The first mistake was the biggest.
I believed that I was a pretty hot cyclist.
So when I heard about this group of riders that meet at the Red Eye Brewing Company in Wausau, I was intrigued. I've been doing most of my biking alone, with the exception of the Northern Minnesota touring slog along the Mississippi River and a few rides with my buddy Dave. It has been going well. I had been popping off rides of 30 to 45 miles at about an 18 mph average.
So I thought the Red Eye group, which calls itself the Rib Mountain Flyers, would be a good on to join because I was told by a couple of people that it was "fairly low key." I believed them. Mistake No.2. "Low key" is a subjective descriptive, and the word "fairly" seems to soften it. Or at least that's what I wanted to believe.
I began to envision a spinning jaunt for 25 or so miles through the countryside, followed by the good natured quaffing of beers. Mistake No. 3. Always, always assume the worst when entering a group riding situation, and adjustments should be tempered later.
As some of the Rib Mountain Flyers rode up, I noticed that I was the only one to have a stomach that folds upon itself when I sit. But still I stayed. Mistake No. 3.
I asked how long the ride would be, and was told 43 miles. Hmm, I thought. That should be OK. I noticed that I was the only one with a "triple" front crank, which means my bike has a granny gear -- definitely not the equipment of a high caliber rider. But I figured, what the heck, I'm strong, and I'll gain the benefit with riding in the group. It'll all be OK. Mistake Nos. 4 and 5.
By the time we were cruising up the hill on Troy Street north of Wausau, I knew that I was in over my head. My heart was spinning in circles inside my chest, and my lungs were started to feel stretched out, like balloons just before they burst.
For the next 50 minute or so, or about 17 miles, I rode the best I have ever ridden in my life, but most of it was spent at the back of the pack, just clinging on to whoever was there. We climbed up and down hills, and I knew that it was all going to come crashing down on me like a brick wall, but it was too late. I stuck it out as long as I could. Mistake No. 6.
I should have bailed earlier, but the guys in the group, a friendly bunch comprised of doctors, a lawyer, an engineer, a green builder and more, were encouraging. One came back for me and dragged me back to the group. I could ride with them on the flats, but any incline at all, and I would fall back. Finally, I gave up, and asked them go on without me. In about a mile, they were out of sight.
At first I thought it was all right, that I would just cruise home, at an average of 15 mph or so. But it wasn't to be so.
Payback came down hard, and without warning. I felt like I was pedaling in water, against the current. Cyclists call it bonking, but I don't find that to be a very descriptive word. It's too light-hearted. I spent the next hour and half trying to come up with a better one. Metaphors, such as "like the Hindenburg coming down in flames" or "crashing like a lead anvil" flittered through my mind, but they're just not right. What happened to me was a complete meltdown, and I began to think I understood how the astronauts on Apollo 13 must have felt. ("Just get me home, please.")
There was just no energy, and I figured that mistake No. 8 occurred before the ride began, when I didn't grab an energy bar for the ride. Or a year ago, when I took the extra water bottle cage off my bike, so I only had one bottle that I was rapidly draining.
But as I limped along, 9 mph, 12 on the downhills, I began to feel good for some reason. Not my body. No, that was crapped out. But my spirit was good. I was doing something that I wanted to do for a long time. And I vowed to try riding with this group again as soon as I could. Because even though I thought I might be dying, I also felt really alive at the same time too.
Postscript: I did make it to the Red Eye, probably around 40 minutes later than the group made it. I was immediately welcomed with handshakes and smiles, and a beer was put in my hand. One advantage of bonking: They buy you beer.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Why Brian needs a new bike
Maybe you don't know Brian. He's my cousin-in-law. Last fall, he and I made an epic Mountain-Bay Trail ride from Green Bay to Wausau, during which we formed a bicycling bond that can't be broken.
I have come to believe that Brian is on the cusp of a very important turning point in his life. He is about to become a cyclist. He's even started riding with a local cycling group in Green Bay. And he is able to pull his young daughter Elise through the hills of Wausau without breaking a sweat. But there is a problem. He needs a new bike.
Right now he sits bolt upright on a city/comfort bike. There is nothing wrong with this bicycle. It's very nice to use around town, to pull Elise, and to use for toodling. But it's not the right tool for him to become a cyclist, the kind who frets about ave mph, rpms and drafting. He must get a road racing bicycle.
So I've compiled the top 10 reasons Brian needs a new bike:
10. He's skinny. Skinny guys make good bike riders.
9. Elise really wants to GO FAST in that little cart he pulls.
8. Brian likes to eat. Up until now, his youth and his squirrel-like metabolism has worked in his favor. But time stops for no one, and his cycling will allow him to continue to eat two pieces of pie after a full Aunt Shirley-created Thankgiving dinner.
7. He's become way too proficient at ladder ball, and really needs to take up a more active sport.
6. He's become way too proficient at Scrabble, and really needs to take up a more active sport.
5. He looks like American pro bike rider Levi Leipheimer.
Levi
Brian
(OK, I don't have a lot of expertise in uploading photos into blogger, but you get the idea. [They are sans hair. It's more aerodynamic.])
4. Cycling is a sport that will get Brian out of the house. Getting Brian out of the house is a good thing, because then he won't annoy Cousin Jenny so much, therefore making their relationship stronger.
3. He's a pharmacist. That means he has easy access to pain killers.
2. He's a pharmacist. That means he has easy access to the latest in performing-enhancing drugs, and the expertise to foil drug-testing technology.
1. Because I need another cycling partner to cut the wind for me, so my rides are faster and easier. *
*Brian should get a good road bike, but not a great one. I want him to be good enough to pull me up some hills, but not so good that I won't be able to kick his keister.
I have come to believe that Brian is on the cusp of a very important turning point in his life. He is about to become a cyclist. He's even started riding with a local cycling group in Green Bay. And he is able to pull his young daughter Elise through the hills of Wausau without breaking a sweat. But there is a problem. He needs a new bike.
Right now he sits bolt upright on a city/comfort bike. There is nothing wrong with this bicycle. It's very nice to use around town, to pull Elise, and to use for toodling. But it's not the right tool for him to become a cyclist, the kind who frets about ave mph, rpms and drafting. He must get a road racing bicycle.
