For The Bible Tells Me So

I'm sweating, frustrated and puzzled.  The drain's clogged.  My shaver's  clogged and running out of battery-life.  It's generating enough heat to power a small village.  There's hair everywhere.  I look up, make eye-contact with the freshly sunburned face in the mirror and ask, "How the hell did I get here?" 

"Easy enough:  You took a direct flight from Oakland to Honolulu, then hopped over to Maui on a separate flight," the person in the mirror responds. 

"Okay, dick," I respond.  "Right, right.  I meant, how did I end up here?  In the bathroom trimming off 25 years of leg hair?" 

"Another softball: your leg hair has completely taken over the lower half of your body," the freckled face in the mirror responds.  "The months of chlorine exposure has taken its toll.  The hair is frazzled, strung out, dried-out - complete shit.  It absorbs any lotion application instantly without sharing any with your skin.  It's like a dried-out cactus, snatching up any bit of moisture it can grab.  You're here because you need this to stop.  You're in Hawaii and your legs need moisture - they NEED protection!"

I take in a deep breath and let out a sigh while shaking my head.   I didn't need to respond.  I knew there wasn't just a simple, logical argument for why I was standing there in the middle of my own hairocolypse.   And while the man in the mirror's logic might indeed be true, I knew it wasn't the whole story.  I knew why I was here - or at least I knew what it meant.   

This was the final step.  The final plunge.  The final conversion.  I had just taken the irreversible head-first swan dive into the world of triathlon. 

But still... how did it get to this point? (plug: read "On My First Tri Parts 1-3).  Let's recap: run half marathon, start swimming, start losing weight, Pat Tilman inspires, start doing more mtn biking, yoga, think about wanting to do triathlon, brother John buys jersey for xmas, signs me up for race, do race on March 27th, win race.  Okay; finish race. Love race, love everything about it, look forward to next race.  So what's happened since the race to get me here?  

After the race I was obviously exhausted.  But more than anything I was energized - WE were energized.  Tracy and I were buzzing after the event.  We were both moved.  We wanted to take our training to the next level.  And not just because we somehow had the irrepressible desire to win or do well at these events.  Honestly, our goal was - and still is - to simply finish these things.  We were infected by the energy that surrounded us.  In an important way, it made us feel less crazy for what we had been doing for the months leading up to that event.  If anything, seeing these people made us feel like we weren't quite crazy enough.  So we decided to notch up the crazy.  We threw our heads back and swallowed the extra dosage of crazy. 

We reorganized our schedules.  All of the sudden our mornings no longer adhered to my religious ritual of the previous four years.  No longer was I to be found at the coffee maker first thing in the morning, brewing the first pot of the morning before even turning off my alarm clock.  No longer was I to be found sipping my coffee, reading the paper, and giving myself, at minimum, an hour to let things "begin their final descent" before I grabbed a banana and took off on a run.  

Nope.  All of the sudden I was slamming my alarm clock and foggily throwing on any running gear I could find and ten minutes later be reluctantly heading out the door with Trace by my side and the sun yet to rise.  A fifty minute run before coffee?  Before bowel movements?  Before a little snack?  Previously unheard of - unthought of.  Sacrilegious.  But all of the sudden, T and I were doing this a few mornings a week.  It was horrible; but it was amazing.  The first couple runs - oh man.  I never fully appreciated my addiction to coffee until those mornings.  On those first few runs, I could think of nothing else but coffee for the first half hour.  The warmth; the chocolatey taste; the feeling of slowly embracing the day sip by sip.  Each sip bringing me further and further from dreamland and bringing me closer to full functioning.  I was like a car engine in sub-zero temps who needed a good twenty mins of warm-up before you could dare think to get me out of that driveway. But after a few weeks, I adapted.  

After a few weeks, heading out the door for a pre-6 am run without coffee no longer felt like being kicked in the face and punched in the nuts while both hungover and half asleep.  Our energy levels changed.  We were able to perk up quicker than ever.  The first few minutes of being out the door and we were like pups breaking free and embracing every smell (except my own).  

But ultimately, the real reason we started doing this, was because of a book.  A book that my brother John - who else? - bought and sent to us immediately after the triathlon.  "The Triathlon Training Bible."  

