Sandwiched between the usual Sunday “what are we going to eat for dinner” and “where did I leave my cell phone this time” and “what are you planning to wear for school tomorrow”, a small slice of serenity.
The afternoon was supposed to entail a 24 mile bike ride, a short kayak jaunt on the lake and a bucket or two of balls on the driving range. Peace and contemplation did not seem to fit anywhere into this plan, but it was going to be fun.
Unfortunately, although I had brought beautiful Ruby Opal to ride, I had forgotten the helmet, gloves and shoes necessary to ride her. I banged my palm on the side of the truck in frustration. This was the second time I managed to leave the house half-assed in about as many weeks. For all of my bitching and moaning about the pain in my calf and my fatigue, I was really looking forward to the ride. Another Sunday ride shot, and my butt getting bigger and bigger in my bike shorts.
“Change of plans,” Allen decided after we parked over by the lake. “We paddle around. We go hit golf balls. It’s stupid to drive all the way back to Waresboro for your stuff.” A somewhat surprising declaration, considering that Allen is most definitely In Training for the end-of-season races, and really needed to get some miles in.
When we put the kayaks in the water, there were still a few speedboats and Jet Skis flying back and forth across the “lake”, really just a dammed up creek which was transformed into a long, skinny pond with iced-tea water. It’s really just fine: room for boating and fishing and paddling and birding.
Lib and I took our turns first. We hadn’t been out on them for a few months, and it was evident. We spun in circles and whacked into each other a few times, and paddled a little ways down and back by the shore.
Libby had enough adventure for one afternoon, and retired to the picnic tables to sit and reflect, Libby-style, by texting her best friend for the next hour.
By now, the sun was moving down toward the end of the lake, and the power people had departed for the afternoon. Allen and I ventured to the other shore. I wondered what the end of the lake looked like, because I’d never seen it, so we paddled down the middle of the lake toward the far shore.
This is the kind of kayaking I like- the quiet kind. These particular kayaks are not well-suited for whitewater or anything aggressive like that, so usually we paddle out past the waves in the ocean, or down the quiet part of the Chattahoochee River, or in this lake.
There’s no noise coming from the shore; the only sound is the small splish of the paddles a they hit the water. It’s quiet enough that, even with Allen twenty feet ahead of me, we can still carry on a conversation.
We paddled past the giant land yachts and the CCC-built cabins at the campground, over to the grassy border of the bird sanctuary. Sure enough, there was a flock of egrets heading that way, with one stray bird following behind. We surmised that this must be the Whiny Nerdy Bird: “Come on, guys, wait up! Geez….”
We somewhat reluctantly headed back to shore, not wanting the reverie to end, but not wanting to miss Sunday Whack-A-Ball over at the golf range. If we didn’t get back there soon, we would be playing what we affectionately call Sonar Golf— we can’t see where the ball is going, but we know it’s a good one by the sound it makes leaving the head of the club, and how long it takes to hear it plop down range.
We had brought a watermelon to the lake, a home grown one that is a source of great pride for me. I’ve never been able to grow more than a handful of tomatoes and two cucumbers in my life, but I had six of these beauties this year. Allen chopped off big hunks for all of us for a quick fix before golf.
We sat by the edge of the lake, our feet almost in the water, and dripped watermelon juice down our arms. Allen and I spit the seeds into the lake; Libby carefully picked hers out of her piece because she claimed that she was unable to spit watermelon seeds with any accuracy, and was embarrassed.
As I am prone to reflection at times like these, I pondered the origin of the watermelon. Who thought of eating these things? Where did they come from? We contemplated the possibility of finding wild watermelons somewhere—somehow, this didn’t seem a likely scenario.
We were covered in sticky watermelon juice—Allen dunked his entire self into the lake to get rid of it. We packed up the rest of the watermelon, as well as the rind—I intend to make watermelon pickles for my next adventure in canning—and headed over to the golf course, We indeed ended up playing Sonar Golf, which is actually much more fun for lousy golfers like us.
I realize that my butt will be too big to fit on the saddle if I don’t get back on the bike soon, since running is out for the moment. Kayaking is not much of an aerobic workout, even though, of course, we tried to make it one. The afternoon was a spiritual workout, really—training to quiet the mind and put aside the busyness of life. Watching the dark water pass by, and getting yourself sticky with home-grown melons on a late summer afternoon.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
The Wednesday Ride
I've recently joined an online writing site, Writers Village . I've taken some good courses, both peer-reviewed and facilitated. I did one recently based on the book by Julia Cameron, The Artist's Way. One of this month's classes is "Writing the Memoir", based on Your Life as Story by Tristine Rainer. Since I love personal essay (like, duh, because most of what I post here is just that), I hope to get some good stuff out of it.