So I've compiled the top 10 reasons Brian needs a new bike:
10. He's skinny. Skinny guys make good bike riders.
9. Elise really wants to GO FAST in that little cart he pulls.
8. Brian likes to eat. Up until now, his youth and his squirrel-like metabolism has worked in his favor. But time stops for no one, and his cycling will allow him to continue to eat two pieces of pie after a full Aunt Shirley-created Thankgiving dinner.
7. He's become way too proficient at ladder ball, and really needs to take up a more active sport.
6. He's become way too proficient at Scrabble, and really needs to take up a more active sport.
5. He looks like American pro bike rider Levi Leipheimer.
Levi
Brian
(OK, I don't have a lot of expertise in uploading photos into blogger, but you get the idea. [They are sans hair. It's more aerodynamic.])
4. Cycling is a sport that will get Brian out of the house. Getting Brian out of the house is a good thing, because then he won't annoy Cousin Jenny so much, therefore making their relationship stronger.
3. He's a pharmacist. That means he has easy access to pain killers.
2. He's a pharmacist. That means he has easy access to the latest in performing-enhancing drugs, and the expertise to foil drug-testing technology.
1. Because I need another cycling partner to cut the wind for me, so my rides are faster and easier. *
*Brian should get a good road bike, but not a great one. I want him to be good enough to pull me up some hills, but not so good that I won't be able to kick his keister.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Feeling too good
I've just finished a 35 mile bicycle ride through the hills northeast of town. Not so very long ago, this ride would have left me completely spent, and the rest of the day would have consisted of long naps on the couch while the television nattered away in the background of my dreams. There would be sore legs, which would lead to the gulping of aspirin, and complaints from the love of my life: "Is that all you're going to do today?"
But not today. I was tired after finishing the ride, but there was some strength left. The muscles of lower back -- usually the weak link -- were relaxed instead of cramping up. There was a short nap in front of Wimbledon coverage, but it only lasted 20 minutes. A quick lunch, and I'm feeling good.
Maybe a little too good. In the past three weeks I have been directing an athletic resurgence of sorts. It came after my usual nattering about, trying to decide whether to focus on running or bicycling, and wondering if there was some sort of athletic goal I to which I should be aspiring.
This probably is the undue influence of Dave on my thinking. He's big on goals. He likes measuring things, too, and recording progress. It's really kind of disgusting. But that's who he is, and I accept that, and listen to his Oprah-like goal blathering as one does a toddler who chatters away without making any sense whatsoever.
I avoid goals, because it requires commitment. What if, for instance, I were to focus on cycling, only to want to jump into a 10-k in a couple of weeks? What if I were to just run, with intent on competing in a marathon and suddenly wanted to get into some sort of citizens race?
So I decided that I would try to do both. Riding one day, running the next. The theory ultimately is that the cycling will give the legs a break from the pounding of running, and will be actually a "rest" day.
I've found that it's working exceedingly well. I'm feeling stronger. I'm feeling faster, both as a runner and as a cyclist. Now I haven't run or ridden with anyone, and I haven't actually done a competition or official time trial to accurately measure this feeling, so it all might be self-delusion.
In that case, when I do jump in with a group of cyclists, or sign up for a 10-k, I might be in for a mighty humbling experience.
And in the past, feeling too good has always led to bad things. An injury. A car breakdown. So I'm worried that although I'm experience the ying of getting into pretty good shape, the yang will clang down on my skull like a frying pan.
But not today. I was tired after finishing the ride, but there was some strength left. The muscles of lower back -- usually the weak link -- were relaxed instead of cramping up. There was a short nap in front of Wimbledon coverage, but it only lasted 20 minutes. A quick lunch, and I'm feeling good.
Maybe a little too good. In the past three weeks I have been directing an athletic resurgence of sorts. It came after my usual nattering about, trying to decide whether to focus on running or bicycling, and wondering if there was some sort of athletic goal I to which I should be aspiring.
This probably is the undue influence of Dave on my thinking. He's big on goals. He likes measuring things, too, and recording progress. It's really kind of disgusting. But that's who he is, and I accept that, and listen to his Oprah-like goal blathering as one does a toddler who chatters away without making any sense whatsoever.
I avoid goals, because it requires commitment. What if, for instance, I were to focus on cycling, only to want to jump into a 10-k in a couple of weeks? What if I were to just run, with intent on competing in a marathon and suddenly wanted to get into some sort of citizens race?
So I decided that I would try to do both. Riding one day, running the next. The theory ultimately is that the cycling will give the legs a break from the pounding of running, and will be actually a "rest" day.
I've found that it's working exceedingly well. I'm feeling stronger. I'm feeling faster, both as a runner and as a cyclist. Now I haven't run or ridden with anyone, and I haven't actually done a competition or official time trial to accurately measure this feeling, so it all might be self-delusion.
In that case, when I do jump in with a group of cyclists, or sign up for a 10-k, I might be in for a mighty humbling experience.
And in the past, feeling too good has always led to bad things. An injury. A car breakdown. So I'm worried that although I'm experience the ying of getting into pretty good shape, the yang will clang down on my skull like a frying pan.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Before the heat sets in
The air was thick this morning just after dawn. It was cool, but you knew that wasn't going to last long, not by the way the humidity was hanging in the air.
Forecasts called for the heat to come in, and that's why I dragged myself out of bed at 5:15 a.m. I wanted to get ride in, beat the heat and get to work, all before sun started scorching.
I took Highway 52 east out of town, right into the sun. Water hung on the tall glass and shimmered in the light, and mist rose out of the patches of trees that lined the road here and there as I climbed the long hill. The suns rays angled through them, as if this were a movie and Jesus was being born in those woods. I rode through little bubbles of cool air, and the moisture started clinging to the hair on my arms and dripping off my helmet.
It was one of those mornings, you know, when you're glad to be alive. As I woke up on the bike, my legs started spinning and my breath evened out and my heart began humming inside my chest. What was that I felt? Oh, yeah, I felt strong. It's been so long since I've had that feeling.
The pockets of mist turned into out and out fog as I rode further out into the country, gliding along at at even 20 to 22 mph. Suddenly the fog surrounded me, and all I could only see about 100 yards in any direction. It was a nifty, disconcerting and scary feeling all at once.