In taking a cue from the actual Bible, this Bible made us feel guilty too.  We weren't doing enough.  "You mean you only work out once a day?" the Bible impliedly asked us, judging, guilting us with each sentence. "Of course we only worked out once a day.  Are you insane?" we would reply.  But then we would keep reading.  It wasn't long until we converted.  When we then subscribed to "Triathlete" magazine and then proceeded to fight over it, I knew we were a lost cause.

"We probably should do weights twice a week," I would tell Trace.  "We could do it on the days when we have our early morning runs."  "Yea, I think you're right," Trace agreed.  "But the way the Book recommends - a lot of reps, all full functional weight work outs."  "Yea, totally T."  

So we did.  We started doing weights twice a week at the gym at USF.  (This, on top of everything else: swimming twice a week, mountain biking, running, and yoga).  Both of us hadn't been in the weight room for years. Or at least it felt like years.  It hurt.  A lot.  But not quite as much as the painful reminder of the gym meatballs that I'd all but forgotten about since I stopped playing football.  I think it hit us after the sixth gorilla grunt that was followed by earth shattering dumbbells crashing into the floor, followed by the two meatballs having a flex-off in the mirror.  

The divide between the world of weight-lifting and triathlon was clear.  The problem - the divide between the world of triathlon (cardio/running/biking/swimming/out-door activity) and the world of weight-lifting - is philosophy.  The divide is image.  The thing that had struck me on my first triathlon, and continues to strike me as I continue training, is the lack of image here -the fact that training for triathlon is not about how you look.  At it's core, it's about how you feel.  It's a lifestyle, not an outcome. It's not necessarily a means to an end.  Its not about, "I put in so many workouts on so many days that I should look like this."  It's about feeling good.  It's not about comparison.  It's about channeling the feeling you had as a child.  That feeling of being outside and breaking free - the feeling of flight.  Flight from work, school, stress - flight from yourself.  And also flight to yourself.  Flight to figuring out exactly what you can do when you push yourself.  The feeling that nothing else in the world matters.  The feeling of play.  That's what running/biking/swimming/(yoga) can bring.  It's an unquantifiable outcome.  One that you don't flex to see in the mirror.  

Tracy and I continued with our twice a week weight workouts for a few weeks.  But the weight routine has slowly died out.  As I write, I know they have helped strengthen key parts of my legs.  And I'm glad we did the workouts.   But I don't miss the flex-offs.  

Final exams and vacations detoured our training a bit and we took some time off.  Our routine became less routine and became more sporadic.  But oddly, when our routine became less routine, our training made exponential gains.  Our vacation ended up taking our training somewhere we hadn't planned - even though training is something that is supposed to be mechanically planned - or at least that's what the Bible tells us.  On our flight back from Maui, it dawned on us both that we swam like fish on our vacation.  Our "vacation" was filled with triathlon "training" - even though we hadn't planned training at all.  Vacation and training - relaxation and exercise - had become synonymous.   Five days of open-ocean water swims was our favorite part of our vacation day - especially because my family joined us too.  The clear water, the exotic fish, the boats in the periphery while we took in a gasp for air, it was forty to sixty minutes of bliss.  It didn't feel like work, slog, or "training."  It was spiritual.  

We knew we were ready.   We knew we didn't haven't to abide by the words of the Bible to tell us if we were ready or not.  We came back from Hawaii and without hesitation signed up for the Tahoe City Xterra, June 25th. 

So that's how I ended up there in the Hawaii bathroom, in my own hair tornado (hairnado?) trimming off 25 years of leg hair.  I had made the final step in my change from my football days.  But at the same time I guess I hadn't.  Training provided me the same childish joy and freedom that playing football had.  Except the difference is now I wasn't squaring up on the line of scrimmage against a fellow meatball.  This time I am side-by-side with my best friend, partner.  Side-by-side in training; coffee withdrawals, 5 am runs, meatball exposure overdose, Hawaii ocean swims, and trimmed legs included.  And side-by-side on Saturday, June 25th.  

I think this is our new religion.  For the Bible tells me so.   

