Spinning My Wheels

I have a confession to make: I go to spin class.  

Once a week, I voluntarily wake up before 6:00 am in order to torture myself for an hour.  Tracy and I sleepily sneak out the door by 6:10, hop in the car and get to the gym before the 6:30 class begins - and before the sun rises.  We descend into what is essentially the gym's basement to get assaulted by techno and house music, 90s jock jams and spandex.  The British instructor shouts at us over the thumping music through her mike while we pedal, and sweat, madly on our stationery bikes.  "Push! Push Push!!  Down, down, DOWN!!"  We wear our biking gear - spandex, clip-in shoes, the whole bit; except for a helmet, obviously.                                                                                                                                                                  

But we've tricked ourselves.  Everyone there has tricked themselves.  We've somehow managed to embrace this whole scene - not only embrace, but become addicted to.  Why?  How?  Because it hurts so good.  

It started out innocently and rationally enough.  It was January of 2011 and I had my first triathlon looming.  I was looking to bump up my training.  I needed to get more riding in because the Folsom Triathlon was a 16 mi mountain bike ride.  I was nowhere near meeting that mark by riding once a week, so Tracy suggested spin class.

"Spin?"  I asked, almost offended by the suggestion.  At the time, my mind couldn't distinguish a spin class from Zumba.  It was all the same to me.  To me, 'spin class' evoked the worst sorts of generic aerobics class imagery: sweaty people jumping around on top of each other, top 20 chart pop songs blaring, dancing, mirrors - pretty much death on wheels, the 9th Circle of Dante's inferno.  

"You mean, an aerobics class?  At the gym?  With loud, incredibly lame music?  You're kidding."  

"Yea, spin." Tracy responded, confidently.  "I started doing to spin in college - twice a week at 6:00 am.  It's an hour of stationery bike.  The first few weeks are pretty rough.  But after that you'll be hooked.  I want to get back into it.  We should do it! Come on!" 

I was unconvinced, but I was desperate.  "Okay, but I'm not going at 6:00 am.  There's gotta be a later class."

"Yea!  9:15 am.  Sunday mornings!" 

Madonna bangs over the mega-speakers, the instructor shouts over the music, and sweat exits from places previously unimaginable at rate in which, for the first time, the word "profusely" doesn't quite suffice.  I couldn't look at the person in the mirror reflecting back at me.  Not only out of self-loathing, but because I knew that if I did, that would be it.  It would be the straw that broke the camel's back.  If I looked in the mirror, not only would I finally see a full panoramic view of this curious scene, but I would surely lose it and puke everywhere.  If I looked up from the floor, I'd get dizzy and nauseous.  I'd see everyone's legs cycling furiously.  I'd see how depleted I was, how haggard I looked, how close to the edge I was.  Its the same instinct that makes you look away when you get a shot - if you don't see it then maybe it won't exist, maybe the pain won't be so severe.  Just focus on the same spot and breathe.  

It worked.  I survived my first spin class.  I "survived;" I did not thrive.  It was harder than two-a-day sprints during hell week.  My heart rate thumped faster than the techno beats, and never recovered throughout.  It was kind of humiliating.  I had been doing some pretty rigorous mountain biking every weekend, each ride being at least a few hours.  But an aerobics class with make-believe bikes and "simulated climbs" for an hour?  Out of your league, dickbrain.  If it weren't for Tracy, who continually reassured me that this was totally normal, I would have been one and done.  

So I stuck with it.  And it got better.  I mean, I still hated it.  But my heart rate started adapting and I no longer had to worry about falling of the ledge and landing in the City of Pukeville.  And because the class so thoroughly kicked my ass and got my heart rate to peaks it had never been, the rest of my Sunday was bliss (and not just because my skeeball league matches are on Sunday nights).  I started realizing how damned good this stupid class made me feel afterwards.  

I crossed a huge threshold when I realized I could wear my mountain biking shoes to class.  Being able to clip in to the pedals made the spinning itself feel more like actual riding.  It made it easier.  I could push and pull on the pedals, instead of just pushing.  From this point on, it was a downward spiral - or upwards, depending on the perspective.   

