Adaptation to Reality

Sandwiched between trip preparations like a thick tomato slab, progress is slow. Finding the missing battery charger for the old Canon Power-Shot - with wifi - in the plastic bin of miscellaneous cords and cables is like trying to grab one stand of spaghetti from a boiling pot. I know, at lest I think I know, that it is here somewhere. 

And then there is the media mystery. If you have been following along you know that I deleted an entire projects worth of media after what I thought was a finished, rendered, transferred to proper file format and saved hour-long video masterpiece. Masterpiece by my standards not being the same as Tarantino, Coppola or Nolan’s, but completed without comparison none-the-less. It was with superhuman patience that I accepted my fate after learning of the closing credit typos and committed to the post production technique auspiciously known to editors world-wide as ‘the fix’. Annie used to say one must, ‘roll up your sleeves, get in, get dirty and get out’. That sums it nicely. And of course in the process of accumulating video grease under graceful editing fingernails, media files were lost, processing power compromised and tempers flared to dangerously high levels. 

With this situation report as reality, it was with great anticipation that I headed out at 0500 for my usual Wednesday morning spin class, the third of the week. Just what the doctor ordered, a chance to move away from the irritations, frustrations and potential palpitations of the daily grind, I counseled myself driving to the club in pre-dawn darkness. This will be fun. 

And somewhere between the two miles I devised the game plan for the session. Music would be a random draw, iTunes on shuffle play, and we would try out a new protocol I would call TBF, The Big Four, an acronym borrowed from a particularly insightful piece I once authored while traveling in Europe several years (or lifetimes) ago. TBF would include a monstrously challenging four minute push wrapped around two five minute down-tempo, groove-zone recoveries, or, one four minute sprint with pre and post refreshers. Four of these dogs over the hour, one every fifteen. 

The Big Four, from my notes, are:

1) Be Here Now,

2) Think Positive Thoughts,

3) Live, Love, Learn,

4) Be Happy. 

You can do a lot worse I suppose. With this psychobabble as taking points, we added the four power moves to the mix, seeking the illusive and invigorating mind-body connection. The results were, at least in my assessment, very tasty; hard, challenging, borderline outrageous, fun and of super high quality. It helped that whomever wrote the algorithm for the Apple shuffle code managed to give us a rockin’ mashup as well.

The impermanence of all things, their passing with or without my personal emotional attachments, is back in play. I will find the charger (or not), I will clean up the wasteful files that are most likely responsible for my slow video processing speeds and I will finish out the day with a lift session with Junior, trash recycling, and night two of the Democratic debates from Detroit. Have I mentioned Marianne Williamson yet? 

With any luck at all sometime today I might even isolate which of the four are most responsible for my adaptation. 

My adaption to reality. 

Can't Be Rushed

It can’t be rushed. Or perhaps I should say, it shouldn’t be rushed. You know what happens when we do. We make mistakes. We overlook important details and we put the finish ahead of the process. Let us (please allow myself) to use our accumulated acumen, all that we have have caught, sometimes at great expense, into the process, our practice. Rendered down to the bare essentials of this concept we find that this gem: Do what you do, has some fine print attachments that indicate the inclusion of how we do it. That how suggests that it be done with all our attention, awareness and joyous exertion. I cannot give one hundred percent of my focus on writing a blog post, editing video, washing my car, lifting weights or playing my guitar if I am concerned about anything other than the activity with which I am currently engaged. If I need to get this post done and dusted in time to hack a set-list together for this mornings spin class, as I consider a tricky editing correction and toy with the laundry issue of a ten day bike trip, I will quickly overload the circuitry and trip a fuse. 

Some people can multi-task all day without loss of quality. I am not one of them. To illustrate this point I stopped wearing a watch almost six months ago. Do I miss the habitual glance? No. Am I alarmed that it is almost August and we will soon be back to the gray drabness of Northwest winters? No. Do I rush through chores for no other reason than to check them off the to-do list? Yes. Guilty as charged. 

Begging the question, does this habitual tendency impact my performance of the chore or its residual quality upon completion? Sometimes. Does it warrant a closer inspection? Absolutely. 

This gets everything. Clear the desktop, move the clutter to a file, take care of the responsibilities even if you feel some need to be contested, and commit to the task at hand. Write, compose, create, practice. 

The example du jour is the video project I finished two days ago. I stepped way outside normal formatting and created a new hour-long template for use with my spin classes. This created the challenge of adding almost fifteen minutes of content to the piece, which was to document our around the Olympic Peninsula cycling trip of a month ago. I had a completion target date and set out to Kung-Fu the piece together as any decent martial artist editor would, with power and precision. And fast. Bruce Lee fast. Fire breathing Dragon fast. 

Last night I offered a sneak peak of the ending sequence to my neighbor, a wonderful gal whose opinions I highly regard. Remembering that I had deleted the huge project files to clear space for the current project (one that needs completion by Friday) I opened the master file and went to the start of the close. She immediately pointed out the fact that I had misspelled the name of one of the three people whom I wanted to give video credit and thank on screen. 

The fire breathing Dragon torched my mojo with amazing speed. I had rushed the ending, missing the opportunity to satisfy with humility, gratitude and precision, and to end this chapter of the story in a graceful, artistic manner. Now I have to do it over. Edit. Fix. Repair. 

Rush and you ruin. 

Pecan Waffles

At the junction of imagination and execution is doubt. Between the nexus, the most basic concept on the drawing board for serious consideration and its actual launch, are the myriad details that comprise the legitimacy of the plan. Can we do this? What obstacles are in the way? What is the price in man-hours, logistics, gear. And of course ensure the clear and precise meaning of the primary directive: Why are we doing this? It all starts - and the degree of ending success will always finish with - did we do what we set out to do? Did we accomplish the primary objective? Did we, pick as many as apply, get there, enjoy the ride, learn something new, win, add to our cache or experience, grow, challenge stereotypes, visit new places, meet new people, better the ball, help someone, fix something, explore, share some love, create higher frequencies, re-set the barometer of our lives, step away from our comfort zones, move our bodies, clean our pipes or ask our spirit for insight and inspiration?

Should you be lucky enough, brave enough, motivated enough to choose any three from the menu above, congratulations, you are on to it. It, being life, its meaning and magical opportunities to go, see and do. It you don't speak the language, just point to it. 

With this menu firmly in hand we select our adventurous spiritual meal. One may select one’s favorite, the bacon and eggs of comfort and convenience, or one can consider the risk of change, try the tofu scramble and place a blue-plate full of trust in the cooks ability to improvise. Playing it, ordering the safe, always the same, the quarter pounder with cheese 9-5 rut, or, go to a new spot, ask about the special, look around, smell the spices and try something exotic. 

