7 more miles. What's 7 more when you've already gone 155,000?

After a quick charge, coachubby and I jumped in for one last Blizzay ride, followed by my parents.

2 miles into the ride, the Blizzay died. Completely. We rolled off of Scottsdale road into a parking lot in front of a Mexican home furnishings store. We had to roll the car back and forth to fit it into a spot.

DAMN IT!

Jimmy called the dealer.
"So, what if the Blazer doesn't run?"
Our salesman consulted with his boss.
"Deal's off!"
"OK, so I should just have it towed home, then. OK, bye."
"They'll call you back," I said. I felt it. They needed the sale.

We called AAA, thereby using up the 3rd and 4th calls allowed this year in 2 days. They'd come in an hour. It was 102 degrees outside, so naturally, coachubby and I went to Dairy Queen.

While we were walking back from Dairy Queen, the phone rang.

"OK, here's the deal," said the salesman, "If the Blazer doesn't run, it's $1000 more. If it does, same deal's on."

It was like playing Russian roulette with a blue heap of metal. Whenever the Blizzay cooled down a bit, it would start. We ran over to the Blizzay.

Rrrrrr...Rrrrrr...RRVRroooom! He started! Praise the Lord! We'd tow him to the dealer so as not to squelch his juice, then start him up, then drive off the lot in a beautiful, new(ish) Jeep!

AAA arrived in the form of a beefcakey bald guy about 30 years old with a major 'tude.

Where you towin' it?
To the Jeep dealer, I said. It's gotta run when we get there, so don't start it now!
What's wrong with it?
It's dead.
Then how's it gonna run when you get there?
We're trading it in. If it runs, we make the deal. If it doesn't, we don't. So don't start it up!
I don't know if I can do this.
Do what?
We don't tow to dealers. I'm not going to tow it if its not getting repaired.
OK, then we're towing it to the dealer to get it repaired.
No, you're not.
What do you care?

Bald AAAss rolled up his window to call it in to AAA headquarters. Without a word, he took coachubby's key, stuck it in the ignition, rolled the Blizzay onto the bed, then drove like a madman to the Jeep dealership. The day before, the Blythe AAA guy gave coachubby his car keys back. Bald AAAss was draining the Blizzay of his final life force, and coachubby hadn't thought about it.

My parents and I followed.

The Blizzay, Coachubby, and the salesman disappeared into the back lot. WHAT WAS GOING ON!? Would he start? Could the Blizzay give us one final hurrah to prove he was worth $1000 extra than he would be dead? Oh please, oh please.

Coachubby walked out of the back. We all stared at him.

Didn't start.
(Final photo with the Blizzay.)
I knew exactly why. I wanted to sell AAA man to medical research and demand $1000 for his body.

It was 7pm. In the end, we got $1200 for the Blizzay, but it wouldn't live indefinitely in my mom's front yard, which she was happy about, and we'd be rid of it for good. Even at $1000 more, the low-mileage, 1-owner leased Jeep was a fab deal. It felt strange to drive it off of the lot after 2 days straight of AAA, waiting in the heat, and dirty Blizzay issues. It was so beautiful. So shiny. So dent and stain free.

I called him Laree. (Pronounced Larry.)


We ate dinner with my parents, then loaded up Laree, stuck the bike rack on top, and headed off into the night to drive to Show Low. There was no way we were missing XTERRA now. Even after such a mentally, financially, and physically exhausting 2 days. That's the reason we started this adventure.

We had to finish it.

TO BE CONTINUED! STAY TUNED FOR THE FINAL CONCLUSION THIS AFTERNOON!

The $17,000 Triathlon--Deuces Wild Triathlon Festival

"When's Jimmy going to buy a new car?" my dad asked Thursday night.
"I don't know. When we've saved up enough when I'm done with school. Like in a year--it has to last one more year. That's it." I said.
"It's going to stop running pretty soon."
"Thanks for your faith in the Blizzay Wizzay, padre. It's gone this far, I think we can get one more year out of it."

