Cat in the Hat

Working title for my next screen play: The Day of Many Hats. 

While it would be a cake-walk to use a Mother of three as the central character, the issues I’d explore are more male-centric, hence, my alter ego will star. Again. 

The heroic nature of the protagonist is demonstrably evident in his backstory. To say that he is damaged is a slap in the face to the truly bent. He has lost at love (several times), suffered the ignominy of employment termination, and always seems to buy high and sell low. He is the polar extreme of King Midas. But, and I know you saw this coming, he has a twenty-four carat heart of gold and tries, often to the point of embarrassment, to forget the past, ignore the future and live fully in the present moment. That patch on his ragged left sleeve is indeed his bleeding heart, joined on the right by the portrait proxy of his soul. His fortune lost, his ambition gone, he steadies himself to each individual task as if the fate of the world depends upon it. This microscopic view of life’s meaning provides both a heavenly opportunity for growth as well as a hellacious load of challenge. 

From sunrise to sunset he nerves himself to ceaseless activity. He is truly the superior, however flawed, renaissance man. While the odds (Vegas has it at 2-1) are against him, he keeps the big three of humor, paradox and change at the forefront of his vision, moving forward, sometimes comically naive, sometimes blatantly heroic, towards the light of his truth. Along this noble path he meets a bevy of disbelievers, doubters, devils and dumbshits. 

That is my guy, and this is his story. 

Here are the monkey wrenches, the tools of conflict, he must deftly wield today:

A) He must be a prolific writer, creating magnificent and meaningful prose to inspire millions with a one hour deadline. 

B) He must be a personal trainer, teaching and sharing with others the manufacturing of physical strength and mental toughness.

C) He will be a mentor to adolescents, allowing the action of ‘caught, not taught’ to manifest.

D) He will create new media, combining music, visual arts, spoken word and positive spins on difficult circumstances. 

E) He will act as an unbiased witness to mediate disputes, some major and some minor. 

F) He will act as volunteer custodian, cleaning up after messes made by mindless minions. 

G) He will become a journeyman electrician, finding the damn electrical short in the RV that three others, professionals, could not.

H) He will refuse to allow the gross, evil, disheartening, slimy shit-show political circus ruin his day.

I) He vows to take immediate action in this regard, doing what he can where he is and with what he has.

J) He will ride his bike tonight in the world Famous PowerBarn. 

K) And drink three or four beers afterwords, watching Rachael Maddow, a quarter of UW Husky football, and one episode of Season Three of 24.

He is a man of many hats, some fit better than others.  

Amen

This will be my first confession since, well, maybe 50 years. Born, baptized and bored silly from 16 years of schooling under the constant heat of the Roman Catholic ideal, by the time I left the structure of scripture for the liberal community college scene, formal confessions were a thing of the past. No more Hail Marys or Our Fathers for this freebird. 

Please do not think that I have never offered up a mea culpa or two along the rocky path of my personal evolution, far, far from it. I have done, arguably, more penance than even the most devout Christian. Anyone who has made the metaphysically theological leap from Catholicism to Buddhism, knows that penance is just another word for forgiveness, mainly forgiveness of self. Sure there is a ‘justice’ element, the instant karma we all appreciate, retribution and the making a wrong right, but overall any successful act of contrition needs to include some form of ancillary awareness, a brutally honest assessment of what happened and why. Then, most importantly, comes the hard part, the vow to make the necessary corrections and learn the lessons that precipitated the ‘sin’ in the first place. 

After the incident on Saturday, I spent that evening and all day yesterday in deep, sincere introspection trying to get at the heart of why I responded so out of character to a rather mundane situation. The guy upstairs was making too much noise. That is all. I exploded like all the guns into space. Got in the guy’s face and read the riot act to him. NOT VERY PROFESSIONAL. 

Fast forward to this morning where I have two classes, an 0530 and an 0845 - and the bosses are back from their European vacation. I am going to hear about the incident. I am prepared (as a result of my time together with my client) to offer my resignation. I am guilty. I have committed a gross misdemeanor and deserve punishment. The Hawaiian gods are not sending any aloha this time. 

I am in the parking lot after the first class heading to the Honda. The bosses pull up and we have a brief chat about France. They know. Of course they know. After the second class I ask Boss Two to take a walk with me into the indoor cycling room, the House of Mirth, directly underneath a kick boxing class led by none other than THAT GUY. He started his session while we had about 15 minutes remaining in ours. It was loud down there, the walls were shaking. She said she would look into it. OK, good enough for me.

Down the hallway and past Boss One and I grab a chair in her office and smile. I heard, she says. Can I give you my side, I ask. If you like. Blah, blah and some exposition and variations on a theme by blah. I apologize to her for losing my cool in the heat of battle and she looks at me and says:

‘The thing that makes you such an asset and the type of one-of-a-kind instructor that we value is…that…you…are…an… asshole.’

‘Yeah, well, I like to call it attitude, but all day yesterday as I was searching for a solution, I came to the realization that I have always been thusly afflicted, so I am asking forgiveness for that too.’

‘We are looking for solutions, thanks for your candor and honesty.’

The secret, the lesson, the meaning and the tactic was left unsaid. We all know what it is. Penance in the form of growth. I don’t need any formal absolution other than heeding the advice taken from yesterday’s visit to my inner confessional. 

DON’T LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN. 

Amen. 

The Pirate of Light

After a long evening finding my way out of the darkness, a light appeared. As I moved towards it I came to recognize it as the light of love. I began to move faster and with more confidence. The light seemed to be shining with a sympathetic harmonic vibration mirroring my consciousness. With each step my understanding and empathy increased exponentially. When I was close enough to touch I reached out with my right hand….and it was gone. I stood again in the darkness, sad, confused and alone. But something had changed. Inside I knew that with perseverance, practice and patience, the light would shine again and lead me into the glow of its universal essence. Magically and miraculously, I had hope.  

An easy metaphor, yes, but the ‘light of passage’ image remains as valid today as ever. Yesterday was a rough one. I had a temporary awareness melt-down, overreacted and caused what I feel is irreparable damage. In a single episode a thousand hours of practice proved insufficient to properly respond to an unexpected situation. The monkey wrench had been tossed and as I had been focused in another direction, it smacked me square on the nose. In the popular vernacular of the day, I had fucked up royally. 