Or make it yourself. Grow it, feed it, keep it free from weeds and hungry deer, water it, prune it, thin the buds, harvest, clean, prep, sous, and cook. Place it on your finest china (or a paper plate) along with a complimentary side, carry the dish outside to the homemade table on the sagging deck overlooking the sparking water and give grace. Thank the appropriate parties involved with your freedoms. Share the bounty and celebrate the union. Taste. 

Details make it happen. Sure, there is nothing like a pleasant surprise, yet one’s attitude when the surprises are nowhere near pleasant is equally important (see flat tire, spun bearing or theft) but they each share one commonality, that of risk. You have to take the chance that things will not be perfect and have the faith that whatever monkey wrench gets tossed your way is just another detail we must face with objective reality. Fix the tire, hire a mechanic, call the cops or walk away. Do what must be done, stay true to the mission. 

Using the food metaphor to challenge our sense of adventure is easy. Committing to the myriad details up front to put yourself in as good a position of success as possible is smart. It is why we practice, train and prepare. It is why we create lists. Things to pack, tools to clean, have spare parts, batteries, soap, maps. 

We depart for the Epic Ride, 825 miles from Seattle to San Francisco on Saturday. I spent all day yesterday in preparation. In preparation for the unknown. I can be ready for whatever pops up to test my acumen and attitude, or not. If I flat, fix it. If I fall, get up. If I get lost, find a way out. If it rains, so what? If road construction, forest fires or inattentive drives force detours, delays or damage, deal with it compassionately. This is a friendly universe. 

Stay true to the objective. Enjoy every sandwich and see every sunset. Adventure means risk. Re-examine your life. Live large. Experience. Do the do-si-do-Go-see-do. 

Take care of the details up front. Be ready.

And try the pecan waffles. 

ER minus 6

Oregon Coast Zen Rocks

Epic Ride minus six, final preps underway. The logistics have changed reflecting the dramatic failure of the marketing department to deliver even a single participant. Not one. Nobody. 

‘Cept me. 

Which is fine. The mission is now a video reconnaissance run, along roughly, the same coastal route, but ending (turning around) in San Francisco vice LA. It has also been shortened to ten days from the original twenty-one and my riding will average around fifty per day. Here are the adjusted broad strokes:

Depart after spin class on Saturday, Aug 3, approx noon. Drive to Hoodsport, WA on the Hood Canal and make camp. Ride up Lake Cushman to Staircase, hike and shoot video. Repeat procedure Southbound for ten days, ending in SF, approx 825 miles, with stops in Florence, Oregon and Crescent City, CA to visit and shooting B-Roll footage and interviews in Brookings, OR for the film screenplay. Two days on the return, choosing alternate Northbound routes as much as possible. Back Tuesday, Aug 13. 

The general outline detail includes shooting daily route video from both WF (forward facing) and bike-cam (rear facing) as well as daily updates using the Ten Day Intensive theme. Daily captures of atmospherics, sunsets, beach scenes, landmarks will also provide a strong video foundation for the trip documentary. I will also make a daily blog posting to both this site and link to the FB page, 2019 Epic Ride. 

I will also incorporate yoga, stretching,100 daily pushups and meditation as part of the trip. This in conjunction with the average riding mileage should affect overall BMI. Diet, (and beverage consumption) to be reduced, local whenever possible and featuring fruits and vegetables. One of the major selling points of the trip, as infomercial must show, is the ‘retreat on the fly’ aspect, meaning that the combination of adventure travel, exercise, diet and stress management are all key factors. One would think I should be able to capture this effectively with the Pacific Ocean as backdrop. I will create a daily schedule, or trip syllabus to better structure the ten days, which will, in turn become the promotional video for next years marketing campaign (the current director has been replaced). Perhaps ten days is more manageable for a broader potential audience than the original sixteen hundred miles and twenty-one days. I realize that is asking a lot and a major commitment for most folks. But we call it Epic for a reason. 

The basic infrastructure is done, WF is ready. Route mapped. My fire is stoked. The road beckons. As always, we’ll keep you up-to-date and advised of progress, changes to plans and/or, my personal favorite road trip inevitability; the unexpected paradox of adventure. Cue the intro. 

Epic Ride minus six, and counting. 

Garuda in Check

Two isolated events took place yesterday that shook me up pretty good. Like getting check-mated in five moves. To protect the innocent I will take the standard editorial liberties and attempt to describe, inspect and resolve the situations, the circumstances and, eventually, my response to them.

One involves love and the other honor. Fire before smoke. 

After a totally sleepless night, feeling like the berry pie I had for dessert was loaded with ten truckloads of sugar, I ended up reading as the wind announced the arrival of rain and rain the arrival of the sunrise. I had turned to a book on contemporary Buddhism to ease the restless emotional stalemate that my dilemma had created. And while the chapter on mimicking the many positive traits of the legendary garuda seemed serendipitous and personal, it left me wanting a deeper catharsis and resolution enough to drift sleepward. I’ll fall back and explain.

Innocently and with as much sensitivity as I could muster, I inadvertently put a person whom I greatly admire in a complex position. By telling my truth I unwittingly transferred the responsibility of a response, a reply to that truth, their move, on my friend. In their silence, or in their counter, the issue would be elevated to another, all together different category. A category I hadn’t anticipated with my initial opening confession. But there it was, and here it is. Instead of assuming the hardship of saying nothing and keeping my emotions to myself, I felt that in sharing them we would both benefit from the advancement of truth. It is obvious to me now why chess has the rule stating that one cannot move into check. It is for self preservation, to keep the King alive for at least a little while longer (and allow him to make a successful counter move in a big-ass hurry!) You may, as I have, want to file this in the ‘when not to tell the truth’ file folder. A folder that contains precious few case studies. And rightfully and paradoxically so. 

in Lodro Rinzler’s fascination work, The Buddha Walks Into a Bar, we are reminded of the five skhandhas, or aggregates that comprise what we generally refer to as the ego, or self. They are, layered like onion skins;

Our physical form,

Our layers of feelings,

Our perceptions, 

Our mental formulations, and

Our consciousness that binds them all together. 

I am laying in my warm bed under the ceiling fan that is pushing the humid night air of waterside summer onto my chest. I am sweating although it is four in the morning. I try again to merge the wisdom of these words with the anxiousness and contempt I feel the words I used have caused another person, a dear friend whose only ‘crime’ is to have trusted me, to consider. To consider and then respond. To accept or reject. In descending order, my physical body is agitated and upset as the layers of feeling, my understanding of these complex, paradoxical and ironic (not to mention moral and ethical) assumptions, my perception of the frequency that we share, the bigger picture and the current situation in which we find ourselves and finally the take-away in pragmatic, objective reality as sculpted by our synchronized consciousness seeking a higher vibratory solution. More truth? Is it love? Is it wisdom born of knowledge and experience? Is it gratitude, forgiveness or grace? Is this a stop along the road to enlightenment or just another pot-hole on the highway to hell? 