I thought I'd share my homework for this week-- nothing profound, just a few thoughts about The Wednesday Ride:
Allen and I ride bikes every Wednesday, after work. “After work” is a loosely applied term, which means “we hope to get out there and get some miles in before the road turns completely black in front of us because we never bring our headlights and the only light we get is the light that shines on our backs as the headlights run up behind us.”
The usual Wednesday ride take-off point has been at the intersection of US-1 and Swamp Park Road, parking in the grass beside the road in front of the train tracks. Sometimes, when we’re setting up our bikes, a freight train comes by, and we have to plug our ears with our fingers to muffle the deafening horn.
This parking area is where the Crazies hang out before and after the ride: a group of guys, cyclists, who spend an hour in a pace line at speeds in excess of 23 miles per hour, attempting to shake each other off the tail of the group. They stand around in the parking area in their flip-flops and spandex after the ride, swilling Gatorade and ribbing each other about their prowess, or lack thereof, in cycling—and elsewhere.
We don’t hang out much there lately. As much as I enjoy the trash-talk and machismo, I have never really been able to keep up with those guys, so I end up riding alone. It’s getting hard for Allen, too—and he’s finally reached the point where he doesn’t want to keep up with them—it just hurts too much.
So we park at the State Park down the road, which has actual bathrooms and a real parking lot. We get there in the evening, and the pavilions and playground that surround the lake are deserted. It’s quiet, and we have the whole park to ourselves.
We have our Wednesday Ride ritual: we pull the bikes off the rack on the tailgate of the truck, and complain about how much our bike rack sucks. We air the tires on our sleek carbon road bikes, the tires making a quick “pop” when you pull the pump from the tire valves. I pad around in my socks, trying to avoid the rocks in the parking lot, as I collect my (very smelly) bike shoes, glasses, and helmet with my (also very smelly)gloves tucked inside. I put my shoes on next-- I love the sound the hard cleats make when they strike the pavement. I check my water bottles, bike computer, and the tires one more time. I buckle my helmet and slide on my gloves, and then hop into the saddle.
If you’re not a roadie, you probably don’t know about clipless pedals, bike pedals which attach to the soles of your bike shoes, this rendering you one with the machine. I do not particularly like to be rendered one with the machine, because I hate to fall over like a bug when I can’t unclip my shoes fast enough, but they do allow you to ride strong and fast. So-‘click’- we’re clipped in and on our way.
The Wednesday Ride must follow this exact route: it’s the law. We must take a right out of the park and onto the road. We wind past the lake and over the dam, past the bass fishermen, up the hill and around the Camp for the Blind. We coast down the small hill to the golf course—if I’m very lucky, we stop in to the pro shop and pick up some tokens so we can hit a bucket of balls at the driving range later.
Then the ride begins in earnest. By now, the afternoon has started to cool off, and we speed up, past the pine trees on either side of the road. The Wednesday Ride always smells like pine trees.
Then we get to the hairy part of the ride: crossing the four lanes of US 1, with its fast-moving tractor trailers barreling towards the interstate a few miles away. I shift down to the little gear so I can stop if I have to. Allen rides circles at the side of the road while he waits for the trucks to pass—I think he’s nuts, and I worry about him falling into the road. I breathe a sign of relief when we’re across the highway, across the train tracks, and onto Swamp Park Road.
Swamp Park Road is named, appropriately enough, after Swamp Park, the little Okefenokee tourist attraction, with its boat tours of the swamp, and its abundance of alligators. We love Swamp Park Road because it’s devoid of cars, flat, and fast. If you are so inclined, you can haul butt, rocket to the entrance of the park, spin around, and rocket back- unless, of course, there’s a head wind.
But, sometimes, we don’t rocket through the place. The Big Fire, which burned in the Okefenokee Swamp a few years ago, and nearly took the town with it, burned the pine trees down. The smoking trees were horrible, but what grew in their place is strangely beautiful. You can see for miles—nothing to impede your view but grass and bushes and the occasional lone Georgia Pine. So we stop, and just look, and are thankful we’re in the Okefenokee Swamp on a Wednesday evening, and watch the blue herons and the red-tailed hawks.
By now, the sun is starting to get very low on the horizon, and I am beginning to get nervous, because I hate riding in the dark. So we pick up the pace, dodging the odd snake crossing the road.
We work together now, intent, and silent. I draft off Allen so I can ride faster, and therefore get back to the truck faster. We spin past the park entrance, down to US 82—the route that must be followed; it’s the law, remember—and then swing back.
Now it is most definitely getting dark, and I am cursing under my breath and swearing that this is the LAST time I will ride this late—EVER—and I can’t believe how stupid this is and try to see the road using the last of the light coming from between the trees.
Finally—we coast back into the parking lot, and do our ritual in reverse. Helmet off, gloves off… but this time, it’s in the dark, and I sometimes can’t see my hands in front of my eyes.