***

There is nothing 25 miles West of Blythe, CA. It is a hot desert, with bushes so sparse, they can't be used for shade, nor to hide your bum from mooning passers by on the I-10 when you have to pee. I know. I sat out there for an hour Friday. And I really had to pee.

Coachubby had been filling his coolant up regularly lately, as it seemed to keep disappearing. Sparky, my car, had had the same problem. However Sparky was incontinent, and his mess always appeared wherever he was left alone for a little while. The Blizzay Wizzay seemed to be more of a coolant gourmande.

Had we been people, like, say, my brother or dad, who listen to their cars instead of driving them into the ground, we might've thought twice about taking the Blizzay Wizzay across the desert with such a coolant binge disorder.

So when the engine started overheating around Palm Springs, we dumped more water into the coolant tank, and kept on keeping on. Almost all the way to Blythe.

When the Blizzay died 25 miles West of Blythe, we knew we had to do something to keep him going a little farther--basic AAA only covers 7 miles of towing.

5 different cops hung out on a freeway on-ramp with us, waiting for a call from an airplane I couldn't see so they could take down some highly unsuspecting speeders. After letting the Blizzay Wizzay cool down a bit, he fired up again, and we used the on-ramp's downward momentum to try to get closer to Blythe so we could save a buck. Or $100. We certainly weren't worried about being busted for speeding. Impeding traffic? Yes.

The Blizzay finally started to clank and rolled to a stop next to a call box. It might've been just about 7 miles from Blythe.

Two chatty AAA tow truck operators came to rescue us, telling us how it was nice that we stood to the side, because some dumb stranded people stand directly behind their cars while the car is being loaded onto the pickup bed and the operators don't trust the hydraulics and the car could roll back at any time and have you ever seen the Darwin Awards? because that would be a stupid way to die and man it's freakin' hot I want a milkshake what's wrong with your car?

I realized later that God had three goals for me this past weekend. This was the first of God's Goals for Erin (GoGoFoE):

1. To get me to stop calling Blythe, CA, "the Devil's Ball Sack", by proving friendly people live there.

After an $85 diagnostic check, Shain, a skinny, grease-covered mechanic about my age, told us it was bad.
How bad?
The Blizzay needed a new engine. There was coolant in the oil. The engine block was cracked.
How much?
$3500.
How much is the Blizzay worth?
$2500.
Right... Can we rent a UHaul and haul the junker to my parents' front yard in Phoenix?
No UHauls left.
What do we do?
There are UHauls in Quartzite.














We rented a Kia Minivan--available only for 2 hours that afternoon--to drive 20 miles East to Quartzite, pick up a giant UHaul, drive it and the minivan back to Blythe, pick up a tow dolly, strap on the Blizzay (but only after paying another $25 to have Shain take apart its drive train, since it's a rear-wheel drive truck, and we didn't want to destroy the drive train...I don't know why it mattered, really), and start driving the 150 miles to Phoenix at 55mph.

The late-afternoon Kia renters passed us 10 miles into our trip.

We got to Phoenix at 7pm. We had left LA at 6am. There was no way we were driving (and in what would we drive?) another 3.5 hours to Show Low. Poof! There went 2 half-ironman entry fees, and a hotel reservation.

After filling up on mom's good cooking, we passed out hard. Just as hard as if we had raced on Friday.

There was no way we were going to miss the Xterra race, too. We needed a car and needed it now.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Should Triathlon Companies be Held to Lower Standards During the Recession?

After hearing many triathletes, particularly Xterra participants, express their frustration at the cancellation of races and changes made to race dates long after athletes had already gotten airfare, I wondered: are we allowing companies some slack due to the economy? Should we?