It felt as if I were stationary, and the world was spinning beneath me. Houses and barns came at me from the mist, like ships at sea. I got this crazy notion of belonging in this particular place and time. At the same time I hoped that I wouldn't get hit by a Ford Econoline van, driven by some electrician on the way to work.
I was a little lost, too. I know these roads, but when you're in a fog, there's no sense of perspective, and the landmarks I use to measure where I am were lost in all that gray.
It was one of the best rides I've had in a long, long time.
Forecasts called for the heat to come in, and that's why I dragged myself out of bed at 5:15 a.m. I wanted to get ride in, beat the heat and get to work, all before sun started scorching.
I took Highway 52 east out of town, right into the sun. Water hung on the tall glass and shimmered in the light, and mist rose out of the patches of trees that lined the road here and there as I climbed the long hill. The suns rays angled through them, as if this were a movie and Jesus was being born in those woods. I rode through little bubbles of cool air, and the moisture started clinging to the hair on my arms and dripping off my helmet.
It was one of those mornings, you know, when you're glad to be alive. As I woke up on the bike, my legs started spinning and my breath evened out and my heart began humming inside my chest. What was that I felt? Oh, yeah, I felt strong. It's been so long since I've had that feeling.
The pockets of mist turned into out and out fog as I rode further out into the country, gliding along at at even 20 to 22 mph. Suddenly the fog surrounded me, and all I could only see about 100 yards in any direction. It was a nifty, disconcerting and scary feeling all at once.
It felt as if I were stationary, and the world was spinning beneath me. Houses and barns came at me from the mist, like ships at sea. I got this crazy notion of belonging in this particular place and time. At the same time I hoped that I wouldn't get hit by a Ford Econoline van, driven by some electrician on the way to work.
I was a little lost, too. I know these roads, but when you're in a fog, there's no sense of perspective, and the landmarks I use to measure where I am were lost in all that gray.
It was one of the best rides I've had in a long, long time.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Dumping organic
About a year ago, maybe longer, under the influence of a late-1970s-era, hippie-dippie book called "The Running Mind," I embraced a concept called "goalless running."
This was a feel-good endeavor to combat all the shoulds and have-tos in my life, and a way to embrace the pure joy and freedom of movement. I would be blessed with running highs and float along the sidewalks in a wave of euphoric bliss that comes with no aim other than to be a part of nature. Like a gazelle. Or a wild stallion. Or some other animal that runs for the sheer joy of it.
My good friend Kyle called this concept "organic" running. I liked that, because it captured the spirit of the natural which I was trying to attain.
The problem? It didn't work. Goalless running was all too soon replaced by runless running, and I promptly gained 5 pounds.
A couple of weeks ago, I bought a battery for my heart rate monitor, and went out for a three-mile run with it strapped to my chest. My goal was to keep my heart rate within the prescribed training zone for a man of my age.
I found that it was remarkably easy, and that for most of my runs, I've been going out to hard. While in many ways that's OK, it's also not very sustainable. Since then, I've been wearing the heart rate monitor to keep myself in check, much like the RPM gauge does on a car. And my runs have been easier, more fun and I've been feeling a lot more productive.
On Sunday morning, I ran for 7 1/2 miles, and felt fresh when I finished. It was the longest run I've clocked since, well, I can't remember the last time I ran that far.
I've decided that I'm going to charge up the old Garmin Forerunner next, and embrace it like a long-lost friend.
This was a feel-good endeavor to combat all the shoulds and have-tos in my life, and a way to embrace the pure joy and freedom of movement. I would be blessed with running highs and float along the sidewalks in a wave of euphoric bliss that comes with no aim other than to be a part of nature. Like a gazelle. Or a wild stallion. Or some other animal that runs for the sheer joy of it.
My good friend Kyle called this concept "organic" running. I liked that, because it captured the spirit of the natural which I was trying to attain.
The problem? It didn't work. Goalless running was all too soon replaced by runless running, and I promptly gained 5 pounds.
A couple of weeks ago, I bought a battery for my heart rate monitor, and went out for a three-mile run with it strapped to my chest. My goal was to keep my heart rate within the prescribed training zone for a man of my age.
I found that it was remarkably easy, and that for most of my runs, I've been going out to hard. While in many ways that's OK, it's also not very sustainable. Since then, I've been wearing the heart rate monitor to keep myself in check, much like the RPM gauge does on a car. And my runs have been easier, more fun and I've been feeling a lot more productive.
On Sunday morning, I ran for 7 1/2 miles, and felt fresh when I finished. It was the longest run I've clocked since, well, I can't remember the last time I ran that far.
I've decided that I'm going to charge up the old Garmin Forerunner next, and embrace it like a long-lost friend.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Not abandoned.
I read today that, according to the New York Times, "only 7.4 million out of the 133 million blogs the company tracks had been updated in the past 120 days. That translates to 95 percent of blogs being essentially abandoned."
I immediately felt a stab of guilt. This poor blog has been sitting at the truck stop of the Information Superhighway, while its creator has been, well, not really doing much of anything. Maybe this blog has been woefully neglected, but it's not been abandoned.
And just in case the you're monitoring, make that 7,399,999, Old Gray Lady.
I immediately felt a stab of guilt. This poor blog has been sitting at the truck stop of the Information Superhighway, while its creator has been, well, not really doing much of anything. Maybe this blog has been woefully neglected, but it's not been abandoned.
And just in case the you're monitoring, make that 7,399,999, Old Gray Lady.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Picking on the guitar
The finger tips on my left hand are all tingly and a little bit sore.
Usually this is a sign of romance, but this time it's because I have once again gotten the urge to learn how to play a guitar.
As of this writing, I have practiced three days in a row, for a time period of about 40 minutes or so. I run through a fingering exercise that was taught to me by JG Lightborne, a local performer. I strum through some chords, E, A and D, think, but God knows what they really are.
The trouble I am having is that my fingers, although not particularly fat, seem moosh onto more than one string at a time. This gives most chords a rather dull sound.
Now, I am in "working" phase of the 5 stages of mediocrity. And my question is this: Will more practice help ease this finger issue? Or do I suffer a guitar disability that cannot improve no matter what? Will a new guitar help?