And then we’re finally in the truck, cruising down those same roads that we just biked on, headlights on, back into town, to the Wal-Mart, to the house, to dinner, onto the couch, and then into bed, very tired.
We’ll be back again the next Wednesday, and I will have still forgotten the headlights. So we’ll ride until it’s dark, through the summer and into the fall, until the darkness falls so early that we won’t even have time to get the bikes off the rack before we won’t be able to see. We’ll wait out the winter, and when it’s finally light enough after work, we’ll be back for our ritual Wednesday Night Ride. And my riding will be slower and more tentative after the winter, I am sure, but the road and the Swamp will still be there for us.
I thought I'd share my homework for this week-- nothing profound, just a few thoughts about The Wednesday Ride:
Allen and I ride bikes every Wednesday, after work. “After work” is a loosely applied term, which means “we hope to get out there and get some miles in before the road turns completely black in front of us because we never bring our headlights and the only light we get is the light that shines on our backs as the headlights run up behind us.”
The usual Wednesday ride take-off point has been at the intersection of US-1 and Swamp Park Road, parking in the grass beside the road in front of the train tracks. Sometimes, when we’re setting up our bikes, a freight train comes by, and we have to plug our ears with our fingers to muffle the deafening horn.
This parking area is where the Crazies hang out before and after the ride: a group of guys, cyclists, who spend an hour in a pace line at speeds in excess of 23 miles per hour, attempting to shake each other off the tail of the group. They stand around in the parking area in their flip-flops and spandex after the ride, swilling Gatorade and ribbing each other about their prowess, or lack thereof, in cycling—and elsewhere.
We don’t hang out much there lately. As much as I enjoy the trash-talk and machismo, I have never really been able to keep up with those guys, so I end up riding alone. It’s getting hard for Allen, too—and he’s finally reached the point where he doesn’t want to keep up with them—it just hurts too much.
So we park at the State Park down the road, which has actual bathrooms and a real parking lot. We get there in the evening, and the pavilions and playground that surround the lake are deserted. It’s quiet, and we have the whole park to ourselves.
We have our Wednesday Ride ritual: we pull the bikes off the rack on the tailgate of the truck, and complain about how much our bike rack sucks. We air the tires on our sleek carbon road bikes, the tires making a quick “pop” when you pull the pump from the tire valves. I pad around in my socks, trying to avoid the rocks in the parking lot, as I collect my (very smelly) bike shoes, glasses, and helmet with my (also very smelly)gloves tucked inside. I put my shoes on next-- I love the sound the hard cleats make when they strike the pavement. I check my water bottles, bike computer, and the tires one more time. I buckle my helmet and slide on my gloves, and then hop into the saddle.
If you’re not a roadie, you probably don’t know about clipless pedals, bike pedals which attach to the soles of your bike shoes, this rendering you one with the machine. I do not particularly like to be rendered one with the machine, because I hate to fall over like a bug when I can’t unclip my shoes fast enough, but they do allow you to ride strong and fast. So-‘click’- we’re clipped in and on our way.
The Wednesday Ride must follow this exact route: it’s the law. We must take a right out of the park and onto the road. We wind past the lake and over the dam, past the bass fishermen, up the hill and around the Camp for the Blind. We coast down the small hill to the golf course—if I’m very lucky, we stop in to the pro shop and pick up some tokens so we can hit a bucket of balls at the driving range later.
Then the ride begins in earnest. By now, the afternoon has started to cool off, and we speed up, past the pine trees on either side of the road. The Wednesday Ride always smells like pine trees.
Then we get to the hairy part of the ride: crossing the four lanes of US 1, with its fast-moving tractor trailers barreling towards the interstate a few miles away. I shift down to the little gear so I can stop if I have to. Allen rides circles at the side of the road while he waits for the trucks to pass—I think he’s nuts, and I worry about him falling into the road. I breathe a sign of relief when we’re across the highway, across the train tracks, and onto Swamp Park Road.
Swamp Park Road is named, appropriately enough, after Swamp Park, the little Okefenokee tourist attraction, with its boat tours of the swamp, and its abundance of alligators. We love Swamp Park Road because it’s devoid of cars, flat, and fast. If you are so inclined, you can haul butt, rocket to the entrance of the park, spin around, and rocket back- unless, of course, there’s a head wind.
But, sometimes, we don’t rocket through the place. The Big Fire, which burned in the Okefenokee Swamp a few years ago, and nearly took the town with it, burned the pine trees down. The smoking trees were horrible, but what grew in their place is strangely beautiful. You can see for miles—nothing to impede your view but grass and bushes and the occasional lone Georgia Pine. So we stop, and just look, and are thankful we’re in the Okefenokee Swamp on a Wednesday evening, and watch the blue herons and the red-tailed hawks.
By now, the sun is starting to get very low on the horizon, and I am beginning to get nervous, because I hate riding in the dark. So we pick up the pace, dodging the odd snake crossing the road.