Now will you please say some prayers for us on Saturday?

Sit No More!

If it were up to me they’d be gone.  I’d blow them up.  They drive a wedge between us.  They turn an otherwise intimate, communal, possible once-in-a-lifetime musical experience into another evening of lazy-boy deflation in front of the tube.  Assigned seats in concerts need to be done away with.

Sunday night, my brother and I attended a long-awaited concert.  Fleet Foxes played at Constitution Hall in DC.  They were phenomenal.  Performing close to two-hours, covering their whole new album plus five highly demanded songs from their previous album, Fleet Foxes exceeded already high expectations. 

The instrumentation was flawless—from the guitar (electric and acoustic) to the stand-up bass, from the keys to the flute.  The rhythms thumped and the timing was tight.  This was all the more impressive considering Foxes consists of six members all plucking, strumming or pounding their respective instrument, of which can change hands on any given song.  But the main treat was the harmonizing caked on top of all this already fulfilling instrumentation. 

Robin Pecknold, the main vocalist and leader of the band (and only 25 years old), is truly something else.  His voice, lyricism, and overall demeanor draws you in while the frequent kicks of layered harmonizing by the guitarist and drummer send you afloat.  The quick switch from a rhythmic, punchy groove, to acappella harmony, then back to more punch, leaves you both breathless and energized.  The song writing is complex, layered, yet still simple.  I couldn’t help but think we were watching something special.  With the band averaging an age of 27 or so, they aren’t going anywhere soon.  I felt like we were all witnessing the Dylan/Neil Young/Lennon of our generation.  I realize that is a bold, possibly premature statement, but fuck it.  I think it’s true. 

So as my brother and I were sitting (sitting!) perched on the stages' left side, in awe of this performance, we couldn’t help but feel like something was missing. We felt straight jacket restriction.  We looked around the huge arena to see rows of seating everywhere, people dispassionately sitting like a movie was being projected on stage.  

There was one guy a few rows a head of us though.  He was standing, dancing, clapping and rocking.  But he didn’t have anyone sitting behind him to interfere with.  We were envious of this guy.  He was appreciating what he was seeing, hearing, and experiencing—and letting his body act accordingly.  We wanted to be rocking like this guy, but there were rows of sitting people behind us.   The show was amazing nonetheless, but still, the both of us left thinking that the dude rocking out probably had a more filling experience. 

As we left the show, I thought of the last show I went to, Patrick Sweany and James McMurty in Berkeley.  It was the same king of thing: a great venue, an intimate setting, and a wonderful performance.  But something was missing.  Everyone was sitting.  (The fact that the venue didn’t sell booze didn’t help either).

These two shows got me thinking. 

When I see live music, I can’t help but put myself in the shoes of the musician—this stems from my own experience playing.   From this experience, I know that any little bit of movement coming from the audience directly translates into the amount of energy the musician will put back into the show.  

But it’s not just about the musician either.  It works both ways.  If the audience gets into it, the musician will put more into it, thus making a better experience for everyone involved.  There are shared responsibilities.  The musician performs, and if he/she is doing their job, the audience moves—they sway, dance, clap, sing, and cheer.   The quality of a show can very well be determined by the movement and energy that an audience gives back to the musician.

Live music has always been important to me.  The shows I grew up attending, rock shows at small venues, never had seating.  They had open ground floors where everyone was jam-packed up towards the front of stage.  Everyone was shoulder-to-shoulder, feeling the sweat from your neighbor.  The music may have not been as intricate, complex, or of an overall quality as the shows I have attended lately.  But there was something special about the general admission open floor standing of those rock shows.  Everybody moving, rocking, dancing, and completely letting go of how they look or how they think they should look.  A crowd of people moved by music, bumping into each other, rubbing shoulders, and letting loose.  A crowd that got more than just an intellectually satisfying experience, but emotional satisfaction as well.  

Live music is not just about being entertained.  It’s about connection.  A live performance is a shared experience, an emotional sharing between musician and audience.  I left the Fleet Foxes show blown-away by their performance.  But I felt like we, as an audience, didn't do our part.  

Except for you, the guy rocking wildly a few rows ahead of us.   You carried the team. 