Maybe I'll just try the harmonica.
Usually this is a sign of romance, but this time it's because I have once again gotten the urge to learn how to play a guitar.
As of this writing, I have practiced three days in a row, for a time period of about 40 minutes or so. I run through a fingering exercise that was taught to me by JG Lightborne, a local performer. I strum through some chords, E, A and D, think, but God knows what they really are.
The trouble I am having is that my fingers, although not particularly fat, seem moosh onto more than one string at a time. This gives most chords a rather dull sound.
Now, I am in "working" phase of the 5 stages of mediocrity. And my question is this: Will more practice help ease this finger issue? Or do I suffer a guitar disability that cannot improve no matter what? Will a new guitar help?
Maybe I'll just try the harmonica.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Shorts weather
When you live in Wisconsin, life revolves around the weather.
So when there's a significant turning point, one must take the time to acknowledge the mark.
Today was such a day. I wore shorts on my run, first time for 2009.
I do love winter, really, I do. But there times when it starts to feel like a prison. The environment itself seems to bear down on you. It's as if you're wearing a suit of lead, one that has been stored in the freezer, at that.
So the first shorts day gives one the feeling of true liberation, freedom. It must be how birds feel when they take their first flight.
It all reminds me of that old joke about the guy who wears too tight shoes, because they feel so good when you take them off.
Winter is great, because it makes summer feel like heaven.
Of course, like anything in life, the bliss of spring must have it's cruddy counterbalance. For us, it's ankle-deep puddles, barf-colored left over snow and mud. My run today took me through a large local cemetery. It's one of my favorite routes, because there's no traffic and it's easy on the legs.
But the gravel roads are now soft and gushy. This particular run reminded me of the "Mud 'N' Grunters" race Dave and I ran in the Hudson Valley north of New York. Ugh.
So when there's a significant turning point, one must take the time to acknowledge the mark.
Today was such a day. I wore shorts on my run, first time for 2009.
I do love winter, really, I do. But there times when it starts to feel like a prison. The environment itself seems to bear down on you. It's as if you're wearing a suit of lead, one that has been stored in the freezer, at that.
So the first shorts day gives one the feeling of true liberation, freedom. It must be how birds feel when they take their first flight.
It all reminds me of that old joke about the guy who wears too tight shoes, because they feel so good when you take them off.
Winter is great, because it makes summer feel like heaven.
***
Of course, like anything in life, the bliss of spring must have it's cruddy counterbalance. For us, it's ankle-deep puddles, barf-colored left over snow and mud. My run today took me through a large local cemetery. It's one of my favorite routes, because there's no traffic and it's easy on the legs.
But the gravel roads are now soft and gushy. This particular run reminded me of the "Mud 'N' Grunters" race Dave and I ran in the Hudson Valley north of New York. Ugh.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Saying goodbye
Although I love winter, I do believe it is now time to move on.
Like old friends, winter and I have moved apart. Yeah, the skiing was fun. The bitter cold spurred me to grow a beard. And it's pretty.
But I would like to starting riding my bicycle outside now.
Photo by Kris.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
The five phases of mediocrity
Of course, this all was very predictable, and you certainly can't say you weren't warned.
The progress of this blog has mirrored just about every other single endeavor I've undertaken in my life.
It's a five step process, and it goes something like this:
The progress of this blog has mirrored just about every other single endeavor I've undertaken in my life.
It's a five step process, and it goes something like this:
- 1. Idea phase -- In which it occurs to me, often after I've had a gin and tonic or two, that I should do something. Now that something can be a variety of things. It can be running a marathon, riding with the group of bike racers in town on their the weekly rides or playing the guitar.
- 2. Excitement phase -- In which I excitedly embrace something. I read books about the activity. I prepare plans. I buy equipment. I bore everyone around me with constant chatter about fartleks, bicycle tire choices or the fact that the ends of my fingers have callouses.
- 3. Starting phase -- In which I start actually doing said something. This is usually done with a flurry of activity, and is indeed, the most pleasurable phase of mediocrity. Because I am a beginner, I can still harbor the delusion that I might actually be good as said something. This spurs me to greater activity, usually to the point of overdoing said activity. I'll usually end up hurting myself.
- 4. Work phase -- In which I begin to become somewhat proficient at said something, but just enough to understand how much further I have to go to reach whatever murky, fanciful and unattainable goal I have set. Skill levels will plateau, and I'll become frustrated. Reality will set in and I'll become disillusioned. The thought "This sucks" will enter my mind often.
- 5. I quit.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
On not not training
I'm finding it harder to not train than I had anticipated.
My idea was to ride bicycle, cross country ski, run, lift weights, swim according to how I feel, for fun, with no set goal or plan to follow. It's a zen thing, if you want to know, an effort to live in the moment rather than the future.
So I told myself, when I got on put my bicycle on the rollers in the basement, that I'm just going to do it for fun. Put on some tunes, spin for a while, and not make a big deal about it. It would be more of a music-listening session, really, than anything else. I just would happen to be pedaling while listening.
However, it really takes a wide stretch of imagination to consider riding on rollers or a stationery bike or any type of indoor bicycle riding fun or relaxed. After my first session, my lower back rebelled. This, of course, is due to a number of factors: a weak core, a flabby gut and age. Now, I would like to ride a bicycle a lot this summer, and I want to ride far and I want to ride fast.
So I've decided that I need to do core exercises, stretches and need to ride more to build those back muscles up for the load to come this summer. That's starting to a look a lot like training. Furthermore, I've made a soft commitment to ride three or four times a week, making it seem more and more like a plan.
Finally, I've been noodling around with the idea of doing a one-day ride from Wausau to St. Paul, a 180-mile jaunt. That's 10 hours at 18 mph, not counting stops for water, food, changing a tire or anything else. That would require a serious commitment to riding. I think I might have to train for that.
None of this even counts the fact that I plan to sign up for the New York City Marathon, and all that would be required of me if I were to get into that race.
I'm not sure where this all leaves me. Probably somewhere between a Type-A competitive person and a laid back Zen master. But we all know how my grand intentions end up, so God only knows where I'll be on the scale two weeks from now.