Feeling horrible all day trying desperately to reconcile my damaged emotions and soothe my fragile ego, Junior and I went to see a local production of Pirates of Penzance. My friend is the tuba player in the ensemble and a client’s two kids were ‘pirates’, so I felt the pull of familiarization with the play. You know the rest. Regardless of my concentration and willingness to be transported to somewhere a little less painful (a pirates life for me?) I had the issue du jour constantly in the back of my mind fighting for attention with a sword and a blunderbuss, not a fair match as I felt emotionally handicapped with a peg-leg, eye-patch and a rum soaked parrot on my shoulder. Not even a rousing libretto (I am a perfect model of a modern major general) was glorious enough to shake me from the gloomy brig of my self-induced imprisonment. 

Somewhere between the curtain call, a salmon dinner and deep REM, the scene outlined above played on my private stage and under my singular direction. The Pirate of Light from stage right in the key of C: 

Learn from your mistakes matey. Take the lesson and leave the residue. This is not your first plunder, get up off of the planks and find your way back into the light of the full moon. Shiver your loins, stand there and sing your song like never before. 

With forgiveness and gratitude. 

The Generator

The Generator

Let Freedom Ring

Wait, did Speaker ryan (no cap earned) just do something honorable? Did he, without some backstabbing pol hack, deny the slime ball House request to proceed with the impeachment of Dep Director Rod Rosenstein? The man who stands one rung on the management ladder above Special Council Robert Mueller, someone who could be fired if Rosenstein was to be suddenly and heavy handedly (one could say ham fisted here) axed by a partisan cabal of crooked republican toadies trying desperately to save their collective hides? Interestingly enough, this ill-advised, desperate chess move, one cannot move into check, comes simultaneously, incriminatingly, on the same day that cohen, now singing a different tune, tells his mouthpiece that not only one trump but two trumps met with the russians to get the dirt on HRC in 2016. Something, of course, that both blows their denials, knowledge and cover-ups of. There is money involved here folks, and lots of it, there is collusion, criminal activity and intent. We know from history, and are watching again as this embarrassing American nightmare plays out, that not only is blood thicker than water, but rubles weigh more than dollars. This asks but a single question from all Americans, red or blue, rich or destitute, free or incarcerated, educated or not, gay or straight, stoned or sober: 

WILL YOU PUT COUNTRY OVERT PARTY?

There are only a few groups of people that will opt for the latter, the party, and they are:

1) Those that are profiting from the criminal chancery,

2) Those that have been gaslit,

3) Racists. 

In sum, if you are the moral, ethical, DEMOCRATIC, opposite of everything that this bogus, farcical, disgusting, lying and cheating administration is, if you are honest and hard-working, if you feel that our standing on the global stage is best enhanced by cooperation and diplomacy, pointing towards peace, harmony and sustainability, it you would like to see scientific solutions to climate-change, energy demands, over population and depletion of natural resources, a living wage, affordable health care and accessible education for our kids, if you think kneeling in peaceful protest is not only guaranteed but expected, you can join speaker ryan and do the right thing:

PROTECT MUELLER (and it that takes too long) VOTE THE BASTARDS OUT. 

Let freedom ring (and cohen sing).

Continue Your Practice

Of the many reasons why I do this, the one that unfailingly rises to the top of the list is this:

Practice.

Not so much because that will supposedly make it perfect, but more because without it we are - I am - lost. Up the creek, no paddle, out of water and no map. 

Consider, as I am doing now, how important practice truly is. The concept of practice as protocol is all you really need. Well, that and, as The Beatles so marvelously put it, Love, but the two, practice and love, are the thunder and lightening, the yin and yang of universality. 

Upon completion of Dan Millman’s latest spiritual adventure, The Hidden School, one juicy quote, a mere three words long, has lingered in my soul like a fine red wine lingers on the palette. One of the masters that are always waiting for Dan to appear at their door (cave, forest, mountaintop, desert or jungle) had this advice to offer the heroic wandering spiritual pilgrim: 

“Continue your practice.”

Wow. With only three words it is nailed. With only a verb, one pronoun and one noun we get the answer to a thousand questions. 

Not 100% satisfied with the results of your last race? CYP.

Want to climb better? CYP.

Wishing mastery in the field of your passion? CYP.

Wanting to improve your writing? CYP.

Considering ways and means to bring more honesty, integrity, morals and ethics into the light? CYP.

Hoping to lose ten more pounds? CYP.

Looking for enlightenment? CYP.

Seeking non-violent response to another Republican falsehood, lie or cover-up? CYP.

What can I do to finish my project? CYP.

It goes on. And on. We are in the central vortex of an amazingly complex challenge. We, the American people, are being used for personal gain by a handful of dishonest and disgusting men. I think you know who they are. It is our duty and responsibility to stop them, however out gunned, out manned and out financed we are. We, the people, will eventually win, whether by vote or by the rule of law. It will not be easy. Many people will suffer and die, as many already have. But we will prevail. Because we are the light, we are the love, we are the peace and we are the future. Love and kindness will always prevail over evil, corruption and lies.

The only question is how do we do all of that?

CYP. 

Make Your Mama Proud

The segue wasn’t so hard, not like going from first to third, or playing a solo before a large crowd. It made sense to both my body and soul. Better yet was that it helped establish the groove momentum I needed in my class this morning. There are those moments where everything fits nicely together (just as there are moments when they don’t.) This one did. 

For whatever reason I got on the subject of mentoring. The example was that of a coach teaching the basics to a young player. He, the coach, brings as much acumen, experience and personality to the situation as possible. This is regardless of the sport. The coach coaches and the player absorbs the skills necessary to advance. 

But there comes a pivotal time in that development, when the coach runs the gamut of his or her knowledge base and must gently, with respect and courage, pat the younger on the butt and find the truth and poetry to announce that from this time forward the player gets to add his or her own unique understanding of the beauty of the game and improvise their interpretation of it. It is time to move to another level, make the quantum leap into the red-hot spotlight of the solo. And with that morphing movement, with the motion of maturity, the player is alone, no longer a student, yet not a master, facing an altogether new set of challenges, at his own pace. We know this as growth. It is evolution. It is moth becoming butterfly, boy becoming man. Destiny. 