After I brought in the mountain biking shoes, everything else just followed.  I like mountain biking in my spandex because of the comfort and lack of restriction.  Why not wear them to spin class?  Why draw distinctions?  (In other words, why differentiate between wearing spandex in the isolation of far-away trails and wearing them to your university gym, one of the biggest in gyms in San Francisco?)  There are obvious reasons to make the clear-cut distinction, but I didn't.  And so it began.  

We got hooked.  We started going to the 6:30 am weekday class.  That way we'd feel that goodness during a week day, as opposed to just a Sunday.  It also opened up the weekends for mountain bike rides.  And man, did spin make us better mountain bikers.  Holy shit.  

Honestly, it's fitting that this is the last area for me to write about.  I've written about everything other part of my triathlon training, transitions and transformations.  My transition into swimming, barefoot running, into triathlon culture in general, that's gotten all the attention.  But spin has been like the offensive lineman who makes all the plays happen but gets no credit.  But the truth is though, it's because it's probably the transition of which I've been most embarrassed about.  The extent of which didn't hit me until two Thursdays ago.  

It was 7:25 and the class was winding down.  We were getting off our bikes and stretching a little.  Our British instructor's choice Jock Jam was still piercing the eardrums of those within a mile radius.  Tracy and I were unfazed.  We were in our post-spin blissful state after sending our lower bodies through a meat grinder.  We toweled off the last remaining drip of sweat.  But just as we were about to shuffle our stationery bikes over to their respective wall of the room in order to make some space for the 7:30 yoga class, we were intercepted.  

"Well, this is an interesting way to start the day."

"Hi, David!"  Tracy and I said laughing, but both thinking: Oh no!  Our old yoga teacher whose class we never go to anymore!  He thinks we've ditched him for Jock Jams!  He thinks we're no longer centered or mindful! We've been exposed!  We were both genuinely excited to see him, but not under these circumstances. 

He congratulates us on our engagement.  We thank him and stand there in the gym's basement under florescent lights, showing our sweat-soaked tees and spandees.   Tracy self-deprecatingly tells David that he now "knows our guilty secret."  David laughs it off and then proceeds to run around to get ready for his class.  I can tell that Tracy has the same sense of being embarrassed, of being caught cheating, of wanting to explain ourselves.  We both want to tell him that we miss him and his class, but that it just doesn't work with our schedules.  We want to tell him that we still go to yoga, but on Monday nights, and at a different studio.  We want to justify the spin class, the loud music, the spandex, everything.  But we don't.  We probably would have just been spinning our wheels anyway.  

We say goodbye and leave.   But my thoughts of this encounter didn't end there. 

When I left the gym that morning, I started thinking.  Why do I subject myself to this class?  Why don't I go to yoga instead?  I'm not currently training for any race in particular.  So I'm doing this by choice.  But why?  Why this choice?  Wouldn't I be more centered if I started my day with yoga instead?  

I really pushed myself on these questions and mulled over them for the next few days.  I went to our regular Monday night yoga class.  Thought about it more.  Then it hit me, on a morning while reading the Sports page.  

Yoga and meditation are centering.  They are calming, peaceful and bring serenity to a lot of people - and luckily, for me as well.  

But you know what else is centering?  Beating a guy off the line of scrimmage and running full speed at the quarterback and absolutely crushing him.  There's nothing more serene than throwing a high and tight strike-three fastball past the batter in a close game.  Nothing will make you sleep better at night than outplaying your opponent in the paint; out-rebounding him, blocking his shots, going up to the basket stronger than him.  Want to be at peace with the world for a minute?  Crush a golf ball 300 yards down the middle of the fairway.   Hit a baseball 300 feet.  Hit something.  

There's more to being centered and peaceful than introspection, meditation and yoga.  To me, that's just one form of serenity.  An important way, but just one.   I think a more honest approach understands how the other side of human nature functions and respects it's needs too.  

In Freud's political tome, "Civilization and Its Discontents," he argues that much of human behavior and motivation stems from our aggression impulse. (The other impulse being, unsurprisingly, the sexual drive.)  Freud argues that modern civilization will always be in tension with this aggression impulse.  As a result, the impulse gets suppressed, buried and then manifests itself in strange, untoward ways.  Therefore, people need to find ways to release that impulse in socially constructive (or at least, not destructive) ways.  