I don’t know. 

The second issue is one of honor, of faith and of respect. All of which were violated in one simple, second-hand conversation. More ego involved, more miscommunication and more pain. It was relatively easy to let this one go as the source is under extreme duress and willing to do almost anything to win even the slightest ego battle, interestingly a battle where both sides are the same person. By seeing the relative unimportance of the detail as it matches with the bigger picture (go ahead and take the pawn so I can take your Queen), this is an opportunity to keep an altogether innocent third-party protected by the silence of maturity. Where maturity is wisdom and wisdom is the altruism of impermanence. Let it go. No big deal. This too shall pass. 

Unless you decide to escalate and up the ego ante. 

Check.

Against the Wind

Tomorrow is one week out. Since roughly January, almost eight months ago, we have been planning on a ride from Seattle to LA. Aptly dubbed Epic Ride, it was my original intention to do the 1,600 miles in the reverse direction of the route I rode first in 1993 and then again in ’96. Both of those trips went South to North, or as Bob Seger sang, Against the Wind. Although, when pressed to comment on the primary direction of this invisible speed deterrent - usually while sitting around a camp-fire after a days ride - I would spill the beans of truth and admit that if one breaks camp at first light, gets in the days mileage by mid afternoon and then makes camp further North, as the wind increases volume in the later afternoon, who cares? Let ‘er rip. And this is traditionally, usually, is exactly the way it plays. Wind comes up in late afternoon when we have already logged 60, 70 or 80 miles and established the base camp du jour. 

Another benefit of early start is the propensity of RVers to sleep in. They can snore all they want as we hammer up shoulder-less stretches of road never designed for recreational multi-uses. I can tell you that there have been close calls. But these are the chances we take when we ride. 

The adventure and allure of self-contained bicycle touring was one of the many topics discussed during yesterday’s drive and ride (90/34/90). There is a lot more than the obvious physical demand. One has the rare opportunity to reflect, to witness and to explore. What is contemporarily called experience. Being ‘out there’ has other values and I believe the biggest to be an opportunity to consider, on the fly, the majesty of our world and the freedoms we sometimes take for granted. Moment by moment, one pedal rotation at a time, with the wind at our backs or in our face, we move gracefully and with honest intention towards the destination of now. We don’t ride from Seattle to LA, we ride from here to now. The goal is the road. The time is always now. We tune to the frequency of the universe as gulls try their best to warn us of dangerous thermals or inattentive rogue waves. Every cow that looks up from chewing a thorny cud, separated from us by barbs of stoic wire, knows our minds and winks a supportive namaste. I salute the spirit inside you. The twisting, bending, relentless flow of graceful natural movement blends together with the empty cups and open hearts of the intrepid two-wheeled pilgrim as she dances through the cosmos, smiling, waving, being. 

This isn’t a romantic vision of utopia. It is hard work, sweaty, disciplined and carries a high degree of uncertainty.  Butts get sore and necks overworked until the magical process of adaptation provides the additional strength necessary to endure. We live to ride another day. One rides one’s way to optimal fitness, one grows stronger with each passing mile, in obvious or nuanced fashion. It is a retreat from the normalcy of life, where banal habits, most of them bad, are set aside like the toys with which we once played and no longer require. We don’t sit in front of the computer monitor, the TV or the mobile device for way too many unproductive hours each day, we don’t run to the comfort foods or liquid sedatives that ease the psychic stress of living inside the chaos-filled reality show of America. There are no talking heads reminding us of who and what to hate. 

I like being out there. It is risky, not so much in the sense that I might get mugged by a raging meth-head, or side-swiped by a 34 foot diesel pusher, but because it is so far outside and away from my comfort zone. I like the challenge and I like the taste of unfiltered energy. I am trading the safety and security of my normal existence for a once in a lifetime experience. That comes with risk, and where guarantees are few. One day I will settle into the rocking chair on the deck, cat napping in my lap. But today is not that day. 

We started this crazy plan with the hope that several like-minded adventurers would join us. Over time the reality of dropping all ‘normal’ responsibilities;  jobs, families, home maintenance, golf, pet care and all the other comforts and conveniences of home whittled the participant number to its current total: One. 

A number with which I have no problems. 

Come Up and Ride

I tried nine ways to Thursday to get out of riding this morning. I have yet to fully recover from Saturday’s race, and three spin classes early in the week set that process back who knows how long. 

Then something rather strange took place yesterday as I contemplated yet another inventive and creative excuse. I said fuck that. Get up at 0400 and go ride. And so I did. We did. 

We left at the agreed to time, 0530, from the club parking lot and pointed it North. An hour later we were sipping coffee and tossing back some very decent blueberry pancakes, with still another drive to the parking area at the base of the big hill. I was hoping that riding up my favorite mountain would somehow provide additional endorphin flow - enough to power me up the seventeen miles and five thousand feet with relatively little pain. I was wrong.

It hurt like always. I was insufficiently recovered and at one point even lost balance and had to ‘talk’ myself out of a downward spiral that might have ended in disaster. 

The reality check was successful and we slugged it out to the top, refilled water bottles and screamed back down in a third of the time it took to summit. Such is the majesty and allure of Hurricane Ridge in the Washington State's Olympic Mountains. 

We discussed the local population’s mistake of taking this ride for granted, recalling the numerous times we have heard European visitors proclaim it to the the Switzerland of the US. We exchanged stories from the many years and many round-trip rides we have each taken and the respect we both hold for its distance, challenge and beauty. 'Every time is a unique adventure', we agreed was an appropriate marketing tag line. 

Ninety minutes on the road, two point five hours up, thirty-five minutes back down and another ninety minutes back home on the return leg. Done and dusted. 

This is our backyard. Our home course. It never gets old and it never gets easier. 

The cat is out of the bag in regard to Seattle and its hidden treasures. So we might as well celebrate our remaining natural, outdoor recreational opportunities. 

Come up and ride with us. 

You will not be disappointed. 

We Can, We Must

It might be considered a sickness.

Immediately following our regular Wednesday 0530 high-intensity spin set I sped back to the home office to turn on the live coverage. And not the Tour de France. 

Despite my frustratingly finicky, sporadic wifi signal and its propensity to provide greasy and pixelated resolution, I was quickly engaged with Robert Muller’s testimony to congress. The sickness referenced above is my (undiagnosed) fanatical obsession with truth, our Constitution and the Democracy on which it stands. I missed the importance and impact of 1974 when Tricky Dick was facing a humiliating decision, this oversight due to my gross political apathy at the time. The same was true in 1988 when Bubba Clinton  got caught with his pants down in the oval Office. My response to both was, that even if it cites sitting presidents, if one does the crime, one does the time. For the simple fact that NO ONE IS ABOVE THE LAW. 