We work together now, intent, and silent. I draft off Allen so I can ride faster, and therefore get back to the truck faster. We spin past the park entrance, down to US 82—the route that must be followed; it’s the law, remember—and then swing back.
Now it is most definitely getting dark, and I am cursing under my breath and swearing that this is the LAST time I will ride this late—EVER—and I can’t believe how stupid this is and try to see the road using the last of the light coming from between the trees.
Finally—we coast back into the parking lot, and do our ritual in reverse. Helmet off, gloves off… but this time, it’s in the dark, and I sometimes can’t see my hands in front of my eyes.
And then we’re finally in the truck, cruising down those same roads that we just biked on, headlights on, back into town, to the Wal-Mart, to the house, to dinner, onto the couch, and then into bed, very tired.
We’ll be back again the next Wednesday, and I will have still forgotten the headlights. So we’ll ride until it’s dark, through the summer and into the fall, until the darkness falls so early that we won’t even have time to get the bikes off the rack before we won’t be able to see. We’ll wait out the winter, and when it’s finally light enough after work, we’ll be back for our ritual Wednesday Night Ride. And my riding will be slower and more tentative after the winter, I am sure, but the road and the Swamp will still be there for us.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
More and Harder?
Awesome article in the Wall Street Journal today. The article focused mainly on over-50 athletes who struggle to balance their competitiveness and the effects of aging on the body. That need to stay competitive often times leads to overtraining, which leads to increased stress on the body and injury—and I would add that it becomes a vicious circle after a while. Your performance declines as you age; you train as hard as you can to try to fight the decline; you over train and get sick and injured; you train even harder, until you end up a burnt-out mess.
Lots of other good stuff in the article, and a plug for Mark Allen and Brant Secunda’s book, Fit Soul, Fit Body. I’d like to read that.
I have not reached the aforementioned milestone age quite yet, but the article did get me thinking about my own fitness life. This one comment caught my attention in particular:
“A study published last year in the Annals of Behavioral Medicine reinforced other recent research showing that intensity tends to diminish the view of physical activity as pleasant.”
I suppose that it’s a no-brainer: suffering sucks. It hurts. It’s no fun.
It really hit home for me the other day, out for a quick 24 mile ride in the late afternoon. I always seem to be in training for something or another; therefore, I need to push it, to work, to get that lactate threshold up. It was beautiful out in the park- the sun was beginning to set, the air was cooling- and I was in freaking high Zone 3.
I realized that it was getting old, fast—the sufferfest that triathlon training often is. I wanted to slow down, to enjoy the air, to enjoy the feeling of my body in motion. I just wanted the ride to not suck.
I’ve been a triathlete for a number of years now. I have wanted to train hard, to set high goals for myself, to PR, to finish another Ironman, to score an age-group award. But the overuse injuries have begun to creep in, namely, a really bad case of plantar fasciitis. I get really tired of hurting during workouts.
And I think that the hurting leads to burnout. The “view of physical activity as pleasant” is very much diminished.
Here’s my confession: the burnout is beginning in my own life. It’s my own vicious circle: I have a burning need to be competitive. I am not a natural athlete. I have to work my butt off to be competitive. I get injured because I work my butt off. Training starts to suck. I have to back off. It gets even harder to be competitive, because now I’ve gained weight and lost fitness. So I have to work even harder. I get frustrated, and fatigued, and the injuries linger—and the burnout begins.
And, of course, I am a triathlete: you know, “Swim. Bike. Run. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.” This is what I know; this is what I do. Without that structure in my life, and in my fitness, I lose my bearings. And I end up doing a whole lot of nothing.
So there it is. I’m burning out.
But, like every obsessive Type A overachiever triathlete out there—I have a plan. I am going to actually synthesize the points in that article and embark upon a new course of action. Here it is:
1. I am going to take to heart Allen’s credo: “It’s not my day job.”
2. I am going to stop racing and training in pain, and address the overuse injuries.
3. I am going to try to be a participant for a while—not a competitor.
4. I am going to try to branch out from “swim/bike/run”—even if it’s just “swim/mountain bike/trail run.” Hey- it’s a start.
5. When it’s fun again, I will set reasonable triathlon goals for myself, and be competitive to the best of my abilities.
And I’m going to learn to have fun just moving again—belly dancing, hooping, jumping rope with the kids, hiking….
My favorite Nike running shirt says “Walking is not an option.” After careful consideration, I am going to rethink that assertion. Maybe I’ll just put on my running shoes and take a walk, and see what’s going on in the world today.
Lots of other good stuff in the article, and a plug for Mark Allen and Brant Secunda’s book, Fit Soul, Fit Body. I’d like to read that.