Caught in the hubris of telling the tale of this classic rite of passage, feeling like a busking minstrel on a bike, the next song, JJ Cale’s Mama Don’t Allow, caught me in the flow of endorphins and metaphor. ‘Do you see the awesome responsibility here?’ I ask the small group rhetorically, ‘here we have a group of musicians, deliberately disobeying Mama’s house rules about playing music, among others things, in her kitchen. Their responsibility, just like that of the coach, is to play so well, with so much joy and sincere love of the game (song) that Mom, just like her son the player, is overwhelmed by the magic, inspired by the muse, and inwardly vows that the quest for meaning, the search for the sound, with the purpose and the mission crystal clear, and all the while showing outwardly that music, like the athlete’s dance, is as noble a quest as one can find, a quest that does not differentiate between stage or screen, field or court, bedroom or kitchen must be done.’

The musicians must make the sale, play so well and with so much bravado that Momma has no choice other than join in the mirth and celebrate life along with them. And her kitchen becomes a concert hall, sacred and secure. 

The coach, mentor, manager or uncle does similar with his or her guiding wisdom and loving support of the player along their path. We know this as Gandalf and Frodo. Hogwarts and Harry. Mister Miyagi and Daniel.

We all have these defining moments. In life, in sports, on the job, at home. We can deny, hide, conform. Or we can segue outside of our comfort zones and experiment with the miraculous and mix it up with the magical. We can see what we truly are capable of. Where potential ends and beauty begins. 

Pat yourself on the back. The cosmos will support your courage. Play your song. Do your dance. 

Make your Mama proud. 

Blue Swede Cycling Shoes

Here are a couple of the quotes that will find their way into the Season 4, Episode 55 video I am now beginning work on. The working title is ‘Music to my Ears’. The idea is like having a jukebox in the gym, a somewhat old-school mash up of classic rock and indoor cycling. Blue Swede Cycling Shoes. The quotes:

“Diminishing the light of others does not make yours shine any brighter.”

“We work to practice awareness of things and share them because if we do something difficult, or something we are not particularly good at, or think our quality is unworthy, we might inspire others to do so as well.”

“Our enthusiasm for any endeavor will return as soon as we recall that authentic evolution is not a matter of knowing, but of taking pride in our progress at our own unique and appropriate pace.”

“Train like you’ve never won and race like you’ve never lost.”

“Plan in decades, think in years, work in months, live in days, focus now.”

And my personal favorite;

“Continue your practice.”

Taking into consideration that the Ranger needs what appears to be a complete front suspension rebuild, that both Shadows are in dire need of maintenance, that I am subbing heavily at the club to allow the other instructors some well-deserved vacation time, and of course that I have officially begun the above mentioned video project, it is mandatory to budget, format and structure my time to get all these pressing concerns checked off the to do list. 

Meaning that I need to get back to work, get greasy and get going.

Practice, continuing. 

Winning becomes Losing

Yesterday’s Weekend Wrap, a concept that may take permanent hold once The Streak* has been completed for 2018, was abridged, leaving the author, or defendant in this usage, feeling like the post, while inculpating intent, was exculpatory in effect. Or, putting in in more practical, non judicial terms, what the re-cap offered in commission, the combination of sight, sound, and energy, it fell into the trap of omission, leaving a major part of the story untold. 

Fortunately, here at The PowerBarn/RCVman blog central. we try very hard to establish truth and beauty as the foundation of our reporting, the metaphorical Mt Rushmore of the written and recorded word. True we often error, and when that opinion is proven wrong, invalid, biased or, the worst, cliched, we offer you, dear reader, the respect of clarification. An opportunity to confirm or deny. But never both. 

With all that as backstory, with the the standard disclaimer accepted, we may continue unimpeded by the albatross of exculpatory evidence and the elephant in the errors of omission room.  After all this ain’t Faux News where the only requirement for stardom is the ability to lie with a straight and pretty face. 

Yesterday I provided a brief (by my standards anyway) recap of my race on Saturday in the smoking hot high-desert Central Washington vacation resort town of Chelan. What I failed to tell you, and am now offering a clarification along with an implied apology, is that the defense of my age group championship, while successful, included the following footnotes: 1) I was racing for the first time in a new age group, and 2) That I was the only member of that illustrious group racing. 

DOES THAT MATTER? I went hard, did the best I could under the circumstances, and gave myself an amalgamated event-effort grade of 9/10. I finished 112 of a 326 total. DOES THAT MATTER? That I had no age group competition was a fact I learned only after my effort had been accomplished. I always look at faster (younger) results to add humility to my times. The guy (hare) that won overall beat me (tortuga) by almost an hour and a 70+ gentleman beat my by almost twenty minutes! Put in racing terms, the last two miles as I slugged out the finish were the most demanding, due not only to fatigue but to the fact that I wanted to provide my fellow competitors with the respect I would expect from them; Their best. Had I of known that I was the only one in my group, that would have made my day entirely different. I would never have gone so hard and endured so much suffering if all I had to do was simply finish. That prize would have been totally devalued as a result. It would mean nothing. Less than nothing. 

Everyone knows, and the generation we are currently mentoring should learn as soon as possible, that the things we earn, truly work for and trade our energies and sweat for, have the highest value, if for nothing more than character building memories. I don’t need a trophy to remind me that on one day I was faster than somebody else. The only person I want to beat that way is the devil. I can only do my best. If you choose, for whatever reason(s) NOT to show up and compete, that is on you. 

So please don’t ask for the number of athletes in the grouping. Ask about perceived exertion, the ACQ, athletic character quotient, instead. Any victory without this is as hollow and shallow as the politician lying under oath. 

And winning becomes losing. 

* One blog post per day for the year.

Weekend Wrap

The Weekend Wrap.

