I rode to the Walden Pond reservation this morning, passing through a dank humid fog dense enough to arrest the use of my glasses from shear moisture accumulation. I played a cat and mouse game with the cracks and the holes, valleys and mountains plaguing Greater Boston’s average street. It is not so much the road feature itself which provides the problem, dangerous as some of those 2 foot wide gaps may be for my 3lb, 2mm thick tire, as it is the actions I must take to avoid such road hazards. My bike handling skills easily allow for the zigs and zags I must make on split-second notice, but unfortunately, the plush lexus and bmw behind me don’t notice the road gaps and canyons at 35mph, they don’t move to avoid the 4 inch hole that can send me flying. Instead they listen to Bach or 2pac and if I’m lucky, they wonder why that crazy bicyclist can’t ride in a straight line and secretly tally all the points they could have garnered if only they could find the guts to wipe these pests off their tarmac territories. If I’m unlucky, they’re in the midst of a karaoke session with their favorite Britney Spears or KISS song and before I know it, they don’t have to find the guts because they got lucky by accident and fortunately for them, blood washes off and the dent can easily be hammered out by an unskilled rubber-hammer wielding laborer from the nearby Quickie Mart.
Fix the roads.
While swimming through the fog hugging the shore after choosing to dismiss my original plan to strike out through the middle as slightly unwise for an amateur swimmer with little to no experience in open water and visibility lingering at 20-30ft. Off I set, wetsuit floating me along as I heat up to unreasonable temperatures, undoubtedly doing myself some form of damage as I pray for some cooling god to magically transport ice down my back where it will last no longer than five minutes, but what a blessed five minutes. It didn’t happen, and I continued. 1.16 miles… circa 2000 meters in about 45 minutes, with stops, that’s not a very fast pace, but its better than nothing. The next step is to do it nonstop, then to do it twice, then up and down the center a couple times, with hopefully three times out and back before the Ironman. Other than those goals I’m going to live in the pool, which ought to be sooo much fun.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Manali, Himachal Pradesh
We managed to find a luxury bus out of Delhi, not too fabulous by Western standards, but on the flats we felt sheltered from the excesses of the engine compartment, and for some reason, when you emblazon a "Volvo" symbol on the front and sides of the bus in large enough characters, it is roughly the same as adorning a semitruck with vicious looking red & orange lights arranged in snarling rictuses or blood dripping orgasms. In any case, the effect of such adornments was that other vehicles on the road dived to the side when the distinctive roar of the V-million engine asundered the nightly racket. Perhaps the drivers took special courses in the art of "chicken" and wore special talismans allowing them to bend the metal frame of their chariots in order to squeeze around the 15 ton concrete-bearing lorries while simultaneously avoiding the colorfully painted yak-drawn school bus moving at 5km/hour. All this while driving on roads occasionally reaching 5 meters in width (for two lanes of traffic) but only when counting the massive mud trenches found every few feet.
As I may or may not have mentioned, it was a surprisingly nice voyage and while Norm and I couldn't quite seem to defeat the 4-inch-too-short coffin we'd allowed ourselves to be paired up into in order to fall asleep on a hopefully clean 2-inch pad of foam, I, having the window seat, was able to entertain myself with various predictions regarding the chances of us making it up the mountain drive. I have heard descriptions of the occasionally terrifying busride in exotic locales and I like to think of myself as somewhat of a connieseur of the death-defying acrobatics of four-wheeled vehicles in precipitious locations. In Italy along the Amalfi coast, the bus drivers seemed to believe the early morning first rides were perfect for course records and testing braking systems, but luckily we were traveling south and travelling along the inside lane so I only had to worry about the occasional falling rock turning the tire and flipping us instantly off the lemon-laden cliffs in a beautiful pirouette of "ciao bella's" and "qu-est que c'ests." And even the maddening trips of southern India where busdrivers drank the blood of bulls and devoured the souls of vampires in order to maintain the fortitude to charge into certain death on the wrong side of every road with the grave and solemn duty to both intricate and extricate each and every tourists' lives countless times. No, this was manageable as well, with fear taking a back seat to fascination after fear had been stomped down by repetition. Yet there was something about travelling into the mountain passes of the Himalayas, following coursing glacial rivers whose occasional gleam of light may or may not have been that last poor unsuspecting nun's rosary floating in the water, drifting from the collision her bus made with the rapidly approaching ground. Perhaps it was the sickening switchbacks attempting to dislodge my stomach from the very comfortable position it had been lodged in since my unlikely birth, or the fact that during the night I could look up and see the crystal stars flickering their brilliance upon the road, followed by the realization that the reflection from the road was actually that same beautiful glacial river shining 150 meters below, further eclipsed by the knowledge that the only thing keeping you from getting a close up of that reflection was a meter tall wall and the four Indian-maintained strips of rubber connected to the wildly whirring engine of the banshee driver we'd contracted.
Following is a briefer description of this scene; "Dude look at those stars! Holy shit, is that the river? Down there! Where's the edge of the road? What do you mean you can't see it? No don't lean over you idiot, you might tip the bus! If you can't see it, shit, well, you can't see it. Hell no I'm not switching spots with you!"