Even though much of Freud's ideas regarding the field of psychology have been debunked, his philosophical argument is particularly persuasive.  Finding ways to release our aggressive tensions in socially constructive ways has, in my mind, led to many forms of exercise sports - from running and biking to football, boxing and UFC cage fights.  (Why are we so drawn to the big hit in a football game? Freud must be right, right?) 

For many years of my life, sports kept me centered.  They provided the outlet.  And in doing so, I felt peaceful.  But now, since I don't have organized sports, I've found other ways to channel the aggression impulse.  And now it is clear to me that spin is the primary victim.  

The thing about spin is that it doesn't seem like the obvious choice for a place to release aggression and get centered.  And I think that's part of the main reason why I've been so embarrassed about it - that, and the house music.  But try it.  Put yourself on a bike in a room full of people with techno bumping while a drill sargeant instructor shouts at you, telling you that you're not going fast or hard enough.  Trust me, you'll start seeing red.  You'll be a bull chasing the red cape.

But it feels amazing.  The troubles and anxieties of the rest of the day drip off my shoulders.  I feel like I treat people better.  I treat myself better.  I feel the serenity of coming out of yoga, but just through a different means.  

The main difference between yoga and spin is the difference between mindfulness v. mindlessness.  In yoga, the focus is on mindfulness.  Your focus is on breath and posture.  The point is not to let your mind wander, but to be completely present in the moment.   But in spin, the point is to let your mind wander, to pretend you are somewhere else.  The idea is to day dream, to pretend that you are actually climbing up a steep hill overlooking a lake.  The point is to dream and fantasize that that stationery bike you are on is actually on a race course, in the final stretch, passing up the leader to win the race.  

Dreaming is just as important as being present and mindful in the moment.  Being able to step away from that dream and back to the present is just as important as creating the fantasy. 

Each time, I win the race.   

But then I step off the bike, head out of the basement studio, and up the stairs to start my day.  Then I'll hear a faint thump of a 90's house jock jam from below, and I am acutely brought back to reality. 

Hardly, Strictly Barefoot

I'll admit I look ridiculous.  I'll concede that it's a craze. I know it seems nuts.  But I don't care.  I know that I'm right and I want the world to know it:  I'm a believer, a full-fledged subscriber to the barefoot movement! 

That felt good.  But I should clarify: not totally barefoot, per se.  More accurately, I'm a full convert to the Vibram FiveFinger shoe movement.  You know, those weird looking booties that look like aqua-socks with individual slots for each toe.  The Foot Glove.  I know you've seen them.  I know you've had to do a double-take upon seeing these things for the first time.  I'm sure you've been confused, you've probably scoffed.  What the hell is... that...  guy doing?  What on earth is he running in? He looks ridiculous!  

I know because that was my initial reaction.  My reaction was easily explained away in my mind though: fucking crazy San Francisco.  My sheltered eyes see something shocking at least once a week though, so I didn't think much of the booties after my initial spotting a few years ago.  Not until I stumbled across a book. 

ReBorn to Run

I saw it resting on my brother's bookshelf in his Washington, D.C. apartment.  "Born to Run, by Christopher McDougall" read the book's spine.  I didn't even need to pull the book off the shelf.  I knew.  I had to read this book. 

I had just written about my first Xterra Triathlon experience a few months prior.  But I had never read someone else's first-hand account of running, biking, or swimming.  So I craved a book that spoke about this.  I hardly knew anything about the book, but I wanted inspiration - for my training as well as my writing.  I wanted to see how much there was to learn.  I longed for an example of what a real work of talent, transcribed from first-hand experience, really looks like.  I wanted to absorb.  I hoped to think about running in a new way, and to think about writing about running in a new way.  But I couldn't anticipate what happened next.   

I devoured the book to and from work on the train everyday.  McDougall's tone, pace and subject matter immediately pulled me in.  All of the sudden I couldn't wait for my over-stuffed, forever frustrating train ride home everyday.  McDougall was funny, humble, and had an amazing story to tell.  I became so engrossed in the book and the story that I didn't realize how, after each day of commuting and reading, McDougall was slowly chipping away at everything I thought I knew about running.  