Saturday, July 21, 2018. Lake Chelan, WA 0400. I wake from a uneasy rest in the back of my rented Kia Soul rental. I thought there would be sufficient room for all my gear and bike. And me. There never is enough room when you are confined to sharing space with your stuff. Never. I did not sleep well, still in heated subliminal debate as to whether or nor I should even show up, let alone race. I decide to take it to the water, go through the body marking ritual, don suite and wade into water. I step in. I dunk head. I spit in goggles. I take a dive, flapping arms like a horrified penguin. Heart OK, no AFib. I wonder what the issue was and plea bargain a deal. Go slow, take it easy, relax and enjoy the day, at the first sign of cardio arrhythmia, you are done, and in a sportsmanlike fashion, end your day with humility and dignity. I sign off. We go, last wave out. The water is 70 degrees and I immediately find a groove, almost giddy in appreciation of the ease of (slow) movement through the clear blue water. We hit the turn and I am feeling like a million diving ducks. Into the sun we go, home stretch. I gulp a mouthful of water at one point and spend several tense moments coughing, spitting and gagging. This does not help my pace but I get through it and eventually I see the sandy bottom of the shallow lake telling me that we are almost home. I hit the beach in 33 minutes, exactly the same time as last year. Another frustrating transition and we are out onto the bike leg, ahhhhhhh. Although I am pushing hard my speed does’t match my perceived effort as much I would expect. I have no climbing legs today, a fact that will hamper my goals for the ride as well as later on the run. But I have an old familiar song in my head and its groove, intensity and tempo is powering my ride. The light comes on and I recognize that the song, now playing in my head as if I were jamming between a nice pair of Beats, is by the band I will be seeing live in concert later that same evening. It is Run Like an Antelope Out of Control, by Phish. How appropriate. 

I have a decent, not great, bike and start the run. No music as my back is on fire, borderline spasm. My left hip flexor is already negotiating a settlement and my endurance gear seems to have mysteriously jumped bail. Oh dear. But I make a commitment to flow, however slow, and I try as best I can to find some semblance of running grace. By mile 4 I got it and glancing at my new Wal-Mart chrono, a $7 addition to race week expenditures, I calculate this to be a pace I can sustain and finish under 3 hours. Last years time was 2:48 but unless I find a short cut somewhere, I am going to have to prepare my fragile ego for the inevitable. I will be dethroned as age group champion. 

But. Wonders of wonders the guy I used so much reserve power to try to catch, turned to be in another group, a kid of only 63. So I win again. Because I was the only one in my group is relative. I beat the demons in my head, stared the dragon down, showed up, had a plan and did the flipping best I could. I am not sure if that deserves a trophy but I am comfortable with my effort. All that matters. 

What made it all worthwhile, magical and amazing was later that evening when Trey hit the opening notes to the song that provided musical accompaniment to my earlier journey, and I considered that high gear. 

Set the gearshift for the high gear of your soul,

You’ve got to run like an antelope out of control. 

Tomorrow is Today

Slightly gaming the system to keep The Streak* alive, I am penning tomorrow’s post today. Tomorrow is booked solid. I am out of town, racing in the morning, then driving to the evenings encore, Phish at The Gorge. It will be a long day and with any luck at all, productive, successful and entertaining. Time, as they say: William Tell. 

Despite all my pending personal drama, I wanted to make a couple of observations about drama on a much larger stage, that of the national, international and global. I don’t feel nearly qualified to speak of the universal, stellar or cosmic so I will try to keep it confined to what we often refer to as the ‘real world.’ For now. After tomorrow I might suddenly claim enlightenment, the advent of which I am quite sure will change everything. 

Real World Local. Our two local professional sports terms, Seattle’s Seahawks and Mariners, both committed what in my estimation are gross acts of negligence. And I am not talking about NOT giving the ball to Marshawn or trading The Kid. The Hawks, and for the record I have been on a one person boycott of pro football since the days of Zorn and Largent, brought Colin Kaepernick in for a tryout last spring. Evidently he wasn’t good enough to back up the incumbent, local favorite Russell Wilson. I have one word for this abhorrent and wholly political decision: Bullshit. They had a chance to make a powerful statement and instead choose the easy, safe and slimy path of conformity. Shame. 

The Mariners, perhaps even more slimy, issued a statement last week that they have ’suspended’ relations with sponsor Papa Johns’s pizza after their racist, POS CEO, again spouted off about the supremacy of white sauce on thin dough. In this usage ’suspended’ means that until another official pizza sponsor steps up to pay big bucks for outfield signage, they will continue to cash promised checks from sleaseballs inc. Pathetic.

Real World National: Your president is now overtly courting Russia. In my opinion, even worse than this embarrassing, criminal and disgusting show of cowardice and collusion is the House and Senate's complicity. Robert A. Heinlein, once said, through the magnificent voice of the heroic Valentine Michael Smith, ‘Silence begets Tyranny.’ The POTUS meets with Putin behind closed doors and congress goes into cricket mode. Treasonous. 

Real World Global. We are heating our planet to the point of baking. You deny? Whose payroll are you on? Who puts the Bens on your table? Because that is the only reason why an intelligent person could possibly make that decision. Money.

Real World Interstellar. They are laughing at us. 

Cowboy Up Alice

RD-1. Race Day mine one. It is tomorrow. At this very time in 24 hours I will be in the water. Hopefully swimming. I have some reservations based upon what has happened in the last few days leading up to this here and now. I will attempt a brief recapitulation.

As you know I am not a big fan of triathlon’s first leg. This is because I am a terrible swimmer. Further,  as it is something I do not especially enjoy, like most I choose other activities. So why then do I choose a sport that demands its execution? Good question. As either excuse, alibi or justification, I have always looked at the swim as a warm-up for the bike and run, tactically playing the ‘make it efficient, steady and smooth’ card to save precious resources for later in the event. I always thought that, like anything, I would get faster with age and experience. Has yet to happen. 

Tuesday I went down to the chilly waters of Puget Sound, pulled on my wetsuit and tepidly tested the temps and tide. Lasted three minutes. On Wednesday, as compensation, I went to the local pool. After the first of what was scheduled to be a 3x500 set, I went into AFib so suddenly and so completely, that I barely made it out of the water. It was a horrible rest of the day. 