Xterra 29er recently posted this grievance about XTERRA racing this year:

I want to love you but you make it hard when:

1. You cut a bunch of races from the 2008 to the 2009 season
2. You list races for 2009 and then cancel them
3. You list races for 2009 and then change their dates

WTF? Just found out that XTERRA Lock 4 back in Nashville has been moved from July 12 to July 18. No big deal unless you already planned your summer, bought tickets, and had gotten psyched about going back home on a different weekend.

Eric commented on my blog that he's "seriously bummed about no Xterra races in SoCal. I'll probably do only two total races this year and not make it to USA Champs or World'd like I wantd to. :("

Getting angry at companies like Xterra for canceling races and changing dates late in the game is tricky, since Xterra franchises its events to independent race organizations. It seems like the parent company lending its name does not have much control over what happens to our favorite races when the economy goes south.

What do you think? Should we just roll with it and expect some faulty race scheduling, or should we hold companies like Xterra to the high race production standards they've set for themselves in years past?

A Disheartening Discovery--Athletes and Arrhythmias

I got up at 4am today to ride 80 miles.

I wish I could say I did it out of a passion for ultra training.

But I did it because I was hooked up to a Holter Monitor.

The little device, which tracks the wearer's heart rhythms for 24 hours straight, was scheduled to shut off at exactly 10:16am this morning, and I wanted to make sure it had a good record of what my heart does when I'm riding long...even though 80 miles is less than half of what I had planned to ride tomorrow with my ultracycling best buddy, and personal ass-kicker, Robyn.

Imagine getting a call from your doctor at 6:30pm on a Monday, during which he tells you that structurally, your heart is rad (as confirmed by an echocardiogram taken a week earlier), but electrically, your heart's cardiograph looks like a Mexican jumping bean.

Doc: When's your race?

ME: The bike race? July. But I have a double century coming up, and a half-ironman, an Xterra, and a long ride Saturday--

Doc: I want you to cut back on exercise until we figure this out. Your echo didn't look good.

ME: What's a cutback? Like, I had a 12 hour ride planned for Saturday. So, um... only ride 10?

Doc: Like don't move.

ME: HA!

Silence.

Me: No. Way. You're joking, right?

Doc: No more than an hour a day. Not too hard. I want you to get a Holter Monitor and see a specialist in heart rhythms.

Then I heard his kids in the background and knew I couldn't grill him much longer.

ME: Um...ok.

I hung up. I couldn't talk anymore anyway, my throat was already swelling up and I was crying in a busy Vons parking lot. I think I'm one of very few Americans who cries then they're limited to 1 hour of low-level exercise per day.

I had asked my Dr., Dr. Ironman (name has been changed to maintain easy Dr. access), to listen to my heart when I went in to have him diagnose my fractured foot, knowing el heart-o beat funny sometimes, and I was becoming a little paranoid about it with advancing age and subsequent growing sense of my own mortality.

It did beat funny.

He took an EKG. It beat funny there, too.

So I went in for an echocardiogram, basically an ultrasound of the heart, and stared at my baby as she made strong swooshing noises and beat along...to her own very unique rhythm.

"You see that--that's how it's supposed to look," said the tech as she pointed out a singular string of four perfect beats.

"I'm trying!" I said. The rest of the time it was totally spastic.

And so, having essentially failed one-half of the echocardiogram test--the beating part (A+ for structure!)--I agreed to look like an X-men mutant for 24 hours with electrodes all over my chest, and a monitor attached to my hip.

"You can do whatever you normally do with this on, just don't take a shower," said the tech as she stuck the electrodes on me.

"Really? How much exercise?"

"Whatever you want," she said.

"I exercise a lot more than most people...maybe you should check about that."

She went to ask my doctor what to do with me.

"Whatever you normally do," she said upon return.

And so I found myself up at 4am, climbing onto the Silver Bullet in a race against the clock to get in 80 miles before the monitor shut itself off.

The thing is, I've been through this before, 4 years ago as a senior in college. The results? I have PVCs, but they go away with exercise.

At that point, however, I had never dreamed I could ride my bike for 12+ hours straight. According to Wikipedia, PVCs are exacerbated by: adrenaline, caffeine, electrolyte imbalance, anxiety, physiological stress, and dehydration.