Nixon wasn’t.

Clinton wasn’t.

And trump isn’t. 

As hard as his racist and morally corrupt minions try to spin it, the (so called) leader of the free world and our commander-in chief, is a fraud. I wish we had the tapes and I wish we had the stained dress, the smoking guns that plugged both Dick and Bill. We don’t. 

What we have is a 450 page report and now congressional testimony from its author. Nothing is settled, nothing determined and nothing even close to a recently fired Glock 9 has been introduced as evidence. Republicans are claiming vindication, 45 has already tweeted his go-to lie as the Democrats prepare for their next strategic round of discovery, jurisprudence code for A Hail Mary. 

It will come to this. It will come to what it has always come down to. Our current administration is corrupt. Politicians are bought, owned by the greedy wills of big business. Our most recent election was hacked by a hostile adversary. War is big business as is oil, drugs, private prisons and deregulation of policies designed to protect the integrity of our environment, the health of our citizens and the rights of women, gays, people of color, seniors and vets. Gold is the new God, and he is white, evangelical and with criminal herrenvolkial interests. 

It will come down to our vote. 

Mueller can't do it. Congress can't and the greed and lies of this administration are in felonious dissent. But we can. We can vote for the morality of our constitution and the integrity of our democracy. We can make America honest again. 

We will. We must. 

Expecting Normal

Two hour-long spin sessions, executed during the recovery phase of my ‘A’ race of the year, Saturday, left me weary, light-headed and deep in atrial fibrillation. What I really needed was a catnap in the sunshine on the deck, but all I got was DOMS. Delayed Onset of Muscular Soreness. This has been happening with regularity. It is no longer the day after a hard effort or race, it is TWO. And this presents a few challenges. 

The first challenge is, of course, making the necessary changes to accommodate the latest data. There is the classic story of an age group Ironman World Champion, for several years running, that, upon completion of another record setting IM, would immediately take off on a ‘leisurely’ 5K run. This, he explained to me in an interview in Kona one year, is designed to immediately counter the ravaging effects of a 140 mile race, in the heat and against world class competition. It was, in his opinion and practice to loosen up the mitochondria and cellular damage that comes with sustained long distance intensities, which is, of course, the very definition of racing an Ironman. In other words, this practice, seemingly an oxymoron of staggering proportions, allowed him to return to his regular training regime as early as the next day. I always marveled at his discipline, as sometime regularly taking an entire week off after an Ironman to allow for proper cellular rejuvenation and return to muscular homeostasis. I can remember being barely able to walk after several IMs where it was necessary, in my mind, to push past pain in order to accomplish the race objective (which was for almost a decade to qualify for Kona). 

The second challenge then becomes to re-establish training structure that embraces this change rather than ignores or dismisses it. As many times on Sunday that I considered a recovery run in the park to actively encourage cell repair, I spent the afternoon in the more mundane affairs of cleaning gear, washing bikes and doing laundry. Come Monday morning at 0530 I was back in the saddle spinning up some obnoxious high-intensity intervals and watching the heads-up display on the Kaiser M3 indicate that my heart rate was dangerously irregular. And then we did it again at 0845. There should be a Lifeguard on duty! 

By the time I got home from the second class I was cooked. And, to tell the truth, a little concerned. I really felt bad, chest pain, shortness of breath and what the medical community is now calling body fever. I needed a nap, some water and a bowl of protein. None of which was forthcoming as my neighbor visited innocently wanting only a race report and a hug. 

While she was visiting she asked about any physical repercussions I might be experiencing. Well, yeah, there are a couple I whined, I have DOMS and pretty sure I am still in A-Fib. She likes to use my stethoscope and asked if she could take a listen, this I believe to have the experience of diagnosis so to act as first responder should her husband show similar symptoms. 

Later, as we sat in the sunshine, welcoming the third member of our group back from a horse show in Bend, sipping summer ale and recapping our respective adventures from the week, we got to the subject of my DOMSAFIB. 

How did his heart sound in the scope?

Really weird.

You were expecting normal? I jokingly add. 

Two Outta Three

Aside from the race, the mission had a pair of additional directives. One was to visit an old friend (center pic) and the other to view a piece of property (at right) that seemed perfectly suited for the purpose of serving as a base-camp for cycling tours and trips. I will attempt to use about a thousand words less than yesterdays race debrief (an oxymoron if ever there was).

By our unanimous agreement it had been thirty-eight years since the last time we sat and chatted. It became quickly apparent that Stan had made a rather large tactical error when, ten minutes into our exchange, he innocently asked what I had been doing (for the past four decades). Two hours, and some of my favorite stories later, he had only heard about half of it. But I had to drive back to the event for the race meeting, sparing he and his wife of fifty years, Darlene, what Paul Harvey was fond of calling, ‘the rest of the story’. 

I was glad that I had initiated the meeting and very much  

enjoyed our conversation. Stan was instrumental in my career as a musician, teaching me everything, to that point, I knew about country music, a fact that I shared with this morning's class adding ‘and I know a lot about country music.’ Stan and I yakked about the old days, the good old days and the characters that we used to ride with. We played some outrageously mediocre music, but every once in a while we’d let loose with a keeper or two. It was a rare Saturday night that ended much before Monday morning. I never really considered that Stan was almost twenty years my senior back then when I was not even thirty. We played hard and we drank hard. Many an occasion I would wonder aloud if, as Waylon used to say, ‘are you sure ol’ Hank done it this way?’ I seem to recall that the answer was always yes. An emphatic yes. I had a rifle rack in my pickup and a dog in the back, lip full of chew and a sixer on ice. Stan laughed about my trying to fit all my hair under the brown Stetson that I decided was needed as a stage prop.

After the race Saturday I headed up the valley. As many times as I had traveled up and down it this trip seemed virginal. I was going to explore back roads previously unknown to me. Almost immediately, the road turned from bumpy, to rocky, and then to dusty, emphatically removing any lingering doubts as to its project viability. Twenty minutes of twisting, climbing, hot and dusty in the summer and icy and dangerous in the winter was not in the initial vision. I managed to get to the cabin with every inch of the van and both bikes covered in dust. The DIY, off-grid cabin was, by my measurement, very cool. Solar powered, independent well and septic and hard wired high-speed DSL on eight raw acres. Lots of charred pine trees from the Carlton Complex fire of 2014 reminded anyone caring to consider the catastrophic reality of an out of control forest fire meeting dry fuel, stored oil, gas and propane. 