I have not reached the aforementioned milestone age quite yet, but the article did get me thinking about my own fitness life. This one comment caught my attention in particular:
“A study published last year in the Annals of Behavioral Medicine reinforced other recent research showing that intensity tends to diminish the view of physical activity as pleasant.”
I suppose that it’s a no-brainer: suffering sucks. It hurts. It’s no fun.
It really hit home for me the other day, out for a quick 24 mile ride in the late afternoon. I always seem to be in training for something or another; therefore, I need to push it, to work, to get that lactate threshold up. It was beautiful out in the park- the sun was beginning to set, the air was cooling- and I was in freaking high Zone 3.
I realized that it was getting old, fast—the sufferfest that triathlon training often is. I wanted to slow down, to enjoy the air, to enjoy the feeling of my body in motion. I just wanted the ride to not suck.
I’ve been a triathlete for a number of years now. I have wanted to train hard, to set high goals for myself, to PR, to finish another Ironman, to score an age-group award. But the overuse injuries have begun to creep in, namely, a really bad case of plantar fasciitis. I get really tired of hurting during workouts.
And I think that the hurting leads to burnout. The “view of physical activity as pleasant” is very much diminished.
Here’s my confession: the burnout is beginning in my own life. It’s my own vicious circle: I have a burning need to be competitive. I am not a natural athlete. I have to work my butt off to be competitive. I get injured because I work my butt off. Training starts to suck. I have to back off. It gets even harder to be competitive, because now I’ve gained weight and lost fitness. So I have to work even harder. I get frustrated, and fatigued, and the injuries linger—and the burnout begins.
And, of course, I am a triathlete: you know, “Swim. Bike. Run. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.” This is what I know; this is what I do. Without that structure in my life, and in my fitness, I lose my bearings. And I end up doing a whole lot of nothing.
So there it is. I’m burning out.
But, like every obsessive Type A overachiever triathlete out there—I have a plan. I am going to actually synthesize the points in that article and embark upon a new course of action. Here it is:
1. I am going to take to heart Allen’s credo: “It’s not my day job.”
2. I am going to stop racing and training in pain, and address the overuse injuries.
3. I am going to try to be a participant for a while—not a competitor.
4. I am going to try to branch out from “swim/bike/run”—even if it’s just “swim/mountain bike/trail run.” Hey- it’s a start.
5. When it’s fun again, I will set reasonable triathlon goals for myself, and be competitive to the best of my abilities.
And I’m going to learn to have fun just moving again—belly dancing, hooping, jumping rope with the kids, hiking….
My favorite Nike running shirt says “Walking is not an option.” After careful consideration, I am going to rethink that assertion. Maybe I’ll just put on my running shoes and take a walk, and see what’s going on in the world today.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Your Kid's First Tri: Do's and Don'ts
Ben did his first triathlon this weekend: 75 yards in the Y pool, four laps around the ¼ mile track on his bike, and then 2 more laps running. He rocked. He was proud of himself. He got a medal, as did all of the other kids who finished the race.
After the race, he ate lots of bananas and claimed to be too tired to do anything other than watch TV the rest of the day.
The New York Times website ran an article today on kids’ triathlons, examining their increasing popularity and their associated risks (discussing their benefits: not so much).
Judy Berman, a contributor to Salon.com’s “Broadsheet”, commented on the Times’ article in today’s blog. One of the gems in the commentary was the following:
“…There is something distinctly disturbing about inducting preschool-aged children into a sport that, according to the Times, saw 14 deaths in official USA Triathlon-sponsored events between January 2006 and September 2008.”
I will discuss this assertion, as well as others contained within the articles, in a subsequent post, after I have finished gluing my head back on, because it’s about to blow off the rest of my body.
As pissed off as I am about the misinformation and erroneous conclusions contained within these articles, I do have to agree with some of the observations about The Triathlon Parent . These are triathlon’s equivalent of The Stage Parent. These are the parents that ruin it for the rest of us, and give our sport its sometimes bad rep.
From the Times:
“Robert Jones, race director of the Silicon Valley event, got an e-mail message two years ago from the mother of an 18-month-old, asking if her child could take part in the triathlon. He refused..”
I have witnessed years of egregious behavior from parents at kids’ triathlon. Sadly, I have committed a sin or two myself before I saw the light.
So, Multisport Parents: for the benefit of your little newbie triathletes, and to preserve the reputation of the sport in general, I present to you a list of the Do’s and Don’ts for your kid’s triathlon. I shouldn’t have to be telling you this stuff, but I understand that we just can’t help ourselves sometimes, and that we have to be reminded that we are behaving like idiot poser loser parents who are living their unfulfilled lives through their children.
Don’t show up with the tri bike tricked out with aerobars, a disc wheel and a set of Speedplays.
Do bring the bike with the streamers and the playing cards in the wheels.
Don’t call out split times, how many minutes he’s behind the leader in the 8-10 year old division, or how far he’s behind his brother.