Boy did I become obsessed with the right sport for my heart's health!

If it all turns out to be a bad case of PVCs caused by the above, I guarantee I'll be riding with a Camelbak full of Gatorade every long ride from now on!

Let's hope Race Across Oregon can still be in my future!

The "Ironman Trophy"...Seriously?

Last year, Ironman made itself an easy target for ridicule by releasing "Ironman, the Scent." Scent of what?, athletes wondered, Pee and sweat?

Now the brand has licensed its name to The Ironman Trophy, a $700 (yes, $700!) m-dot styled hunk of bronze reminiscent of the plastic m-dot trophies age-group podium finishers receive.

Seriously?

Aren't the race t-shirt and hat--symbols of the achievement included in the race fee--enough? These are things in which an Ironman can parade around, silently screaming about his achievement to fellow gym rats, grocery shoppers, etc...

Is a 16-lb (yes, 16 lbs!) trophy on a mantle, typically a sign of top 5 placement, really necessary? Is it perhaps even uber dorky? (Particularly considering it cost more than the entire race?)

Why not frame your Ironman race number, writing your finishing time and placement on it, as an even cooler-looking acknowledgment of achievement? Or shell out $50 for your finisher photo. Those are pretty nice, and show the athlete in action, verifying he/she did, in fact, cross the finish line.

Kudos to "The Ironman Trophy" for valiantly entering America's never-ending quest to create things people don't need....and to deplete our, um, ever shrinking bronze reserves.

On the bright side, when an Ironman finally decides he no longer needs to visualize his past accomplishments through corporate logos, "The Ironman Trophy" can be placed out of sight--something that can't be done with an m-dot tattoo.

A Letter to All Homicidal School Bus Drivers (Cycling and Road Rage)

Assuming your homicidal tendencies are spur-of-the-moment, and not premeditated, please read the following in an effort to tame your unpredictable road transgressions in order to keep your job, and to not profoundly screw up the lives of the kindergarteners you seem to think will be in deep shit if they are not at school at exactly 8am.

1. Your school bus is big. Maybe you're pissed because you haven't graduated to driving the superlong bus yet, but it's still big. Too big to pass cyclists on downhill turns with no shoulder without crossing the double yellow lines. Wait your turn.
2. If you do not wait your turn, you will kill someone. Someone cute and blonde who is hell bent on living to 100 years old, exactly, and still has a good 3/4 of her life left to do so.
3. If you kill this girl, who was responsibly wearing a bright colored vest, and even a blinky and reflective tape, your kindergarteners will see it all happen.
4. If your kindergarteners see it happen, they will be traumatized for life. And their loaded parents (you were picking kids up in Palos Verdes, after all) will see to it that you'd have been better off being suicidal rather than homicidal.
   
5. If you don't hit this girl, but come within a hair of doing so and run her off of the road, she will scream obscenities and raise fingers at you in front of all of the kids when she catches up to you at a red light. You will be responsible for explaining why little Timmy is now calling everyone an "asshole" and raising his middle finger while waving his forearm back and forth for emphasis.
6. If the girl does catch up with you at the light, isn't that proof that simply waiting for a big old straight away wouldn't have put you behind schedule, negating the need for your temporary homicidal tenancies, and the conversation you'll be having shortly with Timmy's pissed off teachers?

Driving a school bus must be tough. Kids scream and stuff. But they'll scream more if a bloody body is splattered across your windshield. Promise. Plus, as much as you, the homicidal school bus driver, want to loose your job, do you really want to at this moment? You certainly won't graduate to "personal limo driver of the stars" if your homicide is carried through.
Biznatch.

Thank you.

Saving the Fish

I didn't want to run today.

In fact, I didn't want to move at all today. Usually this happens when it's tremendously depressing outside, but it was a beautiful, sunny day. My brain has recently been unusually antagonistic against my body.

