Again with the Racing
Today I raced. In subpar shape after a spring and early summer of illness, business and generally sporadic training -- a friend described the phenomenon as "barely holding onto fitness" -- I went out and did the San Jose International Triathlon (1.25K swim, 40K bike, 10K run).
It had been since Half Vineman -- mid-summer last year -- that I raced. In the interim I did run a couple of marathons but for me that's not racing; that's called surviving. This race is just a couple miles from my parents' house, the house I grew up in, so I drove down yesterday evening and slept in one of those tiny kid beds in what used to be the room I shared with my brother Phil but is now Mom's sewing room. The birds woke me ten minutes before my 5:30 alarm was to go off. Good! A few extra minutes always come in handy on race morning, to be spent (as they were this morning, for example) standing in line at the portapotty, then jogging back to the car to retrieve the forgotten goggles.
In good time, there I was, in my wetsuit and my maroon swimming cap (marking me a male, 40-44), standing in a couple of inches of fetid Lake Almaden waters, waiting with my fellow tri tribe as the waves of age groups set off, separated by four minutes and practically catapulted forward by a booming cannon shot.
It occurred to me that I wasn't nervous. I wondered if this was a change from previous races, but -- customarily, not trusting my memory -- I couldn't be certain. I was dreading the swim, but that's par for the course. Mostly I was enjoying the scene and the scenery (lots of fit girls, people chattering about all the ailments that have held them back, that kind of thing), and speculating, to myself, about how I'd do. My thought: it wouldn’t be a bad showing if I finished 10 minutes slower than last year's 2:36, with most of the lost time coming on the bike.
We maroon caps finally got going and the swim in Lake Almaden featured many familiar elements -- thick green unappetizing water, guys swimming up your back, guys weaving back and forth in front of you and kicking you in the head (or, just as likely, me weaving and crashing into feet) and of course the indignity of the next group's leaders catching and leaving you in their wake. Despite all that, my level of distress remained low and I actually began to believe I was moving along OK. Not quickly, mind you, but better than usual. And sure enough, my time out of the water was 27 minutes, 23.3 seconds -- pretty awful, but about 90 seconds speedier than last year and 85th out of 134 in my age group. That's far and away my best swimming placement ever. Of course, I didn't know any of these facts at the time; it just seemed pretty good.
On the bike, we headed out of the park and turned south/southwest almost immediately, embarking on a flat, straight 13-mile stretch that would make up just over half the entire course. The marine intrusion was still howling up the valley and we were slogging right into it. Tough going, especially after we crested a little hill that takes you out of San Jose's development and into the farmlands between the city and Morgan Hill. I was down to 14.5 mph at a couple of points, and it was a bit discouraging. For awhile there, I thought I was looking at a horrid 1:30 ride, way off my 1:13 of last year. But of course, we enjoyed the benefits of this wind returning to the start/finish area on rolling McKean Road, just to the west over the first ridge of the Santa Teresa Hills (which front the Santa Cruz Mountains). Even with the wind pushing me along I worked hard, often cruising at 25, 26 mph, and I brought it in at 1:17:43.2 -- just four minutes off 2004. Not as bad as I feared -- but not nearly what it should be, ranking 100th in the age group.
Finally the run. I nearly matched my time from last year, finishing just seven seconds slower in 46:01.7, 34th best in the age group. And really, what was cool was that it felt, well, easy. I kept up a nice even pace (every mile was between 7:20 and 7:35) and was in control, just cruising.
So: swim not an embarrassment; sucky bike; great run. Add it up and you get an official time of 2 hours, 39 minutes and 0.1 seconds, 76th in the age group and 473rd out of 1100 finishers. Mediocre and, as always, utterly exhilarating.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Monday, June 20, 2005
Rilke. Always Rilke.
Once the realization is accepted that even between the closest people infinite distances exist, a marvelous living side-by-side can grow up for them if they succeed in loving the expanse between them, which gives them the possibility of always seeing each other as a whole and before an immense sky.
Once the realization is accepted that even between the closest people infinite distances exist, a marvelous living side-by-side can grow up for them if they succeed in loving the expanse between them, which gives them the possibility of always seeing each other as a whole and before an immense sky.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
No vino
Did I mention I haven't been drinking wine the last few weeks? Oh, that's right -- I haven't mentioned anything! Blogger vacation. Recharding the batteries. Flaking. Just not into it. Well, anyway, yeah, it's been 17 days since I imbibed. Persistent sinus and throat problems were the impetus. More soon on this topic, as it is multifaceted. (Just wanted to get something posted to inspire me to get back in the flow here.)