After hours of this the mind goes numb, the
As I may or may not have mentioned, it was a surprisingly nice voyage and while Norm and I couldn't quite seem to defeat the 4-inch-too-short coffin we'd allowed ourselves to be paired up into in order to fall asleep on a hopefully clean 2-inch pad of foam, I, having the window seat, was able to entertain myself with various predictions regarding the chances of us making it up the mountain drive. I have heard descriptions of the occasionally terrifying busride in exotic locales and I like to think of myself as somewhat of a connieseur of the death-defying acrobatics of four-wheeled vehicles in precipitious locations. In Italy along the Amalfi coast, the bus drivers seemed to believe the early morning first rides were perfect for course records and testing braking systems, but luckily we were traveling south and travelling along the inside lane so I only had to worry about the occasional falling rock turning the tire and flipping us instantly off the lemon-laden cliffs in a beautiful pirouette of "ciao bella's" and "qu-est que c'ests." And even the maddening trips of southern India where busdrivers drank the blood of bulls and devoured the souls of vampires in order to maintain the fortitude to charge into certain death on the wrong side of every road with the grave and solemn duty to both intricate and extricate each and every tourists' lives countless times. No, this was manageable as well, with fear taking a back seat to fascination after fear had been stomped down by repetition. Yet there was something about travelling into the mountain passes of the Himalayas, following coursing glacial rivers whose occasional gleam of light may or may not have been that last poor unsuspecting nun's rosary floating in the water, drifting from the collision her bus made with the rapidly approaching ground. Perhaps it was the sickening switchbacks attempting to dislodge my stomach from the very comfortable position it had been lodged in since my unlikely birth, or the fact that during the night I could look up and see the crystal stars flickering their brilliance upon the road, followed by the realization that the reflection from the road was actually that same beautiful glacial river shining 150 meters below, further eclipsed by the knowledge that the only thing keeping you from getting a close up of that reflection was a meter tall wall and the four Indian-maintained strips of rubber connected to the wildly whirring engine of the banshee driver we'd contracted.
Following is a briefer description of this scene; "Dude look at those stars! Holy shit, is that the river? Down there! Where's the edge of the road? What do you mean you can't see it? No don't lean over you idiot, you might tip the bus! If you can't see it, shit, well, you can't see it. Hell no I'm not switching spots with you!"
After hours of this the mind goes numb, the
Poor Nutrition and a long swim
Body
This weekend I failed to complete many of my goals; no long ride, no long run, half the distance swimming I contemplated going into it. And not for any good reason, just because when I woke up in the morning, often early enough to get started, I chose comfort over effort, even though I often find myself more comfortable once in the effort than when I am lazing around munching on different elements of my refrigerator. But not only did I fail in my workouts, I failed in my responsibilities within the household, not running Solon, barely helping Erica with dinner and shopping and baking and all the mundane chores of a weekend following a long week. When I left the house it was to sit in the car on the way to a park or walk a few miles at such a leisurely pace my legs stiffened up from confusion, thinking they were being pulled out for use when in fact it was only a cruel joke in which the slowest possible path could be found to the destination.
Mind
Yet, I am not unhappy with myself, I read Harry Potter and got through about half the book, wonderful story, one which I can only hope to match someday if I ever get writing. My latest flirtation with thinking follows along the lines of photography, writing and fantasy, and trying to create a fantasy guide to Boston, or other major cities for that matter. It'd be fun to take modern day cityscapes and put in another world or two (in the spirit of Harry Potter), but given my relative naivety in the matter, I would have to start slow and short. What fun though to combine history, fantasy and photography in a contemporary setting.
Soul
The complete lack of work I find myself doing (or not doing) gives me the time to start exploring some of these options and with the end of the Tour de France I have more time to fill these empty hours with thoughts and meditations on the meaning of everything I see around me. I don't want to start here though, its too scattered, too mundane for me to begin thinking introspectively with the content above. So perhaps a new post will find its way to me as I note the things that mean something in the moment about to pass.
This weekend I failed to complete many of my goals; no long ride, no long run, half the distance swimming I contemplated going into it. And not for any good reason, just because when I woke up in the morning, often early enough to get started, I chose comfort over effort, even though I often find myself more comfortable once in the effort than when I am lazing around munching on different elements of my refrigerator. But not only did I fail in my workouts, I failed in my responsibilities within the household, not running Solon, barely helping Erica with dinner and shopping and baking and all the mundane chores of a weekend following a long week. When I left the house it was to sit in the car on the way to a park or walk a few miles at such a leisurely pace my legs stiffened up from confusion, thinking they were being pulled out for use when in fact it was only a cruel joke in which the slowest possible path could be found to the destination.
Mind
Yet, I am not unhappy with myself, I read Harry Potter and got through about half the book, wonderful story, one which I can only hope to match someday if I ever get writing. My latest flirtation with thinking follows along the lines of photography, writing and fantasy, and trying to create a fantasy guide to Boston, or other major cities for that matter. It'd be fun to take modern day cityscapes and put in another world or two (in the spirit of Harry Potter), but given my relative naivety in the matter, I would have to start slow and short. What fun though to combine history, fantasy and photography in a contemporary setting.