I stayed about an hour, walked the perimeter and hiked to the highest point to gawk at the valley’s natural majesty. Outside of it not being what I wanted or needed for this project, it still sits in a spectacular bit of wilderness. I am simply not ready to end this chapter as an anti-social hermit on the mountaintop. 

Driving back down I stopped several times to admire the vistas and stretch my tired legs and back. By the time I hit the highway and pointed it West towards the Methow’s more popular locals, Twisp, Winthrop and Mazama I was ready to eat. 

But couldn’t find the perfect spot. Both Methow and Carlton’s infamous General Store deli counter’s were boarded up, closed and for sale. Sad, hungry and tired I pressed on, zooming through the North Cascade’s spectacular passes. I finally stopped for chow in Marblemount where I was thoroughly ripped off for a sixteen dollar halibut burger and a five dollar beer. I won’t even dignify the establishment by naming it. 

By nightfall I was in the holding pen to catch the 2100 ferry home. It was a long, almost 500 mile, weekend. We defended the age-group crown, dialed-up and old and dear friend, and scouted the property. 

As I just mentioned to my pal upon her inquiry of the trip, ’two outta three ain’t bad.’ 

Another First

Race debrief. 

I can honestly say that it was a first. After, give or take, sixty years of wearing a watch on my left wrist, the last half of those years with a feature popular among athletes known as a chronometer, I ditched the accessory due to its redundancy with my phone. I really don’t need a backup to tell the time of day. As habitual as it was for the first couple of weeks, feeling naked as I glanced at the location where my watch had once been, I got used to it. There is, however a major difference between an accessory and a utility. That fact became quickly apparent yesterday as I raced the 2019 Chelanman Olympic Triathlon. I capitalize the name of the event not so much to promotes its stature, as I would Ironman, but to illustrate the respect I hold for this wonderful event. 

Yes, I will gladly donate $150 towards the support of youth services in this recreational paradise in North Central Washington (the Bend of the Evergreen State), but almost always it is more because it flat out kicks my butt in a wholesome, engaging and spectacular way. I think that is what I like is so much about it and look forward to participation every July. Yesterday was no different.

Firstly, allow me to editorialize, that I love racing in the heat. The image of heat radiating from tarmac and a quick shot of water in an aid station with still an eternity to go, powers my imagination and stirs a part of me that connects this image to purpose, meaning, courage and challenge. It is  non-lethal hand-to-hand trench warfare - and I like it like a mercenary likes the skirmish. 

Having practiced my incredibly slow crawl stroke in the pool only two times since last years event, I formulated a game plan as I slept comfortably in the back of WF Friday night. Relax, breathe deep, reach, glide and make it as graceful and fluid as possible. Be fishlike. It's only 1,500 meters and 30 minutes tops. You can do anything for 30 minutes Aquaman. Yet as I stood in the patched and outdated wetsuit I hadn’t worn since my first Ironman in 1996, in the clear and warm water of the lake, just minutes before the start, the feeling of excitement, adventure and challenge (in the form of endorphin flow) rushed to the surface bringing back memories of familiar emotions at other events. I will tell you this, there is nothing like being in knee-deep at the starting point of a 140.6 mile Ironman, one minute before the canon sounds its official beginning. Nothing. It was with this psychological backdrop that I nodded my head, now wrapped in bright yellow neoprene with a handwritten 1769 on its right side, with appreciation and respect, smiling with all the humility and gratitude I could invoke. I truly love this opportunity to place myself in the midst of my vision of life fully lived. 

I am dealing with this melodramatic metaphysical euphoria as I hear the race director ask the crowd to chant the count-down. Instinctively I reach to start my race watch and laugh at the spectacle that there is nothing on my wrist but a race band. Right.  In a Yoda-like voice I hear my inner counsel advise, ‘race by feel - enjoy the ride.’ 

We are off. I find a quick groove in open water and settle into the rhythm of the swim. I catch the water, push it back mirroring jet propulsion, glide on my side and breathe full and deep. I am a little surprised at how slippery I feel as the old wetsuit seems to be keeping my posture in the clean and clear water equally as pure. I hit the first buoy and think about other swims in other races, how I tried to gaslight myself into thinking that I was feeling good, strong and capable, all the while knowing that my race never really started until the bike. On the home stretch I am thinking, as I actually pass a few folks, that this might be a great start to a record day. Just that thought alone picks up my pace as I try to sight the final red marking buoy that signifies the last few, glorious meters prior to the solid ground of pay dirt transition. 

I exit and find my bike. I decide to wear my glasses under the giant shades often preferred by light-sensitive senior citizens, and trot Little Miss Mirthy up the grassy hill to the bike start. I stop there and a volunteer asks me if I am OK, ‘yes, I am not going to capture any video unless I turn the camera on,’ I tell her laughing. She laughs too as I thank her and clip in. 

Ah, in my element at last. I spend the first two down hill miles in damage report mode. How much fuel had the swim cost me and at what pace shall I set the automatic speedometer? The report from the skipper is oddly familiar; Dam the torpedoes, full speed ahead. A tutu forza as the Italians say. Remembering that the prior year I struggled with finding the coveted sweet-spot I run the chain up the cog with about the same caution that a gorilla opens a banana. By the time I hit the first technical part of the out and back course, I was breathing hard into efficient and powerful rotations, moving past the better swimmers with frightening regularity. The groove is mine, I am the leader, you may follow or incapable, please get out of the way. I get passed twice by long-course racers, but re-pass and forget them with brutal race objectivity and compassionless ‘nothing personal - just business’ precision. I take a few risks and they all pay off. The song in my head is Heart’s Crazy On You. 

I fly into transition, jog back to my gear, don my race belt and cap and take the first few steps testing for remaining leg starch. Surprisingly I find there to be some and off on the six mile trek we slug. I resist the urge to look at my watch and do the calc of estimate time of arrival at the finish like I have done so many times in the past. This practice while either motivating or devastating is always a reality check of sorts. If motivating you run fast, it devastating you run faster.  Since I was racing by feel that decision would come from my internal clock, and it told me simply to find the song in my heart that would carry me through five miles of heat, fatigue and doubt. Guitar solo. 

I learned a long time ago that if one compromises on the run, losing the internal debate and justifying a walk as necessary to survival, that the race, by its very definition, is over. You have lost the most important element of racing, the requirement to never say die. You have negotiated a deal, plea-bargained, and summarily sentenced to the reality of your limitations. The Pyrrhic victory of ‘the finish’ while admirable, will never yield the larger victories of your dreams. 