Did I mention I haven't been drinking wine the last few weeks? Oh, that's right -- I haven't mentioned anything! Blogger vacation. Recharding the batteries. Flaking. Just not into it. Well, anyway, yeah, it's been 17 days since I imbibed. Persistent sinus and throat problems were the impetus. More soon on this topic, as it is multifaceted. (Just wanted to get something posted to inspire me to get back in the flow here.)
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Plastics
Or was it "plastic"? I could look it up, but why don't you and let me know. Thanks.
Anyway, what brings this classic line from The Graduate to mind is an encounter I had with an older guy at the Paterno Wines Tasting Room Tent at Indian Wells Garden Tennis Center (whew). When I mentioned that I lived in Napa and that it was growing with the flood-control project making development more attractive, he leaned close and whispered: "Buy. Buy real estate. Bust your balls if that's what it takes. But buy real estate. Do it, Pete. This is your chance. This is OK, doing this wine thing. But if you're ever going to get ahead, buy. Buy. Whatever it takes. Buy."
And you know, he's probabably right, this retiree from West LA who has settled in Sun City to live out his golden years with his bride of 40+ years under the desert sun. Or at least, isn't this the lesson any sane Californian would have learned from history?
Or was it "plastic"? I could look it up, but why don't you and let me know. Thanks.
Anyway, what brings this classic line from The Graduate to mind is an encounter I had with an older guy at the Paterno Wines Tasting Room Tent at Indian Wells Garden Tennis Center (whew). When I mentioned that I lived in Napa and that it was growing with the flood-control project making development more attractive, he leaned close and whispered: "Buy. Buy real estate. Bust your balls if that's what it takes. But buy real estate. Do it, Pete. This is your chance. This is OK, doing this wine thing. But if you're ever going to get ahead, buy. Buy. Whatever it takes. Buy."
And you know, he's probabably right, this retiree from West LA who has settled in Sun City to live out his golden years with his bride of 40+ years under the desert sun. Or at least, isn't this the lesson any sane Californian would have learned from history?
Saturday, March 12, 2005
On the Road Again
If there is one definitive statement that could be made about the past five months of my life, it is that I have not been riding my bicycle. No-no-no -- the 45 minutes here or the hour there on the trainer in front of the television don't count. That is exercising. That is working out. That isn't riding the bicycle.
So today my friend Dan generously came up to Napa for the second time in a week and we went for a ride. We made our way through town onto the Silverado Trail, headed up the valley to Rutherford, sliced across the valley at Conn Creek, turned south on 29, did that pretty little jaunt on Yountville Mill, then cruised home down Solano (the 29 frontage road) and California.
A couple of quick observations on this 2-hour, 35-mile expedition:
1) It wasn't that hard. Riding with Dan took my mind off the work, so that helped.
2) Dan pulled my ass quite a bit. That helped too.
Seven weeks until Wildflower.
If there is one definitive statement that could be made about the past five months of my life, it is that I have not been riding my bicycle. No-no-no -- the 45 minutes here or the hour there on the trainer in front of the television don't count. That is exercising. That is working out. That isn't riding the bicycle.
So today my friend Dan generously came up to Napa for the second time in a week and we went for a ride. We made our way through town onto the Silverado Trail, headed up the valley to Rutherford, sliced across the valley at Conn Creek, turned south on 29, did that pretty little jaunt on Yountville Mill, then cruised home down Solano (the 29 frontage road) and California.
A couple of quick observations on this 2-hour, 35-mile expedition:
1) It wasn't that hard. Riding with Dan took my mind off the work, so that helped.
2) Dan pulled my ass quite a bit. That helped too.
Seven weeks until Wildflower.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Napa Valley Marathon
The day after the marathon -- that's pay day. You get to eat anything you want and do nothing meaningful. Guilt-free.
Half a bag of Terra chips? Hell, I ran an f-ing marathon yesterday, get off my case. Back-to-back Rachel Ray's? Hey, 26.2 miles is a very long way; I earned this.
The only problem is personal locomotion. Up and down stairs especially. But that's all right. Once you've got the snack foods and yourself into position in front of the television, there's no reason to move much.
Special thanks to Dan and Kate for entertaining Niko while I burned Asics rubber on the Silverado Trail. You think three hours and 41 minutes of running is tough? Try taking care of a too-smart-for-his-own-good 5-year-old for SIX hours!