One trip on the train and my mind is far away in a mysterious canyon in Mexico, the next ride home its analyzing a study by Harvard scientists.  One chapter I'm following a group of colorful ultra-marathon distance runners on a quest to put together a race in Mexico, the next I'm learning about the author's 6'4'', 240 lb frame and propensity for running-induced injury.  One minute I'm reading about a remarkable tribe in the canyons of Mexico who can run the distance of New York to Detroit non-stop, the next I'm reading a study telling me that running shoes are dangerous.

Dangerous?  What?  There's nothing wrong with running shoes, right?  How could there be?  Everyone wears running shoes.  Just so long as you change them out every six months?  You have to make sure there's enough gel in those soles, don't you?  

Nope, the book slams you with another study finding that you're more likely to get injured with newer running shoes than older ones.  You're better off wearing your old shoes, the shoes that are more worn down.  

Well, wait a minute.   What about yoga?  You just need to stretch to avoid injury, right?  I can still wear running shoes and...

Nope.  Same result.  Studies found that those who do yoga regularly are more likely to get injured than runners who don't.  

Shit. 

There are explanations and anecdotes.  The book swings from evolutionary explanations, physiological and muscular explanations, and historical explanations to the author's personal transition from running shoes to barefooting.   McDougall throws all sorts of stats at the reader - the rate, likelihood and inevitability of injury for runners wearing running shoes.  He describes this native tribe of Mexico who run these incredible distances, essentially barefoot.  He describes how running shoes give our feet a false sense of support, which leads to all sorts of problems: over-pronation, striking too hard, bad posture and technique.  

(I won't lay out all of the book's arguments, because I don't want to butcher the author's fantastic job of it.  But I did share a video of the author laying out some of the book's ideas in a speech that I think will give you a sense of the persuasiveness of the ideas.  Otherwise, check out the book if you can.  If nothing else, its entertaining as hell.)

It goes on and on like this.  It left me breathless, completely and utterly convinced.  I'm a third year law student.  The heart of my training is in assessing, weighing and analyzing the merit of arguments.  But this book, man this book, made me feel like I was trained in the art of unflinching, unquestioning religious fervor.  

Before long, I'd walk in my front door, and glare at my running shoes out of the corner of my eye, skeptically.  Who are you?! Traitors!  Why are you trying to hurt me?  I don't even know you anymore, I'd shout as I walked past my sad old hooves.  I felt betrayed.  

Tracy must have been worried because usually I'm so cautious.  I'm not one to get swept up in something so quickly.  I take my time, weigh everything, dip one toe in, then pull it out, then maybe start to slowly jump in.  But there was just something about this book.   

In fact, I know Tracy was worried.  She couldn't wait for me to finish the book.  Because, she'd say, it just sounded so good.  But what I think was really going on was that she was like a concerned parent trying to find out who this cool, eccentric new friend was who her boy was coming home and raving about everyday.  

After I finished the book and passed it on to her, it didn't take long before I realized she was just as crazy about this eccentric new friend as I was.  Literally, I handed her the book, then went into the other room to finish up some work.  Before I could even sit down at my desk, I could hear her cackling in the other room, giggling like a school girl.  Swooned immediately, just like I was. 

One week later, I was now the worried one.  She was buzzing around the apartment, more convinced of the idea than me, more convinced than I think even the author was.  We turned into the Jevhovah's Witnesses of Barefoot Running.  

Running shoes are evil!  Burn them all!  All good things come through Barefoot!  The second coming is here!  

We wanted to save everyone.  But first, we had to put our money where our mouths were.  Or rather, where are feet were. 

Sole-less

I pulled out the ruler and measured.  Okay, a size 41 it is!  I clicked on their website and found the style of Vibram that I wanted, the style that most conformed to the type of running I do.  The Treksport style, all black, was made for trail running.  Perfect.  Confirm purchase.  Now, I wait.  

My first time putting them on, I didn't want to take them off - ever.   I wanted to wear them at all times, do everything in them.  (See photos throughout.) They were so comfy.  They made me feel so athletic and prepared for anything.  Fire breaks out?  Don't worry, I can scale the side of that building and save those children and kittens.  An unplanned game involving any sort of variety of ball?  Yes please!  But I did take them off, but not before I took them for their first spin.  

