Dude rolls into the Plum Street Y sporting his own 7 foot 45 pound bar like it was a javelin and he’s an ancient warrior. Everyone has their own way of signaling toughness I guess. I just bench 125 pounds in five sets of five to let everyone know I’m not effing around.
Guess the Y’s eight or nine bars just don’t feel right? The mind whirls. Does he take his own eggs to his favorite breakfast place? His own range balls to the driving range? His own violin to the symphony concert? Just how far does his self sufficiency go?
Same day I refrain from telling another strange denizen that his too many to count tats looked just plain awful. Just in case he’s like the elderly bloke next to me with 255 pounds on the bar.
Nursing the morning coffee while mentally preparing for the inaugural road ride of 2024. Check the weather app to see just how cold I’m going to be. See the following, “Wind gusts up to 3mph.” Gusts?
As a result of running 4.2 miles yesterday morn, I maintained my now twenty-five year long streak of running at least 1,000 miles a year. On Gull Harbor Road, at mile 999, I thought to myself, what if that oncoming car just drifts over the fog line and takes me out? Of course, I still have the lateral movement of an elite punt returner.
For the record, the streak continued at the intersection of 47th Ave NE and Boston Harbor Rd as I turned the corner with TSwift, Bon Iver, and Evermore.
This one was was tough, especially after dealing with blood clots in early August and then chronic achilles tendonitis which I haven’t managed smartly.
Bagging a thousand used to be easy, especially when doing half marathons, marathons, and/or triathlons. Hitting four digits was just a routine annual byproduct of being ready to race decently. Now that I’ve retired from competition, the lengthy streak itself is the only motivation. And being fit and enjoying life more as a result of improved physical, mental, and spiritual vitality.
On top of the running, I’ve swam just over 200 kilometers and rode just over 5,000 miles this year, so a decent bit of cross training.
I enjoy swimming and cycling a little more than running these days because they’re less difficult. To continue the streak, I have to sublimate my ego, and let go of pace. I suppose, as I run shorter and slower, I will contribute to the common good that is Strava endurance athletes who can feel better about their relative performance.
I don’t know how long I can or want to keep it going. The key to extending it will be doing a better job of listening to my body in terms of how often, how far, and how “fast” to run. More specifically, I suspect I will need to run shorter, even slower, and more often to extend it.
Thanks to my ace training partners for their continued inspiration and company most Saturdays. MARN, who decided to take up marathoning in his sixth decade. The Byeson, who is a marvel at 5+ years older than me. The Pal, who is somehow getting faster in his fifth decade. And the undefeated University of Washington Husky who effortlessly rows, cycles, and runs right past you.
Thanks especially to the GoodWife for stirring my inner-athlete the most this year. Despite serious health challenges, she is channelling her father’s spirit and is displaying real grit, regularly walking, swimming, and cycling. Watching her pick her way up, down, and around Natches Peak trail in early October was inspiring beyond words.
If I stay healthy and can be half as tough as her next year, the streak will continue.
If I had a dollar for every time the GalPal told me I would’ve been a great coach, I could afford more Talenti gelato.
She may have been right. I dabbled back in the day when I assisted a high school swim coach for a few years and that went well despite our philosophical differences. I don’t know what kept me from committing more to it.
Which brings us to today’s vid of Taylor Knibb, probably the greatest female triathlete in the world. I’m a fan of the 25 year old. She is a charming mix of hyper-intelligent and super nerdy. In this vid she’s coming off a $100k victory at a 100k race in Milwaukee. This weekend she races in Paris in a 2024 Olympic qualifier.
I dig the way her coach adapts to her intelligence and unique personality. The story that illustrates that best begins at the 3 minute mark. All he wants to do is give Taylor the information she needs about the person behind her in second and then he trusts her situational awareness and decision making.
I also really like their rapport. He says her spirit animal is not the dog on the leash it’s a “grumpy bear” and she chuckles. He has a very soft touch and they seem completely in sync. That does not bode well for the world’s female professional triathletes.
If, in a different life, I had acted on the GalPal’s affirmations, he is the exact type of coach I would’ve wanted to be.
I bought a new bike. This will cause some, like DanDantheRetiredTranspoMan, to go apoplectic. Let me beat him to the punch.
“Another bike?! What was wrong with the one you just bought?! How many do you need? You’re a sad(sick) guy.”
If someone buys a new bike every 20 years, then yes, it may seem like I just bought Blanca. In actuality it was January 2020, so this is season four with her. I confess, that is a short upgrade cycle especially since nothing is wrong with Blanca. She’s still exceptional. The purchase is really some cycling friends’ fault for getting me thinking about a slightly lighter version of her. The whole idea is getting into a better rhythm on long climbs. What’s more important in life than that?
And as to number of bikes, I will be selling Blanca, keeping the quiver to a grand total of two or a fraction of the number most cycling enthusiasts have in their garages.*
You may be thinking maybe I should just train harder, lift more weights, cut back on the Costco Tuxedo cake, but all that requires more discipline and work than wiring Eric in Portland some scratch.
I met Eric at Starbucks in Woodland, WA. Recently, when he got his dream job at Specialized, as the head of their design team, he immediately put in an order for one of their nicest/lightest bikes. Shortly afterwards, he got whacked, which meant he could no longer afford the nice, light bike still in the box. Then he had to find a needle in a haystack. More specifically, someone 6’2″ with some spare change. I turned out to be his needle.