Blue Ridge Brothers

Made it back to SF from DC in one piece last night.  After a long day of travel yesterday, the five days are beginning to mush together, and I don't want it all to blur.  So I felt it was necessary to jot down some of the highlights of the five days:

1.  A smooth red-eye flight from SF to Minnesota to DC without any "Atlanta Encounters."  Such a breeze of a flight.  Sat next to a skinny man who never moved and had a keen awareness of himself in space.  My bag was the first out of the gate in baggage claim.  I didn't even have to break stride from plane to bag to car.  

2.  Cruising in John's new Subaru.

3.  Greasy-egg, potato-hash brunches.  Endless refills of coffee.  No time constraints/worries.  Ok, but probably too much coffee. 

4.  An hour swim in the DC Municipal Pool with John followed by ten (minutes, not guys) in the jacuzzi.  Finally, we both got to see each other in Speedos. 

5.  Beers, Basketball, Brothers & Bubba.  Will's train arrived from Phili, met us at John's apt.  Walked a block to delicious pizza and beer (most of which I had never tried before - east coast brew).  Walked next door.  Watched NBA Playoffs while being serenaded by the most unassumingly impressive guitarist/singer - think a more toned down Larry the Cable Guy. I'm sure his name wasn't Bubba, but I'd like to imagine it was. 

6. The three of us in John's studio.  Will and John sharing his (John's) full sized bed for a night.  Will assaulted by John's snoring, getting no sleep, and subsequently getting his own hotel room the next night. 

7. Walking around Georgetown with brothers.  All of us catching up on sleep during the critically-acclaimed- but in actuality critically-awful - movie "Cave of Forgotten Dreams" in 3D at AMC.  Half way through asking John if he was bored.  Him responding "very."  Us both dying of laughter like we were in church and not supposed to laugh. 

8.  A fifty-minute run through beautiful, green DC trails with John.  

9.  Comedy show @ Constitution Hall ft. Jim Norton, Bill Burr, Jim Brewer, and Dave Attell.  They all killed it.  But we're more partial to Burr. 

10.  A great visit with some of the East Coast Cousins and their adorable little monsters in Virginia.

11.  Going to the gym at 8 pm so John could stop jumping off the walls after his late-afternoon expresso.  Followed by dinner and drinks at "Breadsoda" with John and his neighbor Kara.  Watching John get hit on by members of a bachlorette party.  Later, proudly watching John try to convince the owner of Breadsoda that he (the owner) needs to put a skeeball machine in his bar.  Seeing the owner stroke his beard at the thought.  Bet he wasn't expecting to have this conversation tonight. 

11.  Making a second trip to the AMC theatre on a separate afternoon.  But this time seeing "Bridesmaids" - unfortunately not in 3D...  What?  Hey, I don't care.  It was hilarious!

12.  Fleet Foxes @ (again) Constitution Hall.  Unbelievable performance.  These guys will be (are) one of the best bands of our generation. 

A few not-so-highlight-worthy notes:

1. Being able to hear John's snoring, of which he says is "cute," over my industrial-strength earplugs.

2.  My trip sharing the same dates as the National Police Week Event in DC.  Sharing the flight back to Minnesota with 30 over-grown/White/bald/loud Minnesotan cops. My nostrils are still singed from whatever it was that these guys were producing.

The (No Longer) Mysterious Package

*Originally written on 5.05.2011

The case is closed.  The search is over.  It ended yesterday after hearing my phone go off at 10:00 a.m. while I was in the shower.  Tracy yelled, "Your brother *retracted* is calling!"  I immediately knew what he was calling about.  It was his package.  He sent it on accident.  He must not have changed the shipping address on his Amazon account after sending me a birthday gift a few weeks ago, I told myself.  Tracy and I are dying of laughter.  

I get out of the shower and check the voicemail.  "Uh, ha, hey dude... Well, you might be receiving a few misaddressed packages from me in the next few days..."  

I give him a call back, thinking he's totally pissed that I just blew up his spot on facebook.  He hadn't seen the post.  I haven't talked to him since.  