To me, this very personal ideal, viewed as a tactic, means, simply: Do not stop. Not in aid stations, not for barking dogs, not for red lights, heat, fatigue, dehydration, cramps, pain and not for atrial fibrillation. To stop is to die. And this is not that day. You must prove this to be so. 

Up the final hill and down to the finish line. The race announcer, busy with announcing other categorical results, missed my finish. Oh well. Naturally as I hit the finish line I reach to stop my watch. A young volunteer puts a medal around my neck as another removes my chip timer. I am done. I have finished. The song is over. 

I move towards the food tent assessing overall damage and feel surprisingly good. This was the first hard workout of the last ten days as I recovered from that nasty virus. I should be happy. I toss back a cup of water and move towards the timing trailer. I feel as if my effort has been worthy. I can honestly report that my intentions, output, focus and grace under fire to be solid, a legitimate response. I am pleased, satisfied and a little surprised that I was able, under the unique circumstances that I brought with me to this race, including that fact that I came to defend three years of age-group championships, to pull it off so convincingly. 

Except for the part about the watch. I sincerely felt like I had run AT LEAST twenty minutes faster than last year. 

When reality of the official timer tells me I was a minute slower. 

I am scratching my head trying to figure what that means. 

Another first. 

Ciao Bella

Bags packed, ready to go. WF (pictured at right) now holds racing, camping and video gear plus adjacent tools, tapes and supporting equipment that I am quite sure could last me a month on the road. Today’s out leg is a little over 200 miles with an estimated 3.28 hours between the dots. That does not include the Washington State Ferry sail and circumnavigation of downtown Seattle, which at this time, a summer Friday, is going to be a colossal clusterfuck. I am not even thinking about the return trip.

Between the starting dot and the destination dot is the adventure. I will get there, the issue is how. I know I-90 like the palm of my left hand, meaning that those three plus hours in a seated, locked position, the day before a race, can be, shall we say, ominous. I will pick a few rest areas and stretch, also allowing the pre-race over hydration process to self regulate. I think  you know of what I speak.

Going to see my old buddy Stan this afternoon. We haven’t stood mano-a-mano in almost forty years. Stan was the lead singer of the country outfit I played in for almost five years. Stan was the guy who listened to my banjo picking and suggested that the group needed a drummer more than another string player, and since at the time I only knew a handful of hillbilly jazz tunes, and as the group, later to become Whiskey River, had a paying gig that Saturday night, I took Stan up on his offer and faked my way through a pair of ninety minute sets. A word to wanna be drummers - country is your go-to genera for your initiation to live music. One-two-three-four and repeat.

It is raining lightly and I have the double-check to execute before settling into Whitey for the trip. I have my laptop but the destination, as well as a hundred mile radius, is famous for sporadic wifi. Meaning that  although I will transcribe my post-race notes, they may not get published until Sunday. I know this breaks your heart, so I apologize up front.

Gotta go. Ciao bella.

Barrel of Monkeys

I am trying to work up some enthusiasm. I should be happy. The nasty virus that brought me to the brink of tears is gone. Tomorrow is gateway day. I will drive WF to the Central Washington sunshine and race Saturday morning. Yet, for reasons that may or may not be revealed (not because I don’t want to share them but because I don’t completely understand them as yet), I am anxious, nervous and a bit sad. it is Thursday morning at 0605.

There remains the usual check list of things to do. Clean the bikes, create a FOR SALE sign for the Orbea, re-rig the Go-Pro camera mount on LMM (Little Miss Mirthy, my road bike that is now doubling as race rig), patch a couple of rips in my old wetsuit. I am choosing to wear the old one because the DeSoto two-piece, itself now almost twenty years old, is just too hard to strip. That may somewhat explain the anxious issue. WF, Whitey Ford, my ivory custom Ford Transit Connect is ready to go needing only to be packed, loaded and stocked with race gear and camping equipment. ETD is ten, with ETA around fifteen hundred tomorrow. I need to text Stan and update. I haven’t seen my old pal since 1981, thirty-eight years. That may be the nervous part.

I sent an introductory memorandum out yesterday, in proposal form, regarding the proposed purchase of the Methow Valley property and its subsequent use as a ‘base-camp’ for bicycle trips and tours. I thought that it, despite the informal bullet-point formatting, was a clear invitation to join me in a LLC start-up for the bargain price of ten thousand dollars. They only thing I didn’t include was a money-back guarantee. Investing in property is about as low-risk as a limited liability gets, still the quick initial response I was seeking brought crickets in surround-sound silence. This, coupled with our sweet neighborhood dog peacefully transitioning via the vet’s euthanasia needle on Tuesday night, could be the issues behind my melancholy.

I have been here before. I am no stranger to anxiety, uncertainty or sadness. The sadness is the hardest for me. I can almost always brush away fear and doubt by a simple re-set of my current consciousness and attitude. I have had plenty of practice and, truth be known, pretty good at instant recognition and subsequent attitude change. But sadness always seems to want to linger as if seeking some deeper understanding, like a blues riff waiting for the adjacent lyric to adequately demonstrate the power of pain or the value in suffering. It is not penance. It is not self-flagellation or punishment for past regressions. Truthfully the only sins I commit are those of not sinning at more prolific levels. At this point I have zero desire to be either a sinner or a saint.

I simply seek the balance of experience. To demonstrate mastery over the fear and move gracefully into the unknown with an open heart and enthusiastic, joyous exertion that only comes from meaningful adventure and a flowing partnership with the universe at large. I do not believe that is asking too much.

Mistakes will surely be made, turns taken away from the primary direction, and there will be blood. Still, with a firm commitment to the living of life, the taking of risks and with a sense of wonder that the laws of attraction provide, one can, with little prodding, see all this as about as much fun as a barrel of primates.

There, that’s better.

The Law

Law of Attraction

As if he needs more credit, Albert Einstein also gets this one right: The most important question anyone will ever have to address is whether or not they consider the universe to be, or not to be, friendly.

I do.

I do despite the countless bull cookies that have fallen from the sky on my poor head. Seriously, I can honestly say that despite my (well) below the medium income I have the one thing that always rises towards the top when questions of goals are asked. I am happy.  I have an abundance of it. I have it by the truckload, in spades and sometimes have so much I don’t know what to do with it all. In other words, I trust in the friendliness of the universe to provide what I ask for. 

Asked if I might trade some of it for cash, I answer no thank you very much. It is not for sale. I will give it away, but not sell it. 

I am off on this tangent today because there has been a consciousness bombardment of hyperbole the last few days. One of the bombs is, as mentioned yesterday, from the book I am currently absorbed with and the other the audio book to which I listen while driving. Serendipitously both authors have chosen the same topic, arriving from different paths and for different reasons, they each weave their tales and ask for consideration on the subject of gratitude. 