But a baby 25-minute run was on the schedule, so after doing everything I possibly could this evening that was not running--reading every online newspaper, magazine, and even PerezHilton.com, beginning to edit a FinalCut video, and kissing the cat--I got my cookie-dough-filled butt out the door.

And boy, was one little fishie happy I did.

I chose a loop that would bring me for a stretch on the beach, and right in the middle of it, a little fishie was flippity floppiting in the surf. He beached himself. (I say he, because, honestly, girl fishies are probably better with directions and hazard avoidance.)

Ignoring my gag reflex, I picked him up and hucked him back into the ocean, soaking my shoes in the process.

I didn't wait to see if he'd simply beach himself again, but I like to think I saved one little fishie's life today.

So there you have it.

Even if you feel like your workout schedule is all about you, and therefore extremely selfish, think again. Your workouts benefit your community more than you think.

Maybe you have a Tuesday morning run that you do religiously, and so does some little old man on your street. Maybe, just maybe, your guaranteed Tuesday morning smile and "howdy do" are something he looks forward to every week.

Maybe you're more fun to be around because you will actually eat ice cream with your kids, knowing you've earned it today.

Or maybe, just maybe, you could save someone's life. I rescued someone's cell phone just last week from almost certain death in a mulch pile along a running path.

And today, I pulled a solid for the marine world and returned one of its missing fishies before his family had to start postering anemones with his slimy, silvery face.

Rest Week Anxiety in Triathletes

Rest.

I need it.

In fact, I don't want to move. My body and brain are toast from 3 consecutive weeks of going longer, faster, harder. I've even skipped 2 rest-week scheduled workouts.

So why, oh why, do I spend my days anxious about not moving?

In the beginning, I looked forward to rest weeks. I'd have more time to devote to things that get pushed to the side, like dishes, and Sir Gallahad. But with my first superultracycling event on the horizon, not moving makes me anxious, even if all of my being truly wants to sleep and read all day. So anxious, in fact, that I can feel my heart beat irregularly.

It's a tougher brain battle than riding solo back to back hundos. Or getting myself to swim in the South Bay's preferred hook-up area: the 24 Hour Fitness pool.

Perhaps at the root of this anxiety is an identity crisis. Who am I when I'm not biking, swimming, running? Having devoted so much time to fitness, I'm unsure of who I am when I'm not carrying out the physical acts associated with being a triathlete / aspiring ultracyclist.

When I signed up for my first tri, a sprint in Tucson in 2005, I couldn't wait for it to be over. I wanted to be a triathlete. I was excited to affect my new identity. I could be on the couch, watching crap-o reality TV. I was happy; I was a triathlete.

Slowly, however, proclaiming my chosen identity to the world became unnecessary. I didn't want to be labeled. As anything. I am unlabelable. I have never filled out my Facebook "About Me" section, other than to say that I am a "writer/triathlete". Now it just says "writer". I figured that's un-boxed-in enough.

So maybe all of this anxiety comes from separating myself from a previously chosen identity that I secretly still latch onto, despite the desire to be undefined--always searching, always learning about myself, never settling.

Aspiring to a kind of fluid identity is anxiety-producing in itself.

Or maybe, I'm just anxious because my chocolate cake cravings are always the fiercest when I'm not doing enough to justify the indulgence. :)

How NOT To Start Your First Double Century Ultryacycling Ride

The term cluster f**k was invented to describe the horror that was Friday night--the night before coachubby, Robyn, and I were going to set off on our first double century ride in Irvine, CA.

Scenario:
I am PMSing.

I return from an attempted workout at 5:45pm at the two lane pool at my gym where old men hang out in the pool area to catch a glimpse of young ladies, many of whom are there to be seen in their bikinis, none of whom can swim a length of the pool, and thereby wind up floating about in the shallow end in my way.

I am not happy.

Coachubby is loading up the car outside of our place. When he sees me, he says, "Sparky won't start. There's no electricity."