My idea was to ride bicycle, cross country ski, run, lift weights, swim according to how I feel, for fun, with no set goal or plan to follow. It's a zen thing, if you want to know, an effort to live in the moment rather than the future.
So I told myself, when I got on put my bicycle on the rollers in the basement, that I'm just going to do it for fun. Put on some tunes, spin for a while, and not make a big deal about it. It would be more of a music-listening session, really, than anything else. I just would happen to be pedaling while listening.
However, it really takes a wide stretch of imagination to consider riding on rollers or a stationery bike or any type of indoor bicycle riding fun or relaxed. After my first session, my lower back rebelled. This, of course, is due to a number of factors: a weak core, a flabby gut and age. Now, I would like to ride a bicycle a lot this summer, and I want to ride far and I want to ride fast.
So I've decided that I need to do core exercises, stretches and need to ride more to build those back muscles up for the load to come this summer. That's starting to a look a lot like training. Furthermore, I've made a soft commitment to ride three or four times a week, making it seem more and more like a plan.
Finally, I've been noodling around with the idea of doing a one-day ride from Wausau to St. Paul, a 180-mile jaunt. That's 10 hours at 18 mph, not counting stops for water, food, changing a tire or anything else. That would require a serious commitment to riding. I think I might have to train for that.
None of this even counts the fact that I plan to sign up for the New York City Marathon, and all that would be required of me if I were to get into that race.
I'm not sure where this all leaves me. Probably somewhere between a Type-A competitive person and a laid back Zen master. But we all know how my grand intentions end up, so God only knows where I'll be on the scale two weeks from now.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
They are not goals; they are things to do
Although I have retired from training, and have no goals, there are things I want to do.
And as winter is slowly winding down, some of these things are preying on my mind.
One is to run another marathon. This will be hard to do without training. So instead of training, I think I'll just try to run more. It will be fun. And then if I want to run a marathon, and find one that will let me in -- yeah, this means you, New York -- I will do it.
The second is to ride a bicycle from my home in Wausau to St. Paul, in one day. It's 180 miles, and I've never rode more than 100 miles in on day. Again, this will be hard to do without training. I will try to ride more to prepare for it.
You might argue that there's little difference between training and running more. Or training and biking more. It's just semantics. I know you're saying it, I can hear your sneer from here.
But there is a BIG difference.
If there is one thing I've learned about myself, it is that I respond appallingly to pressure. I choke. I gasp. I wheeze. I start shaking and end up curling up in a little ball in a corner of the basement. So anything I want to do should be pressure free.
And if there is one thing that will motivate me, it's to tell me that I can't do it. I've been told often enough that I probably shouldn't run another marathon, and that riding to Minneapolis would be a foolish thing to do. That why I want to do them.
And as winter is slowly winding down, some of these things are preying on my mind.
One is to run another marathon. This will be hard to do without training. So instead of training, I think I'll just try to run more. It will be fun. And then if I want to run a marathon, and find one that will let me in -- yeah, this means you, New York -- I will do it.
The second is to ride a bicycle from my home in Wausau to St. Paul, in one day. It's 180 miles, and I've never rode more than 100 miles in on day. Again, this will be hard to do without training. I will try to ride more to prepare for it.
You might argue that there's little difference between training and running more. Or training and biking more. It's just semantics. I know you're saying it, I can hear your sneer from here.
But there is a BIG difference.
If there is one thing I've learned about myself, it is that I respond appallingly to pressure. I choke. I gasp. I wheeze. I start shaking and end up curling up in a little ball in a corner of the basement. So anything I want to do should be pressure free.
And if there is one thing that will motivate me, it's to tell me that I can't do it. I've been told often enough that I probably shouldn't run another marathon, and that riding to Minneapolis would be a foolish thing to do. That why I want to do them.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
No training: The downside
There is a worm burrowing its way through my hamstrings.
Or so it seems. Yesterday I headed out to Nine Mile for an furlough afternoon of cross country skiing.
It went well. I didn't fall. And although my heart clattered in my chest like the engine of Model T, it held together. My beard iced up nicely, which is one of the reasons I've grown it. (Nothing makes a guy feel more like a Viking than an icy beard.)
But I did have to stop several times, usually about 30 yards from the crest of a hill, to catch my breath. (Sometimes it was so far ahead of me, that I couldn't even see it.) I had to double check the bottoms of my skis; did someone glue sandpaper to them?
Normally, I should be getting in better shape at this point in the season. It's been more than a week since I had last skied, and it showed. (It's worth noting that yesterday was the first day in which temps were significantly above zero in about decade. Or so it seems.)
The end result was that it felt, really, really good to get outside for a significant period of time. The sun was out, and it actually felt warm on my back.
But I'm hobbling around a bit this morning, and I'm thinking that although training is a thing of the past, maybe I should practice more.
Or so it seems. Yesterday I headed out to Nine Mile for an furlough afternoon of cross country skiing.
It went well. I didn't fall. And although my heart clattered in my chest like the engine of Model T, it held together. My beard iced up nicely, which is one of the reasons I've grown it. (Nothing makes a guy feel more like a Viking than an icy beard.)
But I did have to stop several times, usually about 30 yards from the crest of a hill, to catch my breath. (Sometimes it was so far ahead of me, that I couldn't even see it.) I had to double check the bottoms of my skis; did someone glue sandpaper to them?
Normally, I should be getting in better shape at this point in the season. It's been more than a week since I had last skied, and it showed. (It's worth noting that yesterday was the first day in which temps were significantly above zero in about decade. Or so it seems.)
The end result was that it felt, really, really good to get outside for a significant period of time. The sun was out, and it actually felt warm on my back.
But I'm hobbling around a bit this morning, and I'm thinking that although training is a thing of the past, maybe I should practice more.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
It's time to retire
I've been training for nearly 30 years now. It's time to retire.
Oh, I'm still going to run. I'm still going to race. I'm going to ride my bicycle for long distances as fast as I can. I'll be doing laps in the pool. I'll glide through the woods on my cross country skis.
I'm just quitting the training. I'm going to set aside the obsession with numbers and goals. I'll abandon the single-minded devotion to progress and improvement.
For this year, the focus is going to be a fun. It's going to be on fitness. It's going to be on forgiveness and relaxation.