And truth be told, the run was a blast. Weather was spectacular, cool with patchy fog to start, then brilliant, not-too-hot sunshine. A couple of months of off-and-on-but-mostly-on illness left me in tough straits the last three miles. It had been nearly two months since I did a long run, and even that was a mere 16-miler. My muscles and joints simply weren't ready for the stress of 26.2. At Mile 23, my hips, thighs and knees were ablaze, ready to seize up completely. But as Krukow would say, by then this big hoss could smell the barn.
Now some splits for the amusement of the 22nd century history graduate student working on the dissertation, "Rise and Fall of the Weekend Warrior: Athletics And the Early 21st Century White American Male."
Miles 1-4………..33:11 (8:18/M)
Miles 5-8………..32:53 (8:13/M)
Miles 9-12………33:10 (8:18/M)
Miles 12-16……..33:30 (8:23/M)
Miles 16-20……..34:03 (8:31/M)
And the last 10K..54:11 (8:44/M)
Final word on marathons and other acts of personal courage and commitment comes from the aforementioned Niko. After Dan had explained to him that marathons are very hard to do, Niko replied: "I try to avoid doing hard things."
The day after the marathon -- that's pay day. You get to eat anything you want and do nothing meaningful. Guilt-free.
Half a bag of Terra chips? Hell, I ran an f-ing marathon yesterday, get off my case. Back-to-back Rachel Ray's? Hey, 26.2 miles is a very long way; I earned this.
The only problem is personal locomotion. Up and down stairs especially. But that's all right. Once you've got the snack foods and yourself into position in front of the television, there's no reason to move much.
Special thanks to Dan and Kate for entertaining Niko while I burned Asics rubber on the Silverado Trail. You think three hours and 41 minutes of running is tough? Try taking care of a too-smart-for-his-own-good 5-year-old for SIX hours!
And truth be told, the run was a blast. Weather was spectacular, cool with patchy fog to start, then brilliant, not-too-hot sunshine. A couple of months of off-and-on-but-mostly-on illness left me in tough straits the last three miles. It had been nearly two months since I did a long run, and even that was a mere 16-miler. My muscles and joints simply weren't ready for the stress of 26.2. At Mile 23, my hips, thighs and knees were ablaze, ready to seize up completely. But as Krukow would say, by then this big hoss could smell the barn.
Now some splits for the amusement of the 22nd century history graduate student working on the dissertation, "Rise and Fall of the Weekend Warrior: Athletics And the Early 21st Century White American Male."
Miles 1-4………..33:11 (8:18/M)
Miles 5-8………..32:53 (8:13/M)
Miles 9-12………33:10 (8:18/M)
Miles 12-16……..33:30 (8:23/M)
Miles 16-20……..34:03 (8:31/M)
And the last 10K..54:11 (8:44/M)
Final word on marathons and other acts of personal courage and commitment comes from the aforementioned Niko. After Dan had explained to him that marathons are very hard to do, Niko replied: "I try to avoid doing hard things."
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Happy Valentine's Day!
A day early, but I'll be traveling tomorrow....
My own view of love, this Valentine's Day 2005? Paul Simon said it well in "Graceland":
And I see losing love
Is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you're blown apart
Everybody feels the wind blow
And yet there goes Paul, bouncing down the road, pedal steel pushing him forward, and with these words:
And I may be obliged to defend
Every love, every ending
Or maybe there's no obligations now
Maybe I've a reason to believe
We all will be received
In Graceland
A day early, but I'll be traveling tomorrow....