Sparky is my car. The car for which I just paid a gagillion dollars to make sure he would be ok to drive to Phoenix on Tuesday. He worked fine before I brought him to my mechanic, I was just being cautious. Now he won't start?

I can't deal.

We load up and drive to Robyn's house--2 miles south of us. She follows in her car as we spend a good 30 minutes looking for the 405. Apparently, we're unable to find the only freaking freeway in the South Bay because we took off 2 miles off of our normal starting point. Most people can navigate fine within a 10 mile radius of their home. Not us. Not in LA.

We finally find the 405, and head to Irvine. We pick up our packets, which consist of a plastic baggie, a route map, and a card to get marked off at the aid stations to prove we were there. Simple. Low key. Nice. I like it.

Coachubby can't seem to find his way out of the parking lot, and I'm being a righteous beeotch, which isn't helping. His brain, I've decided, turns off when he gets in the car, and I let him know my theory.

Coachubby immediately rams the overhang of the hotel's entrance with his bike, forgetting it was on top of the car.

The bar warning people about the height of the overhang falls.

I am beyond pissed.

We drive to Irvine's Spectrum Center to get dinner at PF Changs.

Coachubby comes 1 inch from hitting the entrance of the parking garage before remembering his bike is still on top of the car. We jump out as everyone behind us honks obnoxiously. Coachubby stuffs the front-wheel-less bike in my hands and goes to park.

For 20 minutes, man after man walks by making the same totally unfunny joke, "Aren't you supposed to be riding that? Oh, well, looks like you can't. It's missing something."

You're almost as charming as the men in the 24 Hour Fitness pool area.

It's 8pm. The wait, the lady at PF Changs informs us, is 1 hour. So we zip on over to CPK, wait 10 minutes, then order right when we sit down.

At 9:15, we get our food.

I want to kill the waiter. On the bright side, our meal is free because the waiter and coachubby share the loss of cerebral function this evening.

Coachubby then gets lost on the 1 mile drive from the Spectrum Center to the hotel.

Finally getting to the hotel at 10 pm (there is no way I'm getting 8 hours of sleep tonight. On top of the no-sleep I got the two nights before because coachubby was snoring in my face.), coachubby goes to pull his bike out of the trunk, where it now resides.

PSHHHHHHHH!

Coachubby flats pulling his bike out of the car. How do you do that? I don't know. Leave it to coachubby to flat without having a tire touching the ground when I'm on the brink of a full-on mental breakdown.

Robyn witnesses the first petty, biotching fight coachubby and I have ever had. He knows now not to fight with me when I'm PMSing. Or when he has just displayed the inability to learn from mistakes made 20 minutes prior to another mistake.

I feel bad for Robyn.

We open the hotel room door and I jump straight into bed. Tooth decay be darned!

It's 11pm. I don't fall asleep immediately.

We wake up at 5am to get ready and drive to the beginning of the ride.

Will we make it? Will coachubby's seat break off and shove his stem up his bum since he whacked the bike on an overhang? Can a PMSing nutcase who normally requires 8 hours of sleep/night to function and hasn't slept in 3 nights finish a 200 mile bike ride?

Stay tuned...

When Will Google Recognize the Existence of Triathletes?

I know triathlon, in the grand scheme of things, is a relatively new sport.

But if Google can manage to make daily amazing technological advances, can't they add "triathlete" to their spell-checker?

It's a simple request from one triathlete Google-lover to one ginormous superpower company--a request that I'm sure is not above Google-ability.

So to be more concise:

Dear Google,

Please add "triathlete" into your spell checker so as to cease the appearance of a dotted line every time I type the word into Blogger or Gmail.

Thank you.

Love,

Erin

Triathlon Just Got a Little More Vain

Many triathletes obsess about their bodies. The body is the machine for tri domination, and having a lean physique makes it easier to tackle long courses at more of a jog than a slog.