 

Barefoot Lounging

Getting beyond my own uneasiness of wearing spandex in public was a huge wall to climb.  Now throw ballerina slippers into the mix and I'm totally fucked.  Where did my life take such a wrong turn?  These are my initial thoughts as I hit the trail for the first time in the Vibrams after a mountain bike ride.  

It felt less like running and more like tip-toeing and prancing through a meadow, springing from one lilly-pad to the next.  If my old football coach could only see me now.  Christ.

But a few minutes in, these self-conscious thoughts dissolve.  They are forced out by the focus that is required - the focus needed to avoid the big rocks, to land properly on the ball (or pad) of my feet, with knees bent and soft.  My toes are reaching out and gripping the dirt while I climb the hill.  My feet feel lighter than they ever have.  My knees have spring.  My calves are receiving more sensation (oh so much!) than they ever have.  My ankles, achilles, the muscles in my feet, all muscles I've never considered before, are all singing. Before long I'm completely zeroed in and engaged. 

I've been a runner for about four years, but I received more feedback from, and insight into, my body in those 30 minutes than those four years combined.  The bodily feedback and insight sang during that first run, but the singing had just begun.  The soreness after that run sang much, much louder.  I looked like I was walking around on the stilts the rest of the week, all stiff and wobbly.  I knew this would be a long process.

Barefoot Snoozing.

Its really like learning to run all over again.  I pretty much had to disregard everything I thought I knew about running.  I was humbled.  I couldn't run the distances I used to be able to do without giving it a second's thought.  A thirty-minute run became a marathon.  Running more than two times a week was suicidal.  The tension in my calves would kick in on my fifth step.  It was unreal. 

I had to consult alternate sources.  We found a book on barefoot running that had photos and examples of proper form by a self-proclaimed guru of the barefoot style, "Barefoot Ken Bob."  (Please google this guy.  Just to see the photos of him.)  My running form and posture completely changed.  My knees bent heavily, my back straightened, my feet landed on the ball, as opposed to the heel.  

Barefoot Pooping.

I continued to improve, to hurt less and run further.  But because Tracy hadn't bought her pair of Vibrams yet, she was still running at her normal distances and paces, despite removing the soles from her shoes - to try to get less support and closer to the barefoot (the truth!).  Accordingly, I wanted to keep up and get some distance in.  So every once in a while, on the weekends, I would shamefully revert back to my old hooves.   It was embarrassing, like crawling back to an old lover.  But I'd be able to keep up.  More than anything though, it made me realize how bored it is wearing running shoes.  It made me realize how numb my feet felt when wearing running shoes, how such little effort was taking place below the knee, how the thick sole of the shoes would angle my back forward and result in stiffness later. 

In other words, it made me realize how I truly am a convert to the barefoots. 

Jehovah's Footness

I can't help but feel like their uncompensated spokesperson.  When we run around in them, we often get stares, sometimes we get stopped and questioned.  (Tracy got her Vibrams about a month ago or so.  On her first run in the booties, she got real silent.  Then she looked over at me and said, "I feel like a ninja."  That's it.)  

The looks and questions from strangers range from, 1) What the fuck?, to 2) How do you like them?, to 3) I'm thinking about getting a pair.  More often the latter in the city.  

It's intimidating at first.  But we've embraced it.  We're not as fervent about saving everyone as we were initially.  But if people ask, we will share.  Or we will mock other people who run past us with wild running forms that are only enabled by running shoes and will inevitably result in injury if maintained.  We can be kind of dickish sometimes.  

I've been wanting to write this since my first run in the Vibrams.  But I wanted to wait it out, to see if I would improve, get injured, hate them, or who knows.  But after my run last Friday night - the same trail run after mountain bike ride where I had my first run in the Vibrams - I knew it was time.  It was time to share.  

Friday night was only a 45 minute trail run, but it was hands down the most remarkable running experience of my life.  Because it was so remarkable, I don't think it is worth trying to describe.  I will just leave it at this.

When it comes to the barefoot craze: Believe the Hype.  But be patient. 

A Milestone Meets a Creature

I can feel him hovering, staring.  I can see him out of my periphery.  I can hear him dripping water everywhere.  But I don't want to look over.  