This morning, as I sit and recount these experiences, and ponder how they will affect the 1500 metes that await, I consider:

This is stupid. You are a stubborn fool. This is supposed to be fun, not war. DO NOT START. 

This is a test of your manhood. You can do it. Stick with the game plan and get it done. Breathe deep, relax and cowboy up Alice. 

The water in Lake Chelan is way warmer than that of Puget Sound. I am out of AFib and will have a full day of rest while driving over this afternoon. I will take it easy. 

Right?

Race Day -2

Race Day minus two. The schedule today calls for a swim and an easy indoor ride tonight in the world famous PowerBarn. In between Amazon.com finally delivered my replacement struts for the Ranger, so there is the ‘grease under fingernails’ chore, gassing up the RV and charging battery for tomorrow’s inspection, bike cleaning, video gear proportion, race gear packing and whatever else I plan on hauling over the Cascades and into the sun. And please do not forget the Phish ticket and Dead T-shirt from 1994 West Coast tour. I will make one more AirBnb search for something Saturday night, otherwise it’s fart sack in bed of truck after the long day of racing and rocking. 

As if adding three fresh events to the calendar, The Big Hurt four person team multi-sport event, The Ride 542 up Mt Baker and the TriCamp for six weeks, wasn’t enough, I just invited myself to visit my niece, and her kids in Northern California at the end of August, a trip I have been considering for some time. This would, as always, multipurpose video, research and family gatherings nicely. A couple of days there and we’re off for the grand Western States tour. 

The last two items on my check-off list, after the above, are a haircut and the purchase of a CO2 cartridge for the bike. 

Then I should be ready. 

I will check the list again and report success tomorrow before pulling anchor on another road trip adventure. Have a great day……………….Unless of course you’ve made other plans. 

All I Ask

Both my tests ended in disaster. Today is Wednesday of race week. I haven’t been in open water or even a pool since the race I will be returning to on Saturday. A year, give or take a day. I guess you could say I don’t put a lot of emphasis on the opening act of triathlons three part play.

On Sunday, after another painfully slow four mile run, I donned my eighteen year old wetsuit, a vintage DeSoto T1, yes it is black, and vigilantly walked the 100 meters to the shoreline. We call it the beach but seashore is more accurate. The tide was low and the sun was hot. I lasted less than three minutes in Puget Sound’s Port Orchard passage before my face, hands and feet simultaneously froze. As I dejectedly walked back to the deck trying to find my lost equilibrium I heard the bitter laughter of failure, mocking me in total humiliation. I remembered something we used to say in Ironman racing, ‘respect the distance.’

It seems clear to me now that I had committed the gross misdemeanor of disrespect, thinking I could ho-hum the swim, albeit a short fifteen hundred meters vice the daunting two point four miles of the long course. Stubbornly I do the wetsuit strip drill and vow a trip to the pool the next day. Could one pool visit provide the absolute bare minimum?

I am at the pool. I am in the shower. I am on the deck. As I step in the single swimmer in the open lane is heading my way. ‘Kevin?’, she inquires. Remember I haven’t been in this pool for over a year, ‘Oh, hey Amy, how are ya?’ We talk and it is time. Adjusting goggles, reviewing strategy and firming commitment, I push off and glide through the seventy degree clear water. I am going to do a 3x500 set, slow, steady and smooth. That should be both a confidence builder as well as a decent workout. Breathe, glide on side, finish with a splash. 

By the Joe lap (I count laps using the Yankee number method, meaning the fifth lap is Joe DiMaggio) my poor heart was pounding like the hide of a baseball coming off the Yankee Clipper’s bat. Thinking is was the initial stress of the long dormant swim muscles mixed with a bit of fatigue (and maybe some inflammation), I push through the Mickey, Yogi, Roger and Tony laps, finishing the first 500 feeling like I had just been mowed down by Billy Martin (1) at home plate. 

I take a short break and push off the wall for the start of set two. Half way back I can tell something is wrong. Really wrong. This isn’t just another routine bout of AFib, my heart is pounding like a overworked sump pump about to explode. I dog paddle back to the deck, take several deep breaths and put two fingers on left juggler. Yikes!

I stayed in AFib all afternoon, finally calming the system enough during my second relaxation therapy session to feel confident that my decision to NOT go to the ER was a good one, and I was then able to coast through a ‘civilized 2x20’ set at the PB, with reduced power, a tactic that seems to be just the right zone and intensity level to ‘re-set’ the rhythm of my heart towards ‘normal’. 

After a difficult evening, I go to bed early proceeding with the process of ensuring that all boxes are checked off the list of things necessary for home aversion; quiet, calm, warm, cozy, safe, stress-free, hydrated, fed, grateful and forgiving. Deep rapid eye movement sleep is the cure, most of the time. 

I wake this morning at 0400 to prep for spin class in sinus rhythm, ready to rock. 

I am officially in taper. Forced taper but taper none-the-less. Tomorrow I will try one more swim in the pool. With any luck at all it will be successful and I can stand in the warm water of Lake Chelan on Saturday morning with a fighter’s chance. 

All I ask. 

This Darkness

If (I realize that is a big IF) you have been following The Streak* since its inception on January 1 of this year, and the 197 days since, you will quickly be reminded that, although this is steam of consciousness writing designed more as a therapeutic chronicle discipline, I use a familiar template and three major themes. The themes (things I think I know) are:

1) Training and racing.

2) Popular culture.

3) Politics.

Routinely those ingredients are sent to the blender to see if a fresh spin on an old standard might provide tasty and interesting new concoctions. Our Department of Mixology routinely finds paradox, humor and change in this noble quest. Mostly, according to our data experts, because we, as hopefully you, find value in commentary on the absurdity of who we were, who we have become and who we are morphing into. We as a people. Americans. Talk about paradox!

Today is another rant in the attempt to quench a thirst so powerful my mouth turns arid at the mere mention. I am talking about the POTUS. On Monday in Helsinki, Finland, he met with Russian President and former KGB operative Vladimir Putin IN PRIVATE. One does not need a BS in poli-sci to understand the implications. When, on the same stage with a bloodthirsty dictator, trump says that the media, James Comey, Obama, Clinton, Mueller, Rosenstein, Strzok, a bus load of sexual assault accusers, scientists on climate change, the FBI, CIA and DOJ are all lying, but he believes Putin is telling the truth, I want to laugh. And then cry. 