And beating Dave.
Oh, I'm still going to run. I'm still going to race. I'm going to ride my bicycle for long distances as fast as I can. I'll be doing laps in the pool. I'll glide through the woods on my cross country skis.
I'm just quitting the training. I'm going to set aside the obsession with numbers and goals. I'll abandon the single-minded devotion to progress and improvement.
For this year, the focus is going to be a fun. It's going to be on fitness. It's going to be on forgiveness and relaxation.
And beating Dave.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
The marriage victory
In about a week and a half, Kris and I will have been married 18 years.
That's kind of a long time. If we had conceived a child before wedlock, he/she/it could be an adult now, and we would no longer be responsible when he/she/it was caught selling crack cocaine on Scott Street, racked up tens of thousands of dollars in text message fees or led police on a three-state high-speed pursuit.
So my -- excuse me, our -- marriage is a source of pride for me. (Not us. I'm not sure that it's a source of pride for Kris. And I'm not going to ask, either.) It's the one thing that I can point to in my life as a success.
Even so, I'm still learning how to properly weave my way through this "for-better-or-worse" partnership, and still stumble now and again. Sometimes it's not even my fault.
Kris woke up today to tell me that she's peeved at me. She dreamt that that I had a half of a day off, and that I went on some kind of trip without telling her.
"I was really mad," she said.
I carefully attempted to feel out the problem, in case there might be an actual time when I do have some free time (furlough!) and decided take a trip (the canoe/kayak store in Madison! Not that I have given this any thought) without telling her.
"But what if I would be home before you even knew it?" I asked.
"Well, that's what happened," she said. "It wasn't that you took the trip, it was that you didn't take me seriously. I was furious. I said, 'I want a divorce.'"
It's bad enough that I get blamed for things that I do do. But it's tough to take when I get in trouble for things that I don't do.
Of course, this situation in itself was minefield, and I walked through it carefully.
"Oh never mind," I could have said, "it was just a dream and you're overreacting."
BLAM! There goes my left foot.
Instead I said, "Wow, that's awful. I won't ever do anything like that."
She laughed.
And I'm back on safe ground, limbs intact.
That's kind of a long time. If we had conceived a child before wedlock, he/she/it could be an adult now, and we would no longer be responsible when he/she/it was caught selling crack cocaine on Scott Street, racked up tens of thousands of dollars in text message fees or led police on a three-state high-speed pursuit.
So my -- excuse me, our -- marriage is a source of pride for me. (Not us. I'm not sure that it's a source of pride for Kris. And I'm not going to ask, either.) It's the one thing that I can point to in my life as a success.
Even so, I'm still learning how to properly weave my way through this "for-better-or-worse" partnership, and still stumble now and again. Sometimes it's not even my fault.
Kris woke up today to tell me that she's peeved at me. She dreamt that that I had a half of a day off, and that I went on some kind of trip without telling her.
"I was really mad," she said.
I carefully attempted to feel out the problem, in case there might be an actual time when I do have some free time (furlough!) and decided take a trip (the canoe/kayak store in Madison! Not that I have given this any thought) without telling her.
"But what if I would be home before you even knew it?" I asked.
"Well, that's what happened," she said. "It wasn't that you took the trip, it was that you didn't take me seriously. I was furious. I said, 'I want a divorce.'"
It's bad enough that I get blamed for things that I do do. But it's tough to take when I get in trouble for things that I don't do.
Of course, this situation in itself was minefield, and I walked through it carefully.
"Oh never mind," I could have said, "it was just a dream and you're overreacting."
BLAM! There goes my left foot.
Instead I said, "Wow, that's awful. I won't ever do anything like that."
She laughed.
And I'm back on safe ground, limbs intact.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
One goal
When it comes to running and bicycling, my plan is not to have a plan.
But I do have one goal this year.
To beat Dave.
Actually, that's not quite right. The more specific goal is to Make Dave Hurt.
Actually, that's not quite right, but goals should be simple and straighforward, a mantra, if you will.
To be more specific, I would like to make two Daves hurt somehow this year.
The first Dave is Dave B., a dairy farmer from central Wisconsin. I ran cross country in high school with Dave, who is an easy-going, talkative, altogether likable person. He almost a year older than me, but 10 times the athlete and always was.
To him, pain is sweetness, and he pushes his body to the limit. He does things like mutter, "No hill, no hill" when riding up inclines and "No wind, no wind" when facing gale forces sweeping out of the west.
When Pete and I join him on rides, we basically get tucked in behind him and hang on for dear life. My main goal has been, when riding with Dave, is to not upchuck. All during this time, Dave chats as if he's sitting at a bar, drinking a beer, and not putting two of his fellow Hornets through a special kind of torture.
The other Dave is Dave P. He's young, lean and a natural runner. I got to know him years ago when we started to run together before our work at the Wausau Daily Herald. He was smoking, drinking, and doing everything a young man who is a journalist might be doing, and at first I was able to run with him. But soon he outpaced me in every way.
It would be nice to push him sometime, to make him breath hard, to hear his struggles as we charge up a hill. He lives on the East Coast now, but we get together at least once a year, often more, and we almost always run together.
I know these resolutions sound vague, and they are. But that's being done on purpose, because if I start to get specific, I start to fail to meet my goals early. And although I have not better than a 30 percent chance of success to Make Daves Hurt, I'd like to cling to the dream as long as possible.
But I do have one goal this year.
To beat Dave.
Actually, that's not quite right. The more specific goal is to Make Dave Hurt.
Actually, that's not quite right, but goals should be simple and straighforward, a mantra, if you will.
To be more specific, I would like to make two Daves hurt somehow this year.
The first Dave is Dave B., a dairy farmer from central Wisconsin. I ran cross country in high school with Dave, who is an easy-going, talkative, altogether likable person. He almost a year older than me, but 10 times the athlete and always was.
To him, pain is sweetness, and he pushes his body to the limit. He does things like mutter, "No hill, no hill" when riding up inclines and "No wind, no wind" when facing gale forces sweeping out of the west.
When Pete and I join him on rides, we basically get tucked in behind him and hang on for dear life. My main goal has been, when riding with Dave, is to not upchuck. All during this time, Dave chats as if he's sitting at a bar, drinking a beer, and not putting two of his fellow Hornets through a special kind of torture.