"Heyy," his voice booms a deep baritone.  I'm forced to look over.  "Do you know where to get the towels?" he asks.  He's huge.   He's plump.  He's a replica of the principal from Ferris Bueller's Day Off.  He's totally nude, facing me square on.  

"Uh, uh, yes uh, yes I do," I respond, stuttering.  "They are outside of the locker room, past the ellipticals, and to the right of the stairs," I say, trying to keep my eyes zeroed in on the inside of my locker.  "Oh, thanks," he says, seemingly understanding. 

I try to end my thoughts of this guy and the encounter right there and get back to my pleasant post-swim thoughts.  And I do, but only momentarily.  I'm good for a few seconds as I wrap everything up.  But as I button my last button, lace up my shoes and put my goggles and speedos back in my locker, he scurries off.  He's no longer in our row of lockers.  

Wait.  Does this mean?  No. It can't be.  Surely he brought his own towel.  He was just asking for future reference, right?  

I throw my bag over my shoulder, take a quick glance in the mirror and turn the corner, exiting the one of about six rows of lockers.  

There he is.  Standing in front of the full length mirror is my new friend, still dripping water everywhere.  But now he's not totally nudie.  He's back in his blue speedo.  I keep my head down as I walk past him and out of the locker room, avoiding eye contact - not just eye-to-eye contact, but most importantly, avoiding (my) eye-to-(his) body contact.  I fly through the locker room doors and out into the bustling arena of ellipticals.  

Walking through the long runway of workout machines, I have this unshakable premonition of what's about to happen.   I don't even have to turn around to know.  As I get about fifteen yards from the locker room and into this long stretch of a runway filled with bored people on stationery machines, I know what's happening behind me.  Their eyes tell all.  Their eyes expand to the size of golfballs.  I hear laughter.  I even hear a shriek.  

When I get to the towel station I throw my towel in the bin in exchange for my student ID card.  I tell the woman my last name and she spins around to retrieve my card. She searches, finds it, turns back around, and looks up.  Her eyes shift from me to somewhere behind me.  Her eyes become twin moons.  She freezes abruptly, then recovers, regains her composure and hands me the ID card.  I put the card in my wallet, take a deep breath and braced myself for what I already know is there.  The creature from the blue lagoon.  

Yesterday marked a major milestone for me.  In the just-over-one-year anniversary of my relationship with my speedo, I took our relationship to a new level.  

Yesterday, I swam a full mile straight without stopping.  It wasn't planned.  It just sort of happened.  But as I thought about it afterwards, I couldn't believe it.  I swam a full mile non-stop in 35 minutes.  I realize I'm not going to break any records or anything.  Nor do I have any ambitions of being a fast or great swimmer for that matter.  What amazed me was not so much the accomplishment, but the accomplishment in relation to where I started.  

When I first started swimming in August of last year, it took all of my strength just to get to the other end of the pool.  I'd be so winded and gassed by the time I got to the other side that I would have to break for a solid minute or so before I could give it another go.  But I kept getting better.  Every time I jumped in the pool, I'd improve from the last swim.  I'd go from one lap then break, to two laps in a row, then four!, then five!, and so on.  It was exciting.  I remember the first time I did nine laps in a row (quarter mile) without stopping.  I felt like a fish!  

For the past seven months or so, however,  I've been in a rut.  Once I hit the half-mile mark, I got complacent.  I'd do the same thing every swim: half-mile nonstop, ten minutes of kickboard, some breaststroke, then stare down the clock until 50 minutes have passed.  I stopped setting goals.  My swims started feeling like a trip to the store: get in, get it done, flee the scene quickly.  

Yesterday started out in similar fashion.  I wasn't looking forward it.  But a few laps into the swim, something kicked in. And it kicked in hard.  

I couldn't figure why there was this new flame under my ass.  Is it the new coffee that Tracy bought that's been lighting me up all week?  Is it my cousins taunting me with their constant postings of their impressive running mileage and fast times?  Or maybe it's because I haven't been able to run as far lately due to the Vibrams, so I'm compensating in the pool?  No, maybe its this environment - this packed pool, the circle swim lanes that provide the energy of a triathlon, the weirdos in the lanes next to me doing wild synchronized dances at the bottom of the pool, looking like exotic bottom-feeder fish.  