Eric revealed that a part of the problem of being laid off is they have their children in private schools. “How old are they?” I asked. “12 and 15.” When you send your kids to private schools, you’re paying twice—property taxes which fund the neighborhood schools you drive past, and of course, the private school’s tuition. That requires something Eric’s family is currently lacking, a lot of disposable income.
I thought about sending him this post,”The Private School Myth“, from way back in the day, but obviously I don’t know him well enough.
Because I didn’t need to purchase his bike, he may have taken a loss on it even factoring in his work discount. If somehow he finds that post, accepts my premise, and decides with his wife to send his kids to public schools, they’d be on their way to bouncing back. Here’s hoping.
If you’re ever in a race with Hassan, you better damn well drop her before the final 400 meters. Or you’re toast.
120 mile training weeks in the lead up during Ramadan, meaning no water or food during daylight, is inconceivable.
Her first marathon after dominating on the track. Afterwards, she was asked if she’s the best ever. She said, “No.” The followup, “What do you need to do to be considered the greatest of all time?” Hassan paused, and said, “I don’t need to be the greatest ever, I’m fine the way I am.”
Fireworks on the men’s side too. Kipchoge has a peer. Kelvin Kiptum ran the second half in 59:45 to finish in 2:01:35, 16 seconds off Kipchoge’s world record.
This Friday morning, ever-so polite Siri saved all of their text messages until the end of the podcast I was listening to on my solo jaunt. The group text topic was initiated by one knucklehead’s public service announcement about our preferred running shoes being half off at REI. Somehow, very funny accusations of snow-flakery followed.
Brooks Ghost if you were wondering, regularly $140, for a limited time $70 for florescent yellow in certain sizes.
Let’s do the math. Running shoes typically last 500 miles. We run 10 most Saturdays at a cost of $2.80 based on the $140 shoes and $1.40 based on the florescent yellows. For a difference of, drumroll please, $1.40 per Saturday run.
That highlights one of the coolest things about running, its groovy minimalism. Especially compared to cycling. You could buy about 100 pairs of full-priced Brooks Ghost for a carbon race bike with the correct wheels.
I’d have to create a second blog to fully detail all the ways in which my running friends are knuckleheads, but upper-middle class professionals arguing over $1.40 gives you a little flavor flav of their knuckleness.
Of course, in true knucklehead fashion, they’d probably point out that a year from now, since one can earn 5% on cash now, the savings would be $73.50.
“Exercise can be an act not of vanity, but of psychological self-care. Many wars are being waged against women—against our bodies, our rights, our sizes, our images of ourselves, and who is and isn’t allowed to claim this identity. For a long time, I felt that by rejecting movement, I was rejecting an idealized and impossible body image, that I was learning “self-acceptance.” But really I was just sabotaging my own mental health.”
As she highlights, those “wars” sometimes apply to men too.
I’m going to assume a few things. First, you’re unfamiliar with the San Luis Obispo Swim Center. Second, the next time you’re passing through the Central California coast, you’re gonna want to get your swim on at the Center.
I can’t quite explain how infatuated I am with the Center, an outdoor Olympic sized pool that has three generous lap swimming shifts a day, year round. Owned by the city, it single handedly proves the public sector works. Built in 1979, it’s “Exhibit A” of substance over style. The “locker room” doesn’t have lockers, people just leave their post swim accessories—shampoo, soap, shaving cream—splayed on wood benches and on their towels near the showers. It’s the epitome of rustic minimalism. And it works beautifully at keeping all the classist dilettantes away.
Thursday pre-dawn, the Center’s Sinsheimer pool was set up long course meters. I split my lane with another dude. Air temp in the mid-30s, I couldn’t see from one end to the other because of the steam rising from surface. Just like the old days when the mighty Cypress High Centurions water polo team practiced before first period. Saturday noon, I had one of the twenty 25-yard lanes spread across the beautiful behemoth to myself.
The only negative, besides the Pacific Northwest winter weather, was the cashier who charged me the senior rate, $3.75, without any questions. Dammit, I wanted to pay the $4.25.
After Saturday’s swim, I chatted up an eight-year old swimming stud* and then read the Center’s rules and policies while waiting for the GalPal. Allow me to highlight the most important rules and policies to help you avoid an embarrassing infraction.
Proceeding from “fairly easy” to “impossibly hard”.
1st. And I quote, “Guests currently suffering from active diarrhea or who have had diarrhea within the previous 14 days shall not be allowed to enter the pool water.”
2nd. Horseplay, sitting on shoulders, or throwing of guests is not allowed.
3rd. Animals are not allowed to enter the water at any time.
4th. Excessive displays of public affection are not allowed.
The Good Wife struggles mightily with the last. To reduce the odds of an infraction, I purposely pick a lane a safe distance away.
You are welcome.I hope you enjoy your swim(s) half as much I enjoy mine. Long live the Center.
*My new eight-year old friend swims, plays soccer, and baseball. “Yeah, I always make the All-Star team,” he said matter-of-factly, “but I don’t get to play because I have to visit my family in Greece.” “Always?!” What, has he been named to eight All-Star teams in a row?! I spared him a “family privilege” talk.
Pressing Pause 