Do leave your watch in the car.
Don’t unrack his bike, re-rack his bike, or tie his shoes—stay the hell out of transition altogether.
Do let him do it himself, even if transition takes twenty minutes and he leaves with his helmet and shirt both on backwards.
Don’t run with him, because you don’t think that he can do it alone. Trust me. He can. He should.
Do jump up and down, cheer, holler, take pictures, hold signs and wave pom poms-- by the side of the road.
Don’t critique his performance. No tips on how to improve his swim technique, transition time or run split. Period.
Do make sure he wears his medal to school on Monday. And try not to wash off the body marking, when you wash off the dirt.
Don’t immediately start him on a training program for a sprint triathlon. Kids’ triathlons exist for a reason. It’s because they are too young to do adult triathlons, and kids shouldn’t be “in training” for shit.
Do make sure he chills out and has fun. Triathlon is a big accomplishment, sure, but it’s also supposed to be fun- yes? It’s why you do it- I hope? You’re encouraging your kids to tri to get them off the couch and moving and running around with their friends and fostering a life long love of the outdoors and health and fitness- right?
I hope that you are nodding your head in agreement-- you agree that triathlon should be fun. If you, however, feel that your kid should learn that triathlon is a metaphor for life and is an exercise in discipline and the pathway to a glorious athletic future—kiss my ass, you idiot poser loser parent.
And a message to your kids from me: get out there, have a blast, get sweaty, get dirty, get a medal, and stick all of the leftover bananas at the refreshment table in your pants for later.
After the race, he ate lots of bananas and claimed to be too tired to do anything other than watch TV the rest of the day.
The New York Times website ran an article today on kids’ triathlons, examining their increasing popularity and their associated risks (discussing their benefits: not so much).
Judy Berman, a contributor to Salon.com’s “Broadsheet”, commented on the Times’ article in today’s blog. One of the gems in the commentary was the following:
“…There is something distinctly disturbing about inducting preschool-aged children into a sport that, according to the Times, saw 14 deaths in official USA Triathlon-sponsored events between January 2006 and September 2008.”
I will discuss this assertion, as well as others contained within the articles, in a subsequent post, after I have finished gluing my head back on, because it’s about to blow off the rest of my body.
As pissed off as I am about the misinformation and erroneous conclusions contained within these articles, I do have to agree with some of the observations about The Triathlon Parent . These are triathlon’s equivalent of The Stage Parent. These are the parents that ruin it for the rest of us, and give our sport its sometimes bad rep.
From the Times:
“Robert Jones, race director of the Silicon Valley event, got an e-mail message two years ago from the mother of an 18-month-old, asking if her child could take part in the triathlon. He refused..”
I have witnessed years of egregious behavior from parents at kids’ triathlon. Sadly, I have committed a sin or two myself before I saw the light.
So, Multisport Parents: for the benefit of your little newbie triathletes, and to preserve the reputation of the sport in general, I present to you a list of the Do’s and Don’ts for your kid’s triathlon. I shouldn’t have to be telling you this stuff, but I understand that we just can’t help ourselves sometimes, and that we have to be reminded that we are behaving like idiot poser loser parents who are living their unfulfilled lives through their children.
Don’t show up with the tri bike tricked out with aerobars, a disc wheel and a set of Speedplays.
Do bring the bike with the streamers and the playing cards in the wheels.
Don’t call out split times, how many minutes he’s behind the leader in the 8-10 year old division, or how far he’s behind his brother.
Do leave your watch in the car.
Don’t unrack his bike, re-rack his bike, or tie his shoes—stay the hell out of transition altogether.
Do let him do it himself, even if transition takes twenty minutes and he leaves with his helmet and shirt both on backwards.
Don’t run with him, because you don’t think that he can do it alone. Trust me. He can. He should.
Do jump up and down, cheer, holler, take pictures, hold signs and wave pom poms-- by the side of the road.
Don’t critique his performance. No tips on how to improve his swim technique, transition time or run split. Period.
Do make sure he wears his medal to school on Monday. And try not to wash off the body marking, when you wash off the dirt.
Don’t immediately start him on a training program for a sprint triathlon. Kids’ triathlons exist for a reason. It’s because they are too young to do adult triathlons, and kids shouldn’t be “in training” for shit.
Do make sure he chills out and has fun. Triathlon is a big accomplishment, sure, but it’s also supposed to be fun- yes? It’s why you do it- I hope? You’re encouraging your kids to tri to get them off the couch and moving and running around with their friends and fostering a life long love of the outdoors and health and fitness- right?
I hope that you are nodding your head in agreement-- you agree that triathlon should be fun. If you, however, feel that your kid should learn that triathlon is a metaphor for life and is an exercise in discipline and the pathway to a glorious athletic future—kiss my ass, you idiot poser loser parent.