But just how vain are we? Has the self-admiration gone too far? How much should we obsess about the bodies of our fellow triathletes before we're officially "creepy"?

Newcomer HotTriathletes.com is taking the obsession of triathlon's tight-bodied adherents to an entirely new level. This website has ripped off (as have hundreds of others) the now globally popular website HotorNot.com, started in 2000, and created a place for insecure amateurs to see how they stack up against their buddies.

Currently, there are several pictures of pros, probably uploaded from promotional sessions against their knowledge or consent.

If you don't have enough self-esteem to look at yourself in the mirror after a workout and say that your body is amazing, not only for what triathlon training has made it look like, but also for what it has been able to accomplish for you in your workouts, then sign up for HotTriathletes.com.

Someone else who is surely qualified to comment on your physical appearance based on the nonexistent universal guidelines of attractiveness will let you know if you should be wearing a baggy shirt for your next run, or a tiny cropped tri top.

Taking the Plunge or Off the Deep End? How to Tell if Endurance Sports Have Stolen Your Sanity

I love exercise.

Exercise makes me feel in tune with my body, with nature, and with my friends. Call it an obsession, but I get jazzed wondering just how far I can push myself. Yes, I am addicted to endorphins.

It's offensive when nonbelievers write off a passion for exercise by negatively referring to it as "compulsive". No great athlete could achieve her full potential without being a little obsessive-compulsive about her workouts.


However, even I have been known to question the motives of some friends and their never-ending need to push themselves mentally and physically. I usually call their sanity into question when social activities, like eating dinner with friends, or family time, like eating dinner with family, gets pushed back indefinitely to make way for massages, ice baths, and the third (or more!) daily workout.

So how can you tell if you or your friends are simply taking the plunge into becoming the best endurance athlete you can be, or if you're sinking fast into the deep end, leaving your sanity floating above you? What could make two people doing the exact same workouts be separately categorized into "Plungers" or "Sinkers"?

Four years ago, I developed a very simple litmus test of athletic sanity that has held strong to this day. Ask yourself this simple question:

Is my passion (in this case for exercise and endurance competition) adversely affecting:

1. my health?
2. my happiness?
3. my relationships?

If the answer is no to all three things, you're doing just fine. Soldier on, Ironman, ultrarunner, ultracyclist, climber, adventure racer, etc! But if you can answer yes to any of these, maybe it's time to take a breather and work something out--without going for a long run or ride to clear your head!

There are a lot of subcategories that might fit in the three listed above. Is your passion hurting your finances? That might affect your happiness and relationships. Are you unhappy? Maybe you overdid your training. Backing off might restore your happiness and save you from wreaking havoc on your health.

Here's where the word "compulsive" truly takes on a negative connotation. If your body is destroyed and trying to tell you so by making you moody and unhappy--and you don't back off out of compulsion--you may have a problem (this being the negatively charged "exercise addiction") that needs to be addressed.

For me, at this point in my life, endurance sports have simply giveth. There has been no taketh-ing away. A love of triathlon has led me to my closest friends, and to my husband. It has blessed me with a sense of accomplishment, love and admiration for my body, and the self- confidence I was sorely lacking before taking the plunge.

It doesn't hurt that coachubby shares my exact same passion. It has made our relationship stronger, as we push each other to achieve more than we ever thought we could. (This includes peeing on the bike.)

Endurance sports have brought my family closer; madre's and padre's role as a perma parental cheer squad means almost every time we see each other, we have something fun to do and something to celebrate--and a reason (besides Jesus-related events) to get our bi-state clans together in the first place. Even padre got in on the action when we did a triathlon relay together last July--and won our division!

However, I know that if I made the same exact choices I'm making now regarding my training and race calendar and I had kids (sorry, Sir Gallahad, you're an independent kitty who can take care of himself for hours on end), I would be a Sinker, not a Plunger. It's all about priorities. And the three golden life factors: happiness, health, and relationships.

Have a kick butt, happy, healthy, friend-filled 2009 season!