I sprang out of the pool after the 35 minute mile and stood on solid ground.  I was amped.  I wobbled as I gathered my things and headed for the shower.  I felt drunk, but a good drunk.  

I'm back at my locker when I realize that this is exactly what I needed.  I needed to bring back that initial excitement to swimming.  I needed to get out of my rut.  I needed to shake things up and get over the feeling of plateau.  What made me so excited about swimming initially was the constant change, the improvement in performance as well as physique.  The feeling of uncertainty and excitement.  The feeling of never quite knowing what was going to happen the next time I jumped in the pool.  How many laps can I do this time?  What technique am I going to learn during the swim?  How much water will I choke on this week?  

Feeling content, I finish this thought about my new excitement and uncertainty re swimming.  I'm almost finished packing up my stuff when I hear dripping water and a deep baritone, "Heyy..."

The excitement is back in full force.  Or rather, in full frontal. 

A Well-Oiled Machine, Or Somewhere in the Middle

If it wasn't clear before, it's clear now: I have no idea what I'm doing.  

If my incompetence wasn't clear after my whole "flat tire debacle" in the Tahoe City Xterra Triathlon in June, it's impossible to deny after Saturday.  

Tracy and I were on our typical Saturday trail ride - Fairfax, Marin County, Mt. Tam loop.  We love this ride.  In fact, we are so fond of this ride that it's pretty much the only one we do.  Last year, we bought a book on mountain biking in Northern California.  This Fairfax trail is one of the first we read about.  We've done others, but we always come crawling back home to Tam. It has everything you want in a ride: solid climbs, thrilling descents, breathtaking views, changing landscape, friendly riders, plenty of sun.  It's perfect.  But I digress.

It's about 4:30 pm when we unload the bikes from our new bike rack, gear up, and hop on the saddle.  We're like cooped up pups breaking free and chasing down the tennis ball in the park.  By the end of the week, we need this.  We hit the trail and start our climb.  As the incline increases, I'm forced to adjust gears to ease up the resistance.  This is standard procedure.  But as the hill steepens, something starts happening.  

"Clunk, chink, chank! Ggggrrr... Ka Clunk, Ka Chook, Chink!" 

What is going on?!  Coming from my pedals is the sound of mini fireworks exploding.  With each pedal stroke, the crackle of a small explosion follows.  Oh this is horrible.  This is... This is... just horrible.  

It's my chain.  It's hiccuping every other time I pedal. It's more frustrating than a scratched CD skipping every 5 seconds.  Each time it hiccups it feels like the floor is coming out from under me. 

It's my chain.  It's drier than the Prohibition.  A cactus has received more love and affection than my bike chain.  And now, it's protesting.  It doesn't want to ride today.  I understand.  Why should it?  I have abused and neglected it.  I have failed to supervise.  Failed to set up proper and timely services.  If my bike was appointed an attorney in bicycle welfare proceedings, my bike would be removed from my custody immediately, with all parental rights terminated.  It would be in a new home, with a new caregiver - one that would provide for all of it's needs.  This all dawns on me as Tracy and I are only ten minutes into our ride.  We realize there's no way I can continue.  My chain is in desperate need of oil.  And neither of us have any.  I dribble some water on it from my bottle.  This just seems to make things worse.  The grinding sounds even louder.  We decide to turn around.  That's it.  Ride's over.  

I'm fuming as we sail back down the hill.  45-min drive for nothing.  But Tracy's not as pessimistic.  She seems to think that someone back in the parking lot might have some oil.  Right.  

We're back in the parking lot in just a few minutes.  Before I can unclench my jaw, Tracy is a few cars down approaching a plumb middle-aged man in a Chelsea Futbol jersey.  He's getting out of his minivan.  He already has his helmet on.  It makes him look like a six-foot mushroom with an overgrown stem (his body).  Oh, God.  That guy?  Really?  You think that guy is going to have some spare oil?  That guy?!  The only way that guy could help us out is if we were in a crisis where the solution involved needing to find the nearest pub or brawtwurst.   

I can hear the guy say something as he opens the back of the van.  His Irish accent confirms my hunch regarding his pub-finding abilities.  But before I can bask in my stereotype victory, I hear Tracy saying, "Oh! Thank you so much!"  She skips over to me with a poised, self-satisfied smirk across her face, can-o-oil in hand.  I lift my jaw off the ground.  