Rinzler in Buddha Walks Into a Bar cites the six paramitas of:

Generosity,

Discipline,

Patience,

Joyous Exertion,

Meditation,

Superior Knowledge.

Did you happen to catch numero uno? Generosity and gratitude go hand in hand. Like the happiness example above, once abundance is achieved, or during the process of obtainment, or even with none at all, one can be generous. Generous with their time, their energy, their community involvement and their spirit. 

In her blockbuster self-help franchise, The Secret, Rhonda Byrne asks us to visualize five things that we each have to be grateful for. Because, she says, the Law of Attraction states that once seen in the minds eye, that generosity of spirit will manifest as gratitude and attract even more to the consciousness of the beholder. What a wonderful challenge, to deal with an overabundance of generosity and gratitude! Dan Millman used to ask: How good can you stand it? 

The powerful combination of generosity, gratitude and abundance is available to each of us right now. Consider your attitudes. Are you generous? Do you say thank you enough? Do you have an abundance of something? 

I asked the small group assembled this morning for our ritual Wednesday 0530 spin class to consider one thing that they are grateful for. See it as we work our bodies and relax our minds. That one thing that we hold with great regard, for which we are truly grateful. 

Can we be generous with the emotions that manifest? Is this love? Can we, could we, ever have too much? 

The Law of Attraction suggests otherwise. That we will, like an electromagnetic force field, bring the thing into our personal space that glows brightest in our consciousness. That might explain why I am so happy. I want, I expect, more. All of it and all the time. I get what I need and what I need is happiness. More than anything else. 

I have so much gratitude. It is truly an abundance. I share this with you today as a small way to be generous with it, to pay it forward. 

It’s the Law.

Joyous Exertion

The open is an update. Today is Day Eight. Yesterday even managed somehow to top Sunday as ‘most miserable’. This was accomplished by adding the insult of atrial fibrillation to the injury of a deeply compromised viral infection. It seemed that on each labored inhale and scratchy exhale the charged atoms controlling heart beat frequwency would over respond thinking that more is better. There was no balance, rhythm, flow or normalcy other than my recognition of the imbalance, arrhythmia, blockage and abnormality. After class it was the best I could do to shower, drive home, climb the stairs and lay down.

Finally in the early afternoon, I felt strong and calm enough to try a visit to the loo. That was about the extent of my ability to care for my sorry self.

And today, a mere four days from race day, I sit and contemplate the decision at hand. It is fairly simple, go or no-go. I could easily choose to DNS. I could opt to start and then face the humility of a DNF. Or I could compromise my current understanding of the differentiation between courage and stupidity. I could tough it out and tweak my definition of victory from the successful defense of my title, to merely finishing, just making it back alive. I think that decision, while it would be nice to have it solidified by tomorrow, might come down to Friday, travel day.

The good news is that I do feel better this morning - but all that has physically entailed is making coffee and the obligatory news feed scan and the effort of keeping the streak alive (blogging every day). Not exactly a speedy 10K before breakfast.

Update updated, I would like to comment on last night. Being unable to sleep I read. It was 0300 when my eyelids finally felt heavy enough to close them. It was, however, time well spent as an important bit of information was passed from the author of The Buddha Walks Into a Bar… Lodro Rinzler, and my humble practitioner alter-ego. He carefully recited the nature of the six paramitas or transcendental actions. (As I read I am drawn to their timely presence). They are: Generosity, discipline, patience, joyous exertion, meditation and prajna (superior knowledge). As the author began a detailed examination of each, citing examples culled from real world situations, I began to create my own.

Grading out in the middle of the bell-shaped curve on every one. Except the one may that may quite possibly possess precise prescient powers.*

Joyous Exertion.

* With apologies for the excessive alliteration.

This Should Be Fun

‘…unreflective execution of intricate skilled performances.”*  Don’t ‘over-focus’ with contrite movements designed to foster form over function. Practice perfectly and then transition from the practice to the play. Let it go. Relax. Lean the flowing, natural rhythms associated with your sport in order to put them into play come race day, or, as we noted yesterday in the post on rumination, allow your movements to automate a deeper synchronized flow-state that promotes organic thought. We have all witnessed this as we run, ride or rip a single up the middle. In that place known as the zone where times slows, utilities unite and the sub-conscious considers its potential we recognize the magic as present. At this point we have the hammer. This is good we say, keep it up. 

This trajectory is established and sustained through acceptance of the magic and its judicial use. If we see it as something that comes around once every blue moon, we miss the optics of the quarter moon, the half-moon and the silver crescent moon. The absolute splendor of a summer full moon is something that we can use to our advantage every day, even if they are grey, rainy and overcast. 

Listen to the natural rhythms created by the wind, the rain, the water. Hear their complex patterns and join in the virtuosity of the cosmic symphony. Feel your heart-beat playing quick counter-measures to their dramatic percussion. Join the band. These natural rhythms are everywhere playing a non-stop solo with the selfless aim of simply inspiring the dance. There is specific, scientific, physical reasons why we hear these sounds, and then there is the interpretive emotions that take noise and convert it to sound. Lastly those sounds combine with our appreciation and consciousness to create music. How sad it must be for the canary to be misunderstood or the rooster to be muted. 

We can use this in our training and racing much as the Zen practitioner uses zazen and walking meditation. We can merge our awareness with reality. We can hear the heart-beat of the universe and join forces in a powerful duet of inspired movement and energy flow. We can hear it or we can create it. At the start of many events I will decrease the surrounding ambient noise, still my mind and ask in solemnity for the sun, wind, birds and beasts to join me in this pending adventure. I ask that my energies be pure enough to add to the mix, as I respect those around me in order to manifest our combined optimal joy, gratitude and effort. 

Once my small prayer has been completed, I am ready to race. I will honor all competitors by giving, gifting my best effort, knowing that will make them better as well. 

Almost always, moments before the gun, once this ritual has been offered, I will inevitably smile. There is great power here, I am in tune with the rhythms of the world, relaxed and ready. I know this will not be easy. I also know that it is the degree of difficulty that offers these great rewards to those willing to test. It is incredible to actually feel endorphins and adrenalin begin to flow, prepping for the dance. 

It might be habit or it might be ritual or it might be a jump-start motivational technique, but once all this has been checked of the list, invariably I say aloud to any who might hear,

This should be fun. 

* Cutting Rhythms by Karen Pearlman. Practical Exercise, becoming aware of the rhythms of the world.

And Doing Them

It is, quite possibly, my raison d’etre, the meaning behind the action. Or, put another way, the why of the what. Answering the question, why do you do that you do? 