The other Dave is Dave P. He's young, lean and a natural runner. I got to know him years ago when we started to run together before our work at the Wausau Daily Herald. He was smoking, drinking, and doing everything a young man who is a journalist might be doing, and at first I was able to run with him. But soon he outpaced me in every way.
It would be nice to push him sometime, to make him breath hard, to hear his struggles as we charge up a hill. He lives on the East Coast now, but we get together at least once a year, often more, and we almost always run together.
I know these resolutions sound vague, and they are. But that's being done on purpose, because if I start to get specific, I start to fail to meet my goals early. And although I have not better than a 30 percent chance of success to Make Daves Hurt, I'd like to cling to the dream as long as possible.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Giving up on Mondays
Last night, I had the passing thought that I might get up early this morning and go for a short run.
I woke up in time, but it's 4 degrees out, it's dark and it's Monday. So instead of heading out in layers designed to keep me warm and dry, but instead will make me itch all over and smell like a stockyard, I decided to make a cup of coffee, answer e-mails and write this instead.
I don't regret the choice.
I woke up in time, but it's 4 degrees out, it's dark and it's Monday. So instead of heading out in layers designed to keep me warm and dry, but instead will make me itch all over and smell like a stockyard, I decided to make a cup of coffee, answer e-mails and write this instead.
I don't regret the choice.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Going on furlough
Earlier this week I unexpectedly found myself free for a day.
This was certainly a mixed blessing. On one hand, it is a sign that the waves of this economic tsunami are crashing into the boat of my career, and it's starting to take on water. I might be forced to swim real soon.
On the other hand, when was the last time I had a completely free day? Perhaps it was the first day of summer after I finished fifth grade.
I had all kinds of plans. My main excuse for not writing and beginning a freelance career has been the lack of time. Now there was time. I could have gotten a start on a few projects that I have sitting in the back of my mind, could have begun sending out query letters, could have done some more research to find more markets for said potential freelance writing.
What did I do? Well,
* I went online and wasted an hour and half surfing the Web, looking at blogs and watching an episode of "The Big Bang Theory." (What can I say, I missed Monday's episode.)
* I popped in "Juno," a movie I had borrowed from the library. I think this was the best movie I have seen in a long, long, long time, and I think Jennifer Garner did a terrific job.
* I started to pace around the house. Normally, I would have taken the pooches and paced around the neighborhood, but it was 11 below zero. I wandered into the bathroom where I looked at my beard. I'm growing a beard. I picked up the beard trimmer that Kris bought for me at Fleet Farm, and wondered how I could get the various components to work on it. The directions did not mention how to change the components. I ended up getting a screwdriver out and taking off the clipper head, and as I did so, the spring-driven mechanism popped apart in four confusing pieces. I spent the next two hours putting the bastard back together again. While I was doing this, I contemplated death, because I found I was having trouble focusing my eyes on the teeny parts. I probably need reading glasses, the classic sign of aging. I fooled myself into thinking it was just a lighting problem.
* I worked myself into such a state, that I decided to damn the cold and went for a run anyway. It was a frigid slog, but it made me feel better.
* I ate lunch.
* I took a nap.
* I watched television.
* I wanted to go to work. I decided that I'm such a contrarian that the best way to motivate me is to order me not to do something.
This was certainly a mixed blessing. On one hand, it is a sign that the waves of this economic tsunami are crashing into the boat of my career, and it's starting to take on water. I might be forced to swim real soon.
On the other hand, when was the last time I had a completely free day? Perhaps it was the first day of summer after I finished fifth grade.
I had all kinds of plans. My main excuse for not writing and beginning a freelance career has been the lack of time. Now there was time. I could have gotten a start on a few projects that I have sitting in the back of my mind, could have begun sending out query letters, could have done some more research to find more markets for said potential freelance writing.
What did I do? Well,
* I went online and wasted an hour and half surfing the Web, looking at blogs and watching an episode of "The Big Bang Theory." (What can I say, I missed Monday's episode.)
* I popped in "Juno," a movie I had borrowed from the library. I think this was the best movie I have seen in a long, long, long time, and I think Jennifer Garner did a terrific job.
* I started to pace around the house. Normally, I would have taken the pooches and paced around the neighborhood, but it was 11 below zero. I wandered into the bathroom where I looked at my beard. I'm growing a beard. I picked up the beard trimmer that Kris bought for me at Fleet Farm, and wondered how I could get the various components to work on it. The directions did not mention how to change the components. I ended up getting a screwdriver out and taking off the clipper head, and as I did so, the spring-driven mechanism popped apart in four confusing pieces. I spent the next two hours putting the bastard back together again. While I was doing this, I contemplated death, because I found I was having trouble focusing my eyes on the teeny parts. I probably need reading glasses, the classic sign of aging. I fooled myself into thinking it was just a lighting problem.
* I worked myself into such a state, that I decided to damn the cold and went for a run anyway. It was a frigid slog, but it made me feel better.
* I ate lunch.
* I took a nap.
* I watched television.
* I wanted to go to work. I decided that I'm such a contrarian that the best way to motivate me is to order me not to do something.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The subzero equalizer
Just finished a 3-mile slog, but I feel like a conqueror.
It's 9 below zero out, -34 if you factor in wind chill, which of course I do.
There are times when I love the pure brutality of the deep Wisconsin winter.
These kinds of conditions are great equalizers. Nobody is fast when it's this cold. And just stepping out the door is a Norseman victory.
It's 9 below zero out, -34 if you factor in wind chill, which of course I do.
There are times when I love the pure brutality of the deep Wisconsin winter.
These kinds of conditions are great equalizers. Nobody is fast when it's this cold. And just stepping out the door is a Norseman victory.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Mediocrity is freedom
I would get literally sick before each high school track race. Not to the point where I was actually throwing up, but I would be warming up for the mile, just lightly jogging around the track when I would get a bout of the dry heaves.
It wasn't the idea of losing so much; I had come to terms with that. It was that I would be losing in such a public manner, in front of everybody. It really bothered me that my failure was such a public spectacle.