Soul
The complete lack of work I find myself doing (or not doing) gives me the time to start exploring some of these options and with the end of the Tour de France I have more time to fill these empty hours with thoughts and meditations on the meaning of everything I see around me. I don't want to start here though, its too scattered, too mundane for me to begin thinking introspectively with the content above. So perhaps a new post will find its way to me as I note the things that mean something in the moment about to pass.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Only a mile
4:30am is early, my alarm went off at 4:30am, I didn't crawl out of bed until 4:31. Any later and I don't think I would've made it, but as soon as my feet hit the ground there was no turning back. The next step in my evolution into a truly fit athlete was planned, and onto Red I climbed to bounce through the early morning hours. Around 6am I arrive at Walden Pond, sky morning blue with the sun only barely touching the far side of the lake. Arms lifted and fell in the water before me and I stood a little in reflection before I realized I'd forgotten my towel and had to run around the corner in order to get changed... bummer...
Pulling the #39 Yamamoto rubber around me makes me feel like I'm donning the fairing of a supped-up Japanese crotchrocket, realizing whats underneath makes me feel like I forgot to order the engine. As I'm approaching the water I hear a few guys talking about first swims and glean from the conversation its one of the trio's first time out. Turns out its not, but the three let me tag along and occasionally check back for me as I struggle to find my form in this new, infinitely more murky environment. They pull ahead, I pull to the side to check the manifold, the heads, the gasket, basically to make sure the engine is still in working order. Then like a new rider at the local track, I hug to the outside, and keep everything within my very limited abilities, especially the speed (in this account lets connote speed with the depth of the water). I make my way along the edge, almost keeping pace with that earlier trio, noticing every so often that the other new guy also was struggling at points, which gave me an immeasurable boost of confidence, reminding me that everyone started at some point, and those without the insanity of teenage youth usually start with more trepidation. Around I go, those other swimmers acting as a target, gaining more confidence and slowly choosing more ambitious goals... instead of hugging the shore, bridging the gap between two distant small peninsulas, pushing myself into more even stroking, delivering all my breath to the lake without holding it back in. I have a long ways to go, but progress was being made, and Saturday's two lap swim will go much much better, I just have a feeling.
The ride back was good, more traffic of course which is always annoying, but more downhill and warmer muscles, also being able to see the cracks in the road lends some enjoyment to the process.
The goals for the next few days:
Friday :
SWIM - 20 min technique (side flotation) 20 min interval work,
BIKE - 20 min fast spinning in aero, 20 min interval
RUN - 10 min warmup 10 min interval, 10 min cooldown
situps and pushups and stretching
Saturday and Sundays schedules to come
Pulling the #39 Yamamoto rubber around me makes me feel like I'm donning the fairing of a supped-up Japanese crotchrocket, realizing whats underneath makes me feel like I forgot to order the engine. As I'm approaching the water I hear a few guys talking about first swims and glean from the conversation its one of the trio's first time out. Turns out its not, but the three let me tag along and occasionally check back for me as I struggle to find my form in this new, infinitely more murky environment. They pull ahead, I pull to the side to check the manifold, the heads, the gasket, basically to make sure the engine is still in working order. Then like a new rider at the local track, I hug to the outside, and keep everything within my very limited abilities, especially the speed (in this account lets connote speed with the depth of the water). I make my way along the edge, almost keeping pace with that earlier trio, noticing every so often that the other new guy also was struggling at points, which gave me an immeasurable boost of confidence, reminding me that everyone started at some point, and those without the insanity of teenage youth usually start with more trepidation. Around I go, those other swimmers acting as a target, gaining more confidence and slowly choosing more ambitious goals... instead of hugging the shore, bridging the gap between two distant small peninsulas, pushing myself into more even stroking, delivering all my breath to the lake without holding it back in. I have a long ways to go, but progress was being made, and Saturday's two lap swim will go much much better, I just have a feeling.
The ride back was good, more traffic of course which is always annoying, but more downhill and warmer muscles, also being able to see the cracks in the road lends some enjoyment to the process.
The goals for the next few days:
Friday :
SWIM - 20 min technique (side flotation) 20 min interval work,
BIKE - 20 min fast spinning in aero, 20 min interval
RUN - 10 min warmup 10 min interval, 10 min cooldown
situps and pushups and stretching
Saturday and Sundays schedules to come
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Its unlike any other
I received my wetsuit in the mail yesterday, and last night the sleep devils stole my desire to do the swim I'd planned for the morning. The only upside of their arrival is the almost certainty I will be able to fall asleep and stay that way for a long period of time. Thats the dream at least. I'm so nervous, the pool swims break my rhythm and I haven't been able to find my breath during them. I have a feeling I will find it though as soon as I delve deeper into that well of seeping water. But first I must get there, so tomorrow and friday begin my experimentation with riding the 30 mile roudn trip with the mile long lake swim thrown into the jam to split it up a little.
Nervous...?
Hell yeah!
Nervous...?
Hell yeah!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)