I mean, it could've been worse.  There are far more revealing and embarrassing things that could've been purchased on Amazon and accidently sent my way.  Just by way of example, after a brief perusing of Amazon's latest deals, these purchases could've been way worse:

1. A discounted year-long subscription to "Good Housekeeping Magazine" - 81% off!

2. "Hard Bitten" - the new softcover vampire thriller romance novel by Chloe Neill.

3. Or Justin Beiber's "Never Say Never" DVD - in 3D and only $17.99.

With these in mind, a dry scalp ain't so bad.  

Honestly though, I was really hoping this mystery would have continued for some time.  I imagined myself devoting far too much of my time trying to solve it.  Skipping class, meetings, and work just to figure out who this person is.  Who was this person trying to keep me safe on the streets and keep my scalp from drying?  As I told my brother, *retracted*, that when I was first dumbfounded by this package, I thought that maybe someone hacked into my account.  Maybe this person got my info and started tearing through Amazon with my credit card.  But then I had to scratch that idea, because why would this person then send the purchased items to my address?  

After telling my brother this, he stopped me and said, wait, maybe that is all true.  Maybe this person just happens to be the most thoughtful criminal on earth.  Maybe he figured I could use the dandruff shampoo and bike lights?  It's possible that this person figured that, ya know, the San Francisco weather is heating up all, maybe a moist scalp would really turn my month around?  Give me a fresh perspective heading into finals.  (The criminal knows this all about me b/c he has access to all of my info, remember).  And maybe the bike lights would be a nice pick-me-up heading into the summer.  He knows I will be working into the evening during the summer, and heaven-forbid I ride through Golden Gate Park on my way home without headlights.  These lights do burn out quickly, ya know; quick turnover.  

While I now have to go forth with the knowledge that this thoughtful criminal does not indeed exist, the thought of him or her has nonetheless helped me get through these last few days of the semester.  One more final tomorrow, then freedom for a few weeks.

But what I really want is for the thoughtful criminal to be out there... somewhere.

The Mysterious Package

*Originally written on 5.03.2011

Yesterday, I received a package in the mail from Amazon. I assumed it was a gift.   It had my correct name, address, everything. I was excited. I anxiously open the package to find two bottles of "prescription-strength" dandruff shampoo and lights for the front and back of a bike.

Thoughts: Did someone anonymously give me a belated birthday gift? And is this person implying that I need to improve my overall hygiene and safety?

The confusion continues...  But I will not tire until I get to the bottom of this!

On My First Tri - Part III

*Originally written on 4.15.2011


The Swim

I'm not sure if it's the sound or the cold that hits first.  No, it's the sound.  It's definitely the sound.  The sound of one-hundred people sprinting into an open body of water is unlike anything I've ever heard.  It almost sounds like the roar of a crowd of thousands, but it's so uniform and haunting. 

Five seconds ago the lake looked so peaceful and still.  Now, as the hundred of us are charging through it's shore and into it's body, it sounds - and feels - so violent.  I can't hear the person next to me.  I can't hear my own thoughts.  I can't see the blue of the water, only the white-water that we've all created.  Soon, as we continue to drive forward, I can't see the people in front of me.  One by one, they start diving in head-first like penguins.  The water is getting close to my waist.  I follow suit, dive head-first, and flail my arms forward and kick madly.  

The next nine minutes that follow are both the longest and shortest nine minutes of my life.  In these nine minutes, I range from thoughts of excitement and bliss, to thoughts of terror and possible failure; from thoughts of ecstasy, to thoughts of death (my own).

When I finally dive in, I realize, for one, that I can't see.  I can't see anything.  Where is the blue line at the bottom that I use as a guide in the pool?  This feels like running into oncoming traffic with a bucket covering your head.  It's totally scary.  When my head is submerged in the lake water, I'm completely blind.  I hear people flopping all around me.  I feel people crawling on my legs.  I think I just kicked someone.  Yea, I definitely kicked someone.  I can only see when I roll my head to the right to suck in some air above water.  Now seeing, I can't believe how cramped it is.  My heart is pumping so fast I can feel it in my throat.  I'm so out of rhythm.  I'm completely out of breath.  The water is absolutely freezing.  The wake that these hundred people are making feels like paddling out into an oncoming set of waves that come at all angles.  It is relentless.  And I'm only a minute in.  