We are in crisis. Red lights are flashing. Sirens are sounding. Even that ridiculous ‘news’ channel spewing hatred and racism around the clock has admitted that their poster boy for intolerance has put what appears to be a black wingtip into his fat ugly mouth. 

I agree with so many, and have since day one, that the guy is a national embarrassment. He has already done enough harm to our delicate global standing, alienating people of color, the poor, gays, women, liberals (OMG), and almost every American still able to think rationally and consider the criminal ramifications of his policies, his morals, his intentions, his corruption, his inability to govern and his outright disdain for the citizens he took an oath to protect. It is called treason. 

I said it yesterday and I will echo again until he is dragged down a prison hallway in an orange jumpsuit shackled from the waist by the enormity of his crimes,

IF MUELLER DOESN’T GET HIM - NOVEMBER WILL. 

One way or another this darkness has got to give. 

* The Streak is my third attempt at blogging a post every day. It is part discipline (I would like to improve my writing by actually doing it), part journal (I am dealing with some issues that I feel a chronicle could help others similarly afflicted), and the age-old belief that sharing benefits us both. 

Mozart, Fighter Pilot, me

This should be an interesting week. They are all interesting but this one has the value added spectacle of a race and a live concert. Yo Baby! 

Departure is Friday afternoon, as soon as the electrician/mechanic has a look at the RV, troubleshoots via expert diagnosis and finds the wiring culprit. She then instantly goes to Craigs List. There are a few fires along the route but as of yesterday it looks OK, not like Penticton in 2003 where fires were so intense and close that the run course was changed to better control both fire and fun. That day we actually rode past controlled burns still smoldering and I considered wearing a mask on the run. That was one hot, smokey and dangerous day, perfect for an Ironman, ey?

My swim in the freezing Puget Sound waters yesterday provided little in the way of training except for the wet suit removal ritual. I hope I can find a volunteer to assist with the neoprene strip once the 1500 meters has been navigated. In final preparation I will make a pair of visits to the pool this week to see if I can regain some of the muscle memory that has been so sadly lacking in prior attempts. I looked up my numbers from last year and the bogey is 33 minutes. Good swimmers, and many bottom fish, can cover this distance in half that time. Oh well. 

My Monday spin class is in an hour, with a weight session with Junior at noon and another bike session this evening at the World Famous PowerBarn. I’ll swim Tuesday, repeat Monday’s routine on Wednesday, Tuesday’s on Thursday and hit the road in my trusty, newly shiny and clean gold Ranger. 

We camp on Friday night, race Saturday morning, find a place to shower in Chelan or Wenatchee and then head south for phase two of the weekend festivities, Phish at The Gorge. I hope to find a shady place for a nap somewhere between those waypoints. 

What happens after the concert has yet to be established, I really don’t want, or need, to drive back to Seattle after the show. A tactic necessary after the Dead & Co a couple of weeks back due to the necessity of catching the first ferry from Seattle for my Saturday spin class. I have this Sunday off. 

Rest day. Recovery.

I think the trick to success this week will be in keeping the focus on the quality of the now. Tackle each event as if it is the most important thing in the world. Which, of course, it is, because I have chosen to do it instead of the myriad others available, therefore it should be given the honor, respect and appreciation that choice deserves. 

A popular cable news open is ‘We know you have options, there are other stations you could watch, you chose us, and we appreciate that.’ 

I could do lots of things this week. You can too. I choose to fill the choices I have made with as much energy, focus and commitment as I can. I am committed to the commitment. I trust my instincts to set the challenge high enough and the scope broad enough to allow the joy to flow like warm honey. 

Richard Restak, author of Mozart and the Fighter Pilot, speaks of the billion of neurons relentlessly buzzing around our brains. Most, he states, already have their minds made up, having been trained all their lives to react, respond and review in certain safe and predictable ways. It is when we connect new, different and important experiences that the cellular activity creating new synergies and combinations, a literal molecular montage, opens up entire new (creative) opportunities. This, in me, causes immediate turbo-charged chaos. I can feel the potential for challenge, to use this miraculous chemical concoction for positive output. Even if that is only a fresh water color still life painting, a different response to the many political issues needing immediate attention, or finding a new way to power through an Olympic distance triathlon. Learning something new, something outside the comfort zone of our current cache of experience, creates the potential for discovery. 

What a grand adventure!

Out of Frying Pan, Into Fire

OMG I am slow. I was never fast, but this……

Today is a multi-sport day. Thinking that a good six hours might provide sufficient recovery from a morning 4 mile run, I take off early. The sun is already above the fir trees so my shirt is wrapped around my waist as I slog around the gravel track. I am attempting to make the effort efficient, peaceful and of value more than simply absorbing some early morning vitamin D. I find it interesting that something that I used to be fairly good at, running, now puts my every energy system into immediate overdrive. The power I used to exploit in racing, surging hills and endurance, left long ago, replaced by the sensation of the last mile of a marathon. Anyone who has done 26.2 is familiar with this experience. I get that these days within the first mile. Ouch.

My latest strategy is best described as a combination of crisis management and damage control. My lower back has been compromised for about ten years now and my left side is ablaze today with chronic inflammation caused by, in my assessment, a muscle tear that has never truly healed. Or a ligament bent too far. Or a tendon unwilling to release tension properly. All this combined makes every other foot strike an adventure. Will I get stronger or will something finally snap? Will my will win or will I be forced by the wisdom of my body to slow down, stand down and back down?

Tactically I devise responses in real time. Today, along with the practice of impeccable form, optimal efficiency and lightness of foot strikes, I try something that I used to do many years ago, back when my default cadence was in its infant stages. I count. Similar to the military marching cadence routine, I set a rhythm and count it off. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8, 2-2-3-4-5-6-7-8, 3-2-3-4-5-6-7-8. When I get to 10 I stop the count AND TAKE THE LESSON. 