Yesterday, as planned, we ripped through a simulated 40K ride at race pace. This isn’t always easy because some folks simply have zero desire to work at the levels required to accurately mirror the sustained intensity levels of the challenge. This is, of course, a concept that the experienced riders embrace, it is the holy grail of riding a bike. Bringing the two together, indoors, under the guidance of a coach familiar with the physical and mental demands of high output and sustainable efforts can be amazingly beneficial. There are verbal cues, prompts, warnings and commands as well as the unspoken but dramatic communication known as body language. Toss in a couple of industrial strength fans and some vintage rock 'n roll, keep your heart rate at 95% of max and go bravely in search of dynamic flow, focused effort and sustainable power. For one hour. Dad get me outta this. 

That is the point A to point B descriptor. The start and the finish, its beginning and the end. 

What intrigued me yesterday as we executed this quarterly event, is what took place between the polarities of the go and the whoa, the hammer going down and its eventual conclusion. Perhaps a cleaner visual is the one of the road trip. You pack your car, truck or van with everything you think will be necessary to accomplish the trip objectives, bikes, tents, CDs, podcasts, ice chests, propane, tools, water and snacks, check your GPS and head down the road. Destination is three days or twenty-five hours away. The adventure is what takes place between them. Or as Kerouac called it On The Road. We are almost always slightly disappointed when we arrive. The experience of moving through the unknowns of time and space alive with the freedoms of mind, body and spirit is the goal, not the eventual geographic destination. 

I am fascinated by what happens as we power through this landscape. On a bicycle, racing, there is but a single objective: Get there as fast as you are able. On a bicycle when touring the objective is to travel slow and steady, seeing everything. Honestly I cannot tell which I prefer. I love to race and I love to tour. They represent the two sides of the freedom and adventure coin. The provide purpose. Heads or tails. 

When I wish to go fast I want my training to accommodate the request. The times when success is defined by smiles instead of miles, I wish for the emotional, the internal, the spiritual and artistic rather than the brute velocity of the race. For the former I bring gels and the latter a good lens. 

It was with great interest that yesterday in our virtual race, where at the turnaround, the half-way point, as a particularly poignant tune, Zevon’s gritty Guns, Lawyers and Money, blasted onto the scene, that I considered my meaning. Why do I do this? What is its meaning? What is it for? How does this simple exercise create such awesome and amazing magic? 

Can my raison d’être simply be seeking activities that combine consciousness, physicality and spirituality? 

AND DOING THEM? 

Shall We Rehearse?

It is a dress rehearsal of sorts. It seems official enough this morning, one week out from my ‘A’ race of the year, to announce that I am over the cold, influenza, virus crud enough to attempt the aforementioned walk through.

Meaning that in spin class this morning, in a little over 90 minutes, we will take another shot at virtual racing. ‘It is race day’ being the way I like to introduce the days protocol, strategy and goal. We have a target, and as team manger, captain and coach I will provide you all with your assignments. The sprinters will sprint, the climbers will climb, the domestiques will provide cover and the lieutenants will lead us out. As a veteran all-rounder, you will have the privilege, the responsibility, to assume all of those duties at one time or another along this course, which will take us exactly one hour to complete. It is a fair course, 90% light rollers punctuated by one 4-5% hill every five minutes. The goal is to race it, not merely ride it. We will compete with the clock, the terrain, the heat and those who compete against us. But most of all we will compete with, and within, ourselves. This is where we find our best effort. It is in there somewhere, dozing and dormant perhaps, wishing only manifestation as power, speed, freedom and flow. This is your assignment and it should inspire both your attitude and awareness. Let it go and let it flow. Stay present. Feel your effort, your power as reward for your diligence and dedication. You have worked hard over the long, cold winter and we now prepare to ride into the light of a glorious victory. However that victory will only happen if you are courageous, focused and relaxed enough to accept the enormity of this challenge today. Take it one mile at a time, one minute, one deep breath and one perfect note from the Stradivarius of your soul at a time. Hear that tune. Sync the grace and beauty of your movements with the resolve and gratitude in your mind as your spirit keeps the pace lively with a stirring sonnet scored by the totality of your luminous being.

I can only guarantee that should you find that synergy, should you empower that trio and decide to commit to the effort required, your victory is assured. I am not talking about winning. I am talking about the effort behind it. Because I will state once again that should you find that deep and powerful center of being, should you tap into its vast reservoir of pure energy, faith, trust, fellowship and compassion, and bring it into play, you have already won. And I could care less about the place of finish once that has been accomplished. It is about the effort, your intent, not the result. I know this is a difficult concept for some to fathom, but please trust me until you have sufficiently tested, tried and proven it to yourself. It is at that time and place that you will have successfully transitioned from student to teacher, from child to adult and from soldier to warrior. It just so happens to also be the place where the purest fun, adrenaline flow and joie de vivre thrives and flourishes. Let it rip through your veins like high-octane jet fuel.

Well, it appears that we are dressed. Shall we rehearse?

Underdog

First things first. (Where else could they go?) We begin Day Five of my battle with what the locals refer to as The Crud, with an update. After finally succumbing to the lure of peaceful sleep I took a swing from the bottle of Nyquill that has been resting in dormancy on my bathroom shelf for, I will guess, five years. The stuff, already difficult to choke down, must have picked up some ABV along the way as it was a tough shot to slug. I was also warned that some of its active ingredients, now enriched and ready for jet engine fuel, did not play well with the anticoagulant prescribed to me by the UW Med Cardiology brain trust. Something about gastro-intestinal bleeding as I recall. Despite this warning and my caving to the discomfort, down the hatch the red slime slid. 

Causing, I suspect, the deep level of anxiety and desperation of my drug-induced dreams. I will summarize by saying that they were no fun. This morning, feeling as if I slept on the tarmac of the trucking lane lane of I-5 South, a careful analysis indicates that it, The Crud, is now on the move. It is in my lungs where it morphs to sludge-like toxic mucus. And seeks release from one of the two most available orifices, nose or mouth. I have no preference, other than for it to cease and desist. Does not this alien entity understand the I have a race a week from tomorrow? I keep hoping that black coffee is the cure and press onward with a progressive overloading of caffeine. And Vitamin C washed with water. No more of that medicated goo. Basta. 

There is the medical update. It, as mentioned, does not bode well for my race. Today will be pivotal, if I get to the zenith, or nadir, however you prefer to view the celestial comparison, my star will rise or fall as a result. I can be ‘as ready as possible’ with five days of positive physical trending. If it lingers any further, the damage will be done and I would be foolish to even attempt a go at it. 

That being the admission du jour, I now debate the line separating my never-say-dye stubbornness with the reality of compromised physicality. I could do further damage. Or it could be a red badge of courage win for the home team, a come-from-behind miracle win for the all-time underdog. A dog that could use a win right now. 

What have I got to lose?