Panic sets in.  For a moment, I'm convinced that this is how it ends.  Not just the triathlon, but possibly me.  One minute into the triathlon and I'm done.  I'm positive that I'm going to wake up in one of these red emergency kayaks back on shore, with Tracy and her parents hovering above me, looking down at me scared, sad and sorry for me.  I'll have to make up an excuse for what happened, for why I failed so miserably.  Hypothermia?  That might work. 

My voice of reason and strength kicks in, telling me to relax, that all is fine.  It tells me that I've swam a mile and half without stopping; that this is nothing.  I back it up a bit and regain composure.  But this doesn't mean I can stop - I'll sink or get run over.  I switch from freestyle to breaststroke, hoping to catch my breath and gain some rhythm.  Breaststroke allows me to keep my head above water for a little while longer and take deeper breaths with longer glides/floats.  Bringing my head above water, I realize how unbelievably freezing the water is.  It's like submerging my head into a cooler full of ice each time I dunk my head in for the stroke.  I feel pathetic doing the breaststroke, but then I look over to my right and see a guy floating along on his back, his arms flopping up and down in the air and into the water.  Oh my God, that guy is doing the backstroke.  At first, I muster up a small laugh to myself.  There's something about the backstroke that seems so lazy, or Homer Simpson-like.  But then I realize that I want to punch this guy in the face.  Is he showing me up?  I can't let this guy get ahead of me.  Not with the backstroke.  I switch back to freestyle.  

I still can't really catch my breath, and it doesn't even feel like I'm swimming fast.  The problem is, I can't hear myself when I pop my head to the right, just above water to inhale.  I can usually hear myself sucking in air when I'm in the pool.  Am I even breathing now? Having my own lane in an olympic sized pool did not prepare me for this.  I'm regretting never having done an open water swim before this race.  John, why didn't you warn me of this?  I'm hating you right now.  

I keep swinging my arms and kicking like mad.   I get to the buoy and circle around it.  We are heading back to shore.  I'm halfway there.  I make the turn around the buoy and my goggles fog up completely.  Now I can't see when my head is above water too.  I pull up the goggles with my right hand and put them I'm on my forehead.  I keep swimming freestyle.  I figure I couldn't see anything with the goggles on anyway.  I finally start to get into a rhythm when I look forward to see people are starting to emerge from the water on their feet.  The land can't come soon enough.  

I stop my freestyle to step down to touch the land.  I've never felt so happy to be on land.  I see people running out of the water and up the shore.  When the water is at my ankles, I start running up the shore, toward the transition.  I look down at my watch and it reads, "10:09."  I have to look at it twice to make sure that isn't an error.  It always takes me 18 minutes to swim a half-mile in the pool.  I never go faster or slower.  It's always 18 minutes.  I just swam that in 9 minutes?  Holy shit.  No wonder I couldn't catch my breath.  

I can't feel my hands or feet, but I keep running.  I see Tracy and her parents.  Trace shouts, "Start stripping!"  I was confused for a second - I mean, her parents are right there.  But then I look around and it dawns me - the people running next to me are unzipping their wetsuits as we run toward the transition station.  I keep running and start unzipping.  

The Bike

I get out of wetsuit and change into my cycling gear.  I hop on my bike and head for the trail.  My head is still in a fog from the freezing water.  I still can't feel my feet or hands.  But all in all, I'm happy to be on land and on my bike.  I'll warm up in a few miles.  Mountain biking and running are my comfort zone, I've been doing them for years.  Tracy and I have been riding trails with 2-hour climbs.  I'm feeling good. Here we go.  

The trail seems nice, but it's thin and tight.  It's a single track, which means single-file riding, no side by side, which might make for some interesting passes.  I cleanly swerve around the first muddy-puddle, trying to stay clean and regain warmth.  

A few minutes in, I realize the idea of dancing around the muddy puddles is hopeless.  The mud is everywhere.  Today might be free of rain, but the previous two weeks saw non-stop downpour. Every corner I turn, every hill I climb, every hill I descend from, there is a massive swamp waiting to greet me, each one different from the other.  One has a few boulders hidden from plain sight, waiting to derail your front tire (or your girlfriend's) and send you over the handle bars; the other has mud that is mixed with sand creating quicksand that can plunge your tires two-to-three feet under ground.  