The lesson is one of flow. It combines controlled, continual, relaxed breathing with the relentless and hopefully graceful movement through time and space. Arms are relaxed, head is high, progress is steady. One can release from the count and stay in the groove, now able to enjoy the experience as trees, birds, clouds, old folks walking dogs and other runners come into and out of the positive and engaging space I have created around me. 

As soon as this ‘runners high’ dissipates, it is back to the count. 

It really makes little difference if I am running 10 minute miles or half that. No one is going to care if I defend my pathetic age group championship on Saturday, or if one the other gentlemen in my embarrassingly small group dethrones. I am doing this because I can. While I still can. I actually enjoy the challenge of the course and the rules of the game. I have no teammates to pull me along. I either do - or don't. There are precious few ways to game the event. It is heartbreakingly simple: Swim 1500 meters, ride a 40K and run a 10K. Fist guy back wins. 

My open water swim, the second session on this long warm summer day, is scheduled for 6 hours from now. I am going to reacclimatize with the chilly waters of Puget Sound and try to find the same rhythm in the wet that I found on the dry. If it is as humiliating slow as my run I will have to deal with that as well. I am calling this mini-duathlon, the ‘out of the frying pan and into the fire,’ run-swim brick. 

I may be slow, but at least I got a plan. 

Just Swim

I’m at the station looking down tracks,
can’t tell if I’m leaving,
or just getting back. 

I wrote those sophomoric lyrics thirteen years ago as part of a video project. The project eventually evolved into something less ambitious, a triathlon documentary titled Farrago, and the song dropped into the waste bin of neglect, lost and forgotten. The appeal of the tune was its backbeat, bass line and gritty vocal, a bourbon and cigarettes at 3am female voice wailing tones of loneliness, despair and desperation. Lucinda Williams nails my vision of the tune nicely, for the sake of musical comparison. 

I bring this up today because this mornings spin session was based upon, as many in the past have been, on time and space. The glorious Ms Williams was the musical catalyst that transported me back in time as we executed a rather tasty tribute to the here and now. 

The theme, in conjunction with the numerological time stamp of the day (7.14.18) was simple, yet as all good repeats, aggressive, challenging and relentless. I tried to mix up the recover sequence to add an additional degree of difficulty, asking the group to consider both the power of (and in) the now and our secondary directive of ‘riding away from the comfort zone.’ I asked for presence and commitment. I believe that one can commit to the commitment, a skill that can carry one onward when the going gets tough. Here is the protocol:

10 min warm up.

4 min seated @ 14 (intensity as proxy for today)

3 min standing @ 18 (resistance for the year)

2 min seated 7/120 (July going fast)

1 min standing push (effort, power right now)

Done five times provides a dynamite hour session.

It was in after the first repetition that I launched into story-time. Story one was the classic example, I changed the names to protect the innocent, of the poor soul lost in spatio-temporal displacement, anxious and fearful about the future and angry and guilt-ridden over the past. Kinda spoils the present of the present, no?

Story number two was an anecdote from my actual racing experience. As I confessed in yesterday’s testimony, I am not a big fan of the big swim. Last year was no exception to my response to the first 100 meters of any triathlon. After a few strokes I hear, very clearly hear, my inner coach suggesting that I should have practiced swimming more. Happens every time. And then a funny thing happens.

I quickly recognize the error of my ways and forget about the things I didn’t do to focus on the things I AM DOING. Compounding this mistake is my tendency to project how I will hammer the bike once I finally make it to shore, again removing my presence as that of a fish and projecting to that of a cowboy on a wild mustang galloping at top speed from the scene of a bank hoist. JUST SWIM. 

And like a good little Buddha, not looking forward to the future nor backwards at the past, I balance my stroke to provide maximum efficiency, relax my breathing and finish with a splash, no doubt delighting the suddenly silent inner coach. 

I had a buddy, an Air Force pilot, tell me once that he found swimming meditative and relaxing. I find similar sensations in cycling, every once in a while I find a brief groove in the water, but no where near as often as from the saddle. The flow is important. Time is a trickster. Sometimes one must go gentler to move faster. 

We are moving through the progression. We are putting in solid work. Big value is here. 

Thinking that we have taken another step towards our fitness and racing goals, I smile with the team. Our success today has come from within. We defined a goal and got after it with gusto, grit and gumption. 

I finished a novel last night with eyes tired from a long day. One italicized passage caught my imagination, a Zen master, in assessing a student's lifelong quest for knowledge, wisdom and understanding, prescribed the following:

CONTINUE YOUR PRACTICE. 

Hottest Day of the Year

It was the hottest day of the year. The gently rippling water, less than a chip shot from my deck, beckoned. In preparation I dug out my wetsuit, found a cap and goggles. My only race of the year, an Olympic distance triathlon, is a week from tomorrow. I have not been in the water, pool or open, since the same race a year ago. The reason is simple. 

I do not enjoy swimming. 

Sorry, I just don’t. In perhaps a mistaken attempt at balance, I continue to put ten of my allotted dozen fitness eggs into the bike. I ride everyday. That basket is full. The other third of my ‘game’, the run, is in almost as deplorable a state as the swim, this due to what now appears to be chronic inflammation, or worse, of left piriformis, tensea fascia ligament, hip flexor or one of the other major groups responsible for pain-free running. Then there is the well chronicled heart issue, which foot-strike trauma seems to acerbate. It can be painful. 

Obviously being unable, or in the case of the swim, unwilling, to properly train for a multi-sport event requiring their execution, I default to the strategy I have used since the days of ‘serious’ training and Ironman racing, circa 1995-2010:

Make the swim as efficient as possible, conserve energy, flow steady. 

Hammer the bike.

Slug out the run. 

The results of this strategy, and the adjacent tactics employed on demand, in the heart of battle, have been mixed. 

My number one objective over those fifteen years was always to qualify for Kona, the World Championships. In my first Ironman I accomplished that objective finishing third at Vineman. Figuring that if I did this in my initial event, how hard could it be to do it again, I ‘gave’ my slot to the guy who finished one place behind me. Turned out to be a valuable lesson, as the only other time I came close was in Penticton at Ironman Canada in 2002. Both those are great stories that I promise one day to retell. At the other end of the results analysis is the interesting stat that I have won many shorter distance races, halves and Olys. So the data defined as ‘mixed’ is particularly paradoxical due to winning the shorter events when racing with no purpose other than to do my best and have fun - and not achieving my most important goals, Kona qualification, when focused solely on that prize. A point I find most interesting. 