Of course, that stress only made it worse. I was a classic choker on the track. Cross country wasn't so bad, because we'd run most of the race in the woods, away from everybody. My humiliation would be private.
Funny thing happened, though. In cross country I would run a 5-k race at my track mile pace. If I could lose in private, it didn't bother me. And then I didn't lose so much, either.
I've been thinking about this a lot lately. The fact that I cared how I performed caused me to get stressed out and tripped me up. When I didn't care so much, I relaxed and ran better. This only leads me to conclude that not caring leads to better performance.
This is why I am embracing mediocrity. It allows for the freedom of not caring. I've got to be careful here, though. Not caring could lead to better performance. Better performance leads to high expectations. High expectations leads to stress, and well, I'm back at the starting line once again, upchucking. (Good core workout, though. Builds strong abdominals. But that's not the goal here.)
That's why the key to mediocrity is to embrace it fully and not to think about any results whatsoever.
It wasn't the idea of losing so much; I had come to terms with that. It was that I would be losing in such a public manner, in front of everybody. It really bothered me that my failure was such a public spectacle.
Of course, that stress only made it worse. I was a classic choker on the track. Cross country wasn't so bad, because we'd run most of the race in the woods, away from everybody. My humiliation would be private.
Funny thing happened, though. In cross country I would run a 5-k race at my track mile pace. If I could lose in private, it didn't bother me. And then I didn't lose so much, either.
I've been thinking about this a lot lately. The fact that I cared how I performed caused me to get stressed out and tripped me up. When I didn't care so much, I relaxed and ran better. This only leads me to conclude that not caring leads to better performance.
This is why I am embracing mediocrity. It allows for the freedom of not caring. I've got to be careful here, though. Not caring could lead to better performance. Better performance leads to high expectations. High expectations leads to stress, and well, I'm back at the starting line once again, upchucking. (Good core workout, though. Builds strong abdominals. But that's not the goal here.)
That's why the key to mediocrity is to embrace it fully and not to think about any results whatsoever.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
An inauspicious start
It all started in the field house of Wausau West High School, early spring 1982.
I was 16 years old, and set to run the quarter mile, my first race ever. It was an indoor meet, so instead of running one lap around the track, I think I had to make the circle four and half times.
With a paunch that I had carried since junior high school, I wasn't exactly the ideal specimen to compete for Colby High School. But deep down there was the hope that there was an undiscovered runner inside me with just the right mix of speed and endurance to make a star. Maybe when the gun went off, the inner animal would be unleashed and I would be transformed.
Despite these unspoken and almost unthought dreams, I was petrified. My heart was jumping like a hamster in my chest as we took our marks, and it seemed to scream when the gun went off. For what seemed like minutes, I stood there in my crouch, and my competitors took off like rabbits. By the time I did get moving, I lumbered along, with gasping lungs and scorching thighs. I held the eyes of my friends standing along the track, pleading wordlessly for help.
I was last that race. And every single race I ran for the rest of the season and the one after that. I moved up from the quarter to the mile and two mile, which did nothing but prolong the agony.
I'm 42 years old now, and I've toed hundreds of starting lines since that inauspicious start to my running career. I lost the excess weight, put it back on. Quit running and started again. Never been better than a middle of the packer, but there's always the hope that some day the real me, the one who blazes to the front of race and never relinquishes the lead, will emerge.
Of course, it takes work to become a great runner. Discipline. There needs to be speed work, long runs, plans and consistency. I have done none of this.
I've also tried to become a great bicyclist, cross-country skier, and for a few short weeks on a rink in White Bear Lake, Minn., a hockey player. None of it took.
My athletic career is a reflection of the rest of my life.
I've spent nearly 20 years trying to perfect my skills in a dying profession, newspaper journalism. I've had plenty of success, but I've also seen plenty of my coworkers move onward and upward, leaving me behind to choke on their dust. Most of the time they deserved it, a few times not.
Now I'm not complaining about any of this. I still have naive faith that we all get what we deserve in this life, one way or another. And I've spent way too much time on the couch to whine about the unfairness of it all.
But there have been times when I've gotten down on myself for my singular lack of ambition, talent and drive.
No more.
I've decided that it's time to relish the mediocrity.
I was 16 years old, and set to run the quarter mile, my first race ever. It was an indoor meet, so instead of running one lap around the track, I think I had to make the circle four and half times.
With a paunch that I had carried since junior high school, I wasn't exactly the ideal specimen to compete for Colby High School. But deep down there was the hope that there was an undiscovered runner inside me with just the right mix of speed and endurance to make a star. Maybe when the gun went off, the inner animal would be unleashed and I would be transformed.
Despite these unspoken and almost unthought dreams, I was petrified. My heart was jumping like a hamster in my chest as we took our marks, and it seemed to scream when the gun went off. For what seemed like minutes, I stood there in my crouch, and my competitors took off like rabbits. By the time I did get moving, I lumbered along, with gasping lungs and scorching thighs. I held the eyes of my friends standing along the track, pleading wordlessly for help.
I was last that race. And every single race I ran for the rest of the season and the one after that. I moved up from the quarter to the mile and two mile, which did nothing but prolong the agony.
I'm 42 years old now, and I've toed hundreds of starting lines since that inauspicious start to my running career. I lost the excess weight, put it back on. Quit running and started again. Never been better than a middle of the packer, but there's always the hope that some day the real me, the one who blazes to the front of race and never relinquishes the lead, will emerge.
Of course, it takes work to become a great runner. Discipline. There needs to be speed work, long runs, plans and consistency. I have done none of this.
I've also tried to become a great bicyclist, cross-country skier, and for a few short weeks on a rink in White Bear Lake, Minn., a hockey player. None of it took.
My athletic career is a reflection of the rest of my life.
I've spent nearly 20 years trying to perfect my skills in a dying profession, newspaper journalism. I've had plenty of success, but I've also seen plenty of my coworkers move onward and upward, leaving me behind to choke on their dust. Most of the time they deserved it, a few times not.
Now I'm not complaining about any of this. I still have naive faith that we all get what we deserve in this life, one way or another. And I've spent way too much time on the couch to whine about the unfairness of it all.
But there have been times when I've gotten down on myself for my singular lack of ambition, talent and drive.
No more.
I've decided that it's time to relish the mediocrity.
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