And a message to your kids from me: get out there, have a blast, get sweaty, get dirty, get a medal, and stick all of the leftover bananas at the refreshment table in your pants for later.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Snakes Alive!
Six compelling reasons to mow the yard here in Waresboro:
1. Eastern Diamondback Rattlesnake
2. Pygmy Rattlesnake
3. Canebrake Rattlesnake
4. Copperhead
5. Water Moccasin
6. Coral Snake
These, of course, are the six venomous snakes found in Georgia.
It is venomous, not poisonous, by the way—venomous critters inject venom; poisonous critters harm you when touched or ingested. I have a favorite rest stop in Interstate 95 in Florida, around St. Augustine (work with me, here). There’s a huge chain link fence around a little pond, and a big sign that says “Beware of Poisonous Snakes.” I guess Floridians don’t know the difference. And they obviously didn’t consult my favorite Park Naturalist, my stepdaughter Jenni Smith, who has educated me about venomous snakes.
I’ve gotten to the point where I can admire and appreciate the little bastards, but, still: NIMBY. Not in my back yard, baby. You can demonstrate your beautiful markings and show off your gargantuan dimensions, but do it when I am zipping by you on a bicycle, please.
I have been surfing the University of Georgia website tonight, hoping, please, please, please- don’t let that be a Water Moccasin that I almost stepped on when I went out to feed the chickens this evening. Please let it be something fat and brown and non-venomous. Like a Brown Water Snake. I think that I’ve convinced myself that it is a Brown Water Snake.
I would have taken a picture to share, however:
1. I am sane.
2. I was too busy being horrified, screaming and fleeing for my life, to get my camera out.
Allen, however, shares neither of these traits. This is why we have some spectacular pictures of the Eastern Diamondback Rattlesnake that came to visit when Libby was mowing the lawn last month.
When we returned from vacation, our lawn was way overgrown. The snake was happily slinking through the deep grass and minding its own business, more or less, when Libby happened upon it with the John Deere.
Libby did not scream in mortal terror, and only sounded mostly alarmed when she hollered for Allen to “Come here!”
“Are you bleeding?” I called, even though it really didn’t sound like the cries of a bleeding child. But I had to check, because she faints at the sight of blood.
“There’s a rattlesnake!”
This got my full attention. It was time to go help save Libby. This is what we moms do, even moms who are terrified of snakes, when their child is threatened by a rattlesnake. We would stomp on its head with our bare feet if we had to.
I was not sure what to expect when I got to the side yard. Libby had made herself as small as humanly possible on the seat of the lawn mower, feet curled under her. She pointed over to the unmowed lawn. “There! Can you see him?”
“No….”
Yes.
“Holy sh**!!” (I really need to stop swearing around my children).
I saw him, all right. At first, only his tail with the rattles was apparent, and then he slowly slithered into sight. I don’t think that a snake that size can move other than slowly. He was heading back towards the woods, and wanted no part of us. He tried to look as unobtrusive as a three-foot Eastern Diamondback Rattlesnake could, as he slithered back over the lawn. “Just act natural,” I could hear him think to himself.
So we got Allen. And we got Libby off the seat of the lawn mower. And then we got Ben. And then we got the camera. And then Allen got the camera. And then Janna started screaming at Allen: “What are you, an idiot? Get away from that thing! What are you doing so f***king close to the thing? It’s going to bite you! I am going to be a widow! No! I do NOT want a close up picture with the macro lens!!”
Ok. I was over-reacting a bit. He meant us no harm. After watching him for a while, I think that we all realized how magnificent he was. Ophiophobe (that’s a person who is severely freaked out by snakes) that I am, I nevertheless didn’t want to see it killed. However, there was no denying that he could be big trouble for a lot of creatures on our farm. We were torn.
So we feigned trying to dispatch it: we went into the house to get the shotgun, but-wouldn’t you know it - the trigger lock was on, and we weren’t sure where the key was, or whether we had the right shells….
And-- wouldn’t you know it—when we got outside, he was long gone, back into the pine woods. I’m sure that he’ll stay there, as long as the lawn stays short.
The lawn is a little shaggy again, which explains the Better-Not-Be-A-Cottonmouth that I saw slithering into the grape arbor this evening. Thank goodness Libby will still mow the lawn; however, she demands that Allen perform a “snake check” of the perimeter before she heads out there. Venomous creatures have not dissuaded her from her most lucrative money-making operation—she is a teenager, after all.
Monday, August 10, 2009
I have my white lab coat on today. It's long- down past my knees- and has long sleeves that I roll up to keep them out of my way. Hospital logo on the right side, my name and my specialty over the left breast pocket.
These days, it's uncommon for me to be wearing my lab coat- it's pretty laid-back here in the department. I've never ever seen the other pathologists in one. I usually wear mine only when I'm cold.
But I love my white coat. It feels like home when I wear it.