Five minutes later, my chain is greased up and ready to ride.  Wow.  

I'd like to say that the rest of the ride was perfect and hiccup free.  But it wasn't.  My chain still rebelled a few times.  But I was able to get through the ride.  That's all that I needed.  My mind swirled for the next two hours on the trail.  

When it comes to mountain biking, I'm somewhere in the middle.  On the sliding scale of mountain bike obsession/interest - where on one extreme is the obsessed triathlete-bike-mechanic-devotee, and on the other is the person who owns a bike and rides a few times a year - I'm right in the middle.  If anything I probably tilt more toward the less obsessed side of the scale.   And that's not because I don't love it.  I do.  Mountain biking is one of my favorite things in the world.  But what keeps me from tilting toward the totally obsessed side of the scale is my total lack of care of my bike - and lack of interest in bike care.  I wish this weren't so.  I wish I looked at my bike as something worthy of my time and care.  I wish I was fascinated by it's mechanics, it's function.  I want to be!  I've read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance!  I want to relish in the spiritual bliss of man's two-way relationship with technology, our symbiotic relationship with machines!  But I'm not there yet.  And this chain incident, the flat tire incident, it all shines a spotlight on this.  

There's an insecurity when you're somewhere in the middle.  I can't brush off my ignorance as a dabbler can.  It's harder to be humble about my lack of knowledge.  It's complicated.  When I don't really care about something, or don't spend much time doing it, then it's easier to ask for help, it's easier to laugh at yourself.  Your fumbles during your first few weeks of a new job are excusable, but those same mistakes two years later aren't.  You don't take yourself seriously when you're a novice or newbie - your ignorance is expected.  But when you spend every weekend doing something - when you've completed triathlons riding on that something! - and yet you really know nothing about what you're doing, well, it's hard to swallow.  Because you know that you should know what, in fact, you do not know. And to compensate for being in this middle zone, there's this part of me that wanted to shout at the Irish guy, "I've done two triathlons!"  But I didn't.  Thankfully.  

But the other extreme is scary too.  It's intimidating.  You know, the extreme cyclists you see on the weekends and early morning weekdays.  The full spandexed, the full-body shaved, the totally obsessed.  The one's that size up your bike and calves simultaneously as they ride past.  They make me nervous.  It's not easy to tap into this world.  I've walked into bike shops where I've felt more unsure about myself than a high-school freshman at a dance.  I've felt more comfortable discussing car problems with a mechanic.  It's intimidating.  There's so much I don't know.  There's so much to learn.  

Why haven't I taken the time to learn about my bike and to care for it properly?  I've treated my bike as if it were a pair of running shoes, throwing it in the closet the minute I get home, not looking for it until it's time to ride.  How can I expect it to perform when called upon, despite it not receiving necessary nourishment? It's not right.  

This negligence runs counter to most aspects of my life.  Of recent, it runs counter to my new project - barefoot running. [I plan on writing about my humbling, excruciating and exciting transition to running in Vibram FiveFinger barefoot shoes in my next post].   

The most compelling idea behind barefoot running is it's natural connectedness to our bodies (our machines).  We've evolved over thousands and thousands of years.  We've done so well in the evolutionary game because we ran - and of course due to other reasons, such as social ability.  But we ran and ran and ran.  All without Nikes, amazingly.  Running without supported shoes is how our machines were initially made.  Our feet receive nourishment from contact with the soil.  Our running form takes proper shape when we discard the hoofs.  We're more engaged and focused when we run barefoot.  We sustain less injuries.  We have more fun.  

Maybe this is what will happen when I decide to take a look under the hood of my bike.  I'll feel more connected to this machine that brings me so much joy.  Maybe I'll get more out of my biking experience; and my bike will get more out of me. 

Or maybe I won't.  If I do learn all these new things about my bike, and begin caring for all of my bike's needs, would I have experienced my flat in my last tri?  Or would we have experienced the kindness of this Round Pint of Guiness in the minivan?  Probably not. 

Maybe I'll continue to ignore and dismiss my bike's needs.  That way I'll still have something to write about.