I've never dealt with anything quite like this.  So, at first, I approach these swamps with timidity. I figure if I go slowly enough through them, I'll make it to the other side.  I test this theory.  I approach a new swamp, tap the brakes and slowly enter.  My bike comes to a dead stop.  I quickly unclip my right foot from the pedal and step to the right before tipping over.  My whole right leg is swallowed by the mud, up to my kneecap.  I quickly struggle to pull my leg out before causing a pile up of bikes.  The guy behind me just swerves around me to the left.  He manages to yell out as he rides by, "Wooo!  Happened to me a mile ago!  Whole leg swamped!  Right on!"  Then he's gone.  These people are crazy.  But I'm beginning to love them.

I developed a new game plan.  I have to set my bike into a high gear when approaching the swamps and drive my legs as hard and as fast as I can.  It worked.  

Every mile there were about seven to ten of these swamps.  And making it through each one was harder than climbing any steep hill that can be thrown at you.  But my game plan worked.  I would psyche myself up each time I came up to one of these monsters.  I pumped my legs like I was driving a sled at football practice.  I was like a running back driving through the middle, getting hit from both sides.  I had to stay low.  I had to focus on my breath.  I had to be aware of my core, of my balance.  But most importantly, I had to keep pumping my legs.  I did not anticipate this.  I didn't feel prepared for this particular situation.  But football had actually prepared me perfectly for this.  I survived.  I made it through the ride - even without brakes.  And with a few good stories. 

A lot of people's brakes wore out.  Mine wore out half way through the ride.  The water, mud, grass, rocks, and sand had all taken its toll on our bikes.  I guess this sort of thing is just expected.  I thought it had something to do with my lack-luster care of my bike throughout the years.  But I didn't realize that I wasn't alone until I pulled off to finally take a pull of gatorade after a steep climb.  Pulling off, I hear a guy climbing up the hill.  He is huffing and puffing.  He gets to the top and stops for a second next to me.  

"I'm fucking cramping up, man" he says, sucking wind.  "This mud is ridiculous, man! And, my damn brakes are completely shot!  Oh well, almost there.  See ya man.  Looking great."  He heads off down the hill while I look on without being able to say much.  I put the gatorade back in the holder and hop back on the bike.  I'm behind my new friend as we charge down the hill.  He's a good space ahead of me.  I'm starting to wonder if I heard him wrong, because he doesn't look like someone who doesn't have brakes.  He's flying down this hill and looks in control.  But then again, we haven't had to make a turn yet, it's all been straight away.  But, oh, there's a sharp right turn ahead.  This will be intere...

Before I can finish the thought, my new friend is ejected from his seat like a missile.  He is five feet in the air, flying off the cliff and into the bushes, while his bike makes the right hand turn without him.  He looks like a frightened squirrel making his first leap from one tree branch to another, his arms and legs completely sprawled out.  I probably wouldn't have laughed if it weren't for him screaming "ooooooooohhhhh  shhhhheeeeiitttt!!!" as he flew off the grid.  

Not being able to stop myself, I yelled out my own vocal life-vest, asking if he was alright.  He said he was.  I kept on down the hill making the right hand turn, dodging his bike.  

The Run

My legs are complete jelly by the time I get off my bike and change.  My hamstrings and quads feel like a wrench is clenched around them, tightening at each movement. The bike ride alone took about two hours, and now I have four miles of trail running left.  I know I can do four miles, but after that ride I'm beginning to worry about cramping and injury.  My legs have never experienced this.  I hope the hills aren't too bad.

I hit the trail and actually feel okay.  I feel strong, but it's probably because it's flat right now.  I pass a few handful of people.  I pass a guy who is completely cramped up, holding his hamstring.  He keeps me aware of the possibility of injury.  I shouldn't push it.  I should stay within myself and remember that my goal is just to finish this thing.