As a coach, taking the lessons from my own training and racing experience, I suggest that one should train their weakness’, instead of simply doing what comes most naturally of the three, in order to better find the balance that will provide the results they desire.  

A perfect illustration of how putting all your eggs (biking) into one basket can fail as a race strategy is, of course, a race day mechanical. If you lose the advantage of a fast bike split and need to finish with a strong run, and can’t, you are, to continue the chicken and egg metaphor, fried, poached and scrambled, sunny side anything but up. 

I could do two things to better my chances. One is to get a solid diagnosis on my hip issues and the other is to join the masters and make swimming as important a part of my training as biking. 

Fortunately I have the overall base fitness to defend my championship next week. It might hurt a little, but me and suffering and not strangers. Should I decide that a return to the long course is in the cards for the future, I age-up in three years, the steps outlined above must be implemented. In a phrase, this difference might be better stated by saying that there is a gigantic chasm between finishing an Ironman, and winning your age-group in a Kona qualifier. I have accomplished the former a dozen times, but never the latter. This haunts me. 

Today I sit on the fence, wetsuit ready, water waiting. On the hottest day of the year. 

Trip Itinerary

Yellowstone trip info (tentative)

Monday, Aug 13. Depart Seattle at 1515, Delta DL5703

Enterprise RAC

Spokane to Whitefish, MT, 260 mi, 4:45. Arrival approx 2200.

AirBNB_________________________

Tuesday, Aug 14, Whitefish to Dickenson, ND 600 mi 10:30

AirBNB_________________________

Wednesday, Aug 15, Dickenson to Red Lodge (via Rapid City SD) 650 mi, approx 9:45

AirBnB_________________________

Thursday, Aug 16, Red Lodge to Bozeman, MT (via W Yellowstone & Beartooth Pass) 460 mi, 9:15

Motel__________________________ 0500 departure 

Friday, August 17, Bozeman to Wallace, ID (Hiawatha Trail) 320 mi 4:55.

Wallace to Spokane 80 mi, 2 hrs. 

Depart Spokane 1858, Delta 5801, arrive 2030.

Book rooms in:

Whitefish, MT

Dickinson, ND

Red Lodge, MT

Bozeman, MT

This adventure has been designed to capture new media (video) in four states previously, and glaringly, missing from the list of US states captured in video by the notorious RCVman. In almost criminal exclusion remain; Montana, The Dakotas and Wyoming. This route will also serve as scouting intel for a cycling trip to take place in August of 2019. As initially graphed above, this whilrwind trek entails over 2,000 miles in 5 days. The only riding day will be the last day on the Hiawatha Trail on a rented mountain bike. All other video to be captured by GoPro HD mounted to vehicle hood. I anticipate close to 20 hours of route video, plus several more of time lapse 'atmpospherics'. Being the stickler for frugality that makes all this possible, initial budget limits have been established at less than one thousand US dollars, including RT air. 

Wish me luck. 

Water the Garden

I am leaning over to explore the contents of the frozen food refrigerator looking for spinach. As usual I am appalled by the prices. Irritated I straighten up to consider moving back to the country and starting a truck farm. This sudden movement puts me right in the middle of the narrow supermarket aisle and an elderly woman in a wheelchair has to brake abruptly to avoid a collision. After my apology went unheard, I returned to my search. 

I am looking blankly at bags of Brussels sprouts, chard, and peas, totally distracted and affected by the incident. Immediately I feel like a schmuck for not only for my lapse of awareness, but the plight of the infirm and elderly as well. Remembering how quickly Dad slid into dementia, losing most of his ability to move and take care of himself, I consider my pathetic circumstance. 

Coming to the conclusion that it is of greater importance to me that quality bests longevity. Like the old riddle about the truckload of nickels or the half-truckload of dimes, I will take a shorter life full of value over a longer one with little, ahem, any day of the week. 

Pragmatically, that means that every day moving forward needs to be filled with value. There is no time to lose, not a moment to spare. Those things I have always wanted to do?

Do them. No matter the cost and despite the challenge in logistics, scheduling or how it may or may not set fire to my comfort zone. 

Despite yesterday’s post about my health issues, I am still fit and healthy. In the demographic context,  with aero stats to verify, I sit comfortably in the top ten percent, maybe five. I can do pretty much whatever I choose, even if that means at a lessor speed, or with compromised agility, flexibility or range of motion. I remain firmly under the spell of that old black magic we call competition and enjoy the race, the chase, as much as the next, gulp, guy collecting social security. I base this self assessment on nothing other than mixing it up with the guys in my age group. 

Maybe this quality thing is all in my head, and as I suggested to Junior this morning, we are each ultimately responsible for generating our own happiness. Is this very moment, as I sit outside on my waterfront deck under the beautiful blue skies of a Seattle summer, practicing a therapeutic form of artistry and discipline, it? As in IT? Or should I be playing golf, doing the daily crossword or watching Faux News? 

I consider the supermarket incident reversed, me in the chair and some jerk physically losing a skirmish with an inner demon. Would I have the presence to pass some wisdom and forgive or would I shake my head with bad attitude in a minor variant of road rage? Where is the quality in that? Are you morphing towards becoming a grumpy old man one painfully slow day at a time? 

I commit to happiness and service. However small, there are things I can do to help. I can pass along the mistakes I have made to others in the form of advice, the old, I know what NOT to do tactic. I know we are not supposed to pardon domestic terrorism. I know we are not supposed to incite race riots. I know we need to unite our efforts. I know we have no business regulating what women do with their bodies. I know the guy in charge is a bigot a failure and a fraud. 

I also know this: I aspire to service. I wish to help, to promote peace and harmony, art and music, truth and beauty. I place love, forgiveness and gratitude at the very top of the value list. Further, and this is the lesson of the day, IF I CANNOT HELP, I WILL NOT DO SOMETHING TO HURT. 

Time to water the garden.