My own view of love, this Valentine's Day 2005? Paul Simon said it well in "Graceland":
And I see losing love
Is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you're blown apart
Everybody feels the wind blow
And yet there goes Paul, bouncing down the road, pedal steel pushing him forward, and with these words:
And I may be obliged to defend
Every love, every ending
Or maybe there's no obligations now
Maybe I've a reason to believe
We all will be received
In Graceland
Thursday, February 10, 2005
After Work with the Crows
I've been listening to Counting Crows and loving their music. This is a band I don't hear anybody talking about these days. I'm guessing most of the hip folk see the Crows as woefully mainstream and tired. Well, whatever. I find their music powerful and inventive, the words lovely and provocative. Listen to "A Murder of One" or "A Long December" or "Recovering the Satellites." See if you don't agree. Do what works for you, by all means, but here's my MO: I get home from work, put the Trader Joe's Turkey Pot Pie in the oven (to be accompanied by a salad -- a bag of baby spinach with homemade honey-mustard dressing), go for my eight-miler, which feels good after having swum hard in the afternoon, get home, shower, take the pot pie out to let it cool, and then crank the music. A glass of wine (trading off with water; gotta rehydrate after the run) finds its way into my hand. Tonight it was a wacky old thing that had been buried in the scary basement of our office, a 99 Sokol Blosser White Reisling. Round and luscious, a little petrol, lots of apricot, kind of funky. Loved it. Anyway, it all went well together, songs about giving up and being given up upon, Turkey Pot Pie, five-year-old Oregon Reisling, the post-run high, the music vibrating through the floor, the anxiety fading, fading, fading into the slightest glimmer of rebirth. (Or was it simply the realization that it is all right and perhaps even proper to be angry, and to let that anger distill and to find its essence, to -- yes -- take oneself off the hook on this one. Completely.)
Workouts this week: Four swims in the 1500-2000 yard range, all just nonstop laps, just getting the stamina back; three runs, 5-8 miles apiece.
I've been listening to Counting Crows and loving their music. This is a band I don't hear anybody talking about these days. I'm guessing most of the hip folk see the Crows as woefully mainstream and tired. Well, whatever. I find their music powerful and inventive, the words lovely and provocative. Listen to "A Murder of One" or "A Long December" or "Recovering the Satellites." See if you don't agree. Do what works for you, by all means, but here's my MO: I get home from work, put the Trader Joe's Turkey Pot Pie in the oven (to be accompanied by a salad -- a bag of baby spinach with homemade honey-mustard dressing), go for my eight-miler, which feels good after having swum hard in the afternoon, get home, shower, take the pot pie out to let it cool, and then crank the music. A glass of wine (trading off with water; gotta rehydrate after the run) finds its way into my hand. Tonight it was a wacky old thing that had been buried in the scary basement of our office, a 99 Sokol Blosser White Reisling. Round and luscious, a little petrol, lots of apricot, kind of funky. Loved it. Anyway, it all went well together, songs about giving up and being given up upon, Turkey Pot Pie, five-year-old Oregon Reisling, the post-run high, the music vibrating through the floor, the anxiety fading, fading, fading into the slightest glimmer of rebirth. (Or was it simply the realization that it is all right and perhaps even proper to be angry, and to let that anger distill and to find its essence, to -- yes -- take oneself off the hook on this one. Completely.)
Workouts this week: Four swims in the 1500-2000 yard range, all just nonstop laps, just getting the stamina back; three runs, 5-8 miles apiece.
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Running and Swimming
Well, it appears the extended illness of January 2005 will not go down in history as having permanently derailed my triathlon career. (I use the terms "history" and "career" loosely, of course.) Did a couple of runs earlier this week -- a 3.5 miler, then a 4.5 miler at 9 minutes/mile, then 10K in 48:40 (7:50/mile). Swam 1000 yards on Tuesday then 1500 on Thursday. No doubt I'm off my game, but not so much as I expected. If I had to, I'm sure I could run a 10-miler today in 90 minutes, or swim a mile in 34 minutes. I suppose that is the benefit of having trained more or less regularly (say, five to eight workouts a week) for three years.
So now it's time to get back on the bike after a three-month absence. I'm hoping my bike fitness returns quickly, but "hope" is not what will do the trick. There's time in the schedule to do rides on Tuesday, Wednesday and Saturday mornings. Getting my ass out of bed and on the road -- that's the key. As always.
Well, it appears the extended illness of January 2005 will not go down in history as having permanently derailed my triathlon career. (I use the terms "history" and "career" loosely, of course.) Did a couple of runs earlier this week -- a 3.5 miler, then a 4.5 miler at 9 minutes/mile, then 10K in 48:40 (7:50/mile). Swam 1000 yards on Tuesday then 1500 on Thursday. No doubt I'm off my game, but not so much as I expected. If I had to, I'm sure I could run a 10-miler today in 90 minutes, or swim a mile in 34 minutes. I suppose that is the benefit of having trained more or less regularly (say, five to eight workouts a week) for three years.
So now it's time to get back on the bike after a three-month absence. I'm hoping my bike fitness returns quickly, but "hope" is not what will do the trick. There's time in the schedule to do rides on Tuesday, Wednesday and Saturday mornings. Getting my ass out of bed and on the road -- that's the key. As always.
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