I get about a mile and a half into the run and I'm completely alone.  The trail is beautiful: there are endless trees covering me; there is a stunning view of the lake on my left; there are birds chirping.  The trial has some serious inclines and descents - and still more mud.  I'd always heard of people getting emotional during long endurance events, such as marathons or Ironman.  I'd seen these people on television crying as they came close to the end - as they ran across the finish line, or with five miles left, or whenever.  But I didn't think that would happen to me.   

I didn't think I'd be a few miles away from finishing my first triathlon and have tears coming down my face.  I didn't think the race would take that much out of me to even get me to that place.  But it did.  Or maybe it wasn't what the race did to my body, but something else.  Maybe it was that I could suddenly see clearly.

The race had finally cut through everything and brought everything to light.  It brought me to the point of seeing how much my life has changed in the past five years.  The race allowed me to finally see clearly.  It allowed me to see how one simple purchase of a mountain bike could so drastically alter the course of my life.  

The emotions came rushing.  All of the sudden I could see myself in the bike shop buying the bike with John and my mom in 2006.  I could see how unhappy and confused I was when I moved home and changed colleges.  I could feel the joy of my first ride with John.   I could see my dog Mollie running through the trails with me, as she was who I first discovered trail running with, but who died exactly a year from this day.  I could see all the memories I had on the trails at home; all the self-knowledge I gained there that led me to philosophy, to law, to San Francisco, to Tracy, to swimming, to this moment.  It was a surreal moment.  

After thinking about this for a few weeks now, the best explanation I can come up for what this was like is this: it is probably the closest thing I'll get to what its like when you're life flashes in front of your eyes.  But, luckily in this case, I didn't die right after this moment.  Well, I did still have a few miles left, so you never know.  

After I went through this rush of emotions, I cleaned up my face and kept charging forward.  The trail took us out of the woods and onto a fire-road/public street for a minute.  Tracy's dad Dale pulled up next to me on his bike for a minute, asking if I needed some water.  I did.  And lucky for me, it was after I had pulled myself together, so I didn't have anything that needed explaining, or did I risk losing any manliness points.  

A few miles later, and a few climbs later, I was in the final one-hundred yards of the race.  There was a guy in front of me who had to pull off to the right of the trial.  He looked like he was either getting pumped full of electricity or had the bad luck of having some voodoo spell cast upon him.  His body was in full-on spasms.  He looked like a rubber man trying to run.  He had debilitating cramps. I worried I might suffer from the same fate. 

I charged forward.  I was going to make it.  

I crossed the finish line at my strongest pace yet, with Tracy and her parents there waiting and encouraging.  

I was euphoric. 

Finishing Thoughts

After the race, it all made sense.  I finally understood why people subject themselves to this sort of masochist event and lifestyle.  It's not just about you, or your own personal sense of accomplishment - while that is one super important reason, its not the only one.  

Its the community.  Its about the lifestyle and the camaraderie. 

As we get older, more set it in our ways, and more narrow in the bubble of people we interact with, there is a growing disconnect between yourself and others.  Unless we grew up together, work together, or go to school together, it becomes increasingly difficult to talk about anything other than the weather, sports, or the news.  

With triathlon, there is an immediate connection.  The person swimming next to you, riding next to you, or running next to you, lives a similar lifestyle as you.  Even if that person is a construction worker, while you are a surgeon, you can connect.  When I was climbing up a steep, muddy hill, the guy behind me wasn't hoping I would fail.  He was shouting at me to "keep driving!" and encouraging me when he said I was "almost there!"  He knew that I was suffering just like he was.  He knew that I worked hard every day for a few months to even attempt this.  There is a mutual respect.  When I got passed up on the muddy trail by a guy with a prosthetic leg, I wanted to cry.  I wanted to know his story.  I wanted to hug him.  I wanted him to win.

With triathlon, a conservative police officer and a liberal public defender can talk about riding through the mud with the same level of excitement as they would when they were five-year olds on the playground.  I think that, at its core and at its best, that is what people are striving for when they attend a church regularly, a connection to the others around them.  

I can't know how many triathlons I will be able to complete, but I know I want more.  And not just for the personal accomplishment, but for everything that its brings.  

Thank you, John.