I remember the first time I put on a white coat-- early into my 1st year of medical school. I walked across the breezeway at Jackson, and noticed that people acted differently to me when I wore it. I felt set-apart, somehow. It was a strange feeling.
I went through a second-year rebellion against my white coat. It seemed much more sexy to see patients in my street clothes, with a stethoscope draped around my neck. Besides feeling like a big shot, I could see the point in that attire-- less stressful for the patients. No "white coat hypertension."
However, the white coat became an essential tool in the latter years of medical school- the 3rd and 4th year clinical rotations. It was a long white briefcase/filing cabinet. A friend weighed himself one day on the wards and discovered that he was 10 pounds lighter without his coat on.
At any given time, a medical student or resident's lab coat would contain the following:
- The requisite stethoscope, draped around the neck or coiled up in a deep pocket.
- A flashlight. Hopefully. This was often essential, but most of us either had lost it or it ran out of batteries.
-A wide variety of pens-mostly from drug reps- the Viagra pen was the most sought after...-Sharpies, highlighters, pencils, rulers
-Various and sundry plastic calculators- also from drug reps- to calculate everything from due dates to visual acuity.
-Test tubes, extra syringes, needles, IV lines, gauze, suture kits, band-aids
-Paper, paper and more paper--lab results, lists of patients and their vital signs, notes scribbled on napkins, spare order forms, lecture notes, to-do lists. Paper bulging out of every available orifice in the lab coat.
-Hand sanitizer
-Pocket versions of the most essential medical texts, for reference: The Washington Manual, Merck, Pocket Cecil's, Pocket Robbins (for us pathologists).
-Money (hopefully), IDs, cafeteria vouchers, pictures of the kids that we saw infrequently during those years.
-Pagers. We might have two or three at any given time. Numeric pagers, voice pagers, walkie-talkies.
Obviously, the more pockets your white coat had, the better off you were.
In some medical school traditions, the length of your lab coat corresponded to your status. A short white coat as a medical student and intern, and the full-length coat reserved for the upper level residents and attendings.
I am wearing the full-length version, and have been for 10 years now. Hard to believe it's been 10 years since someone called 'Doctor!'--- and I realized they were talking to me.
These days, it's uncommon for me to be wearing my lab coat- it's pretty laid-back here in the department. I've never ever seen the other pathologists in one. I usually wear mine only when I'm cold.
But I love my white coat. It feels like home when I wear it.
I remember the first time I put on a white coat-- early into my 1st year of medical school. I walked across the breezeway at Jackson, and noticed that people acted differently to me when I wore it. I felt set-apart, somehow. It was a strange feeling.
I went through a second-year rebellion against my white coat. It seemed much more sexy to see patients in my street clothes, with a stethoscope draped around my neck. Besides feeling like a big shot, I could see the point in that attire-- less stressful for the patients. No "white coat hypertension."
However, the white coat became an essential tool in the latter years of medical school- the 3rd and 4th year clinical rotations. It was a long white briefcase/filing cabinet. A friend weighed himself one day on the wards and discovered that he was 10 pounds lighter without his coat on.
At any given time, a medical student or resident's lab coat would contain the following:
- The requisite stethoscope, draped around the neck or coiled up in a deep pocket.
- A flashlight. Hopefully. This was often essential, but most of us either had lost it or it ran out of batteries.
-A wide variety of pens-mostly from drug reps- the Viagra pen was the most sought after...-Sharpies, highlighters, pencils, rulers
-Various and sundry plastic calculators- also from drug reps- to calculate everything from due dates to visual acuity.
-Test tubes, extra syringes, needles, IV lines, gauze, suture kits, band-aids
-Paper, paper and more paper--lab results, lists of patients and their vital signs, notes scribbled on napkins, spare order forms, lecture notes, to-do lists. Paper bulging out of every available orifice in the lab coat.
-Hand sanitizer
-Pocket versions of the most essential medical texts, for reference: The Washington Manual, Merck, Pocket Cecil's, Pocket Robbins (for us pathologists).
-Money (hopefully), IDs, cafeteria vouchers, pictures of the kids that we saw infrequently during those years.
-Pagers. We might have two or three at any given time. Numeric pagers, voice pagers, walkie-talkies.
Obviously, the more pockets your white coat had, the better off you were.
In some medical school traditions, the length of your lab coat corresponded to your status. A short white coat as a medical student and intern, and the full-length coat reserved for the upper level residents and attendings.
I am wearing the full-length version, and have been for 10 years now. Hard to believe it's been 10 years since someone called 'Doctor!'--- and I realized they were talking to me.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
How Things Work in My New Hometown
After work, we had to head over to a family event (a viewing, sorry to say) where we met five church members, two of Allen’s co-workers, and about fifty family members. I subsequently learned that Allen is related to basically the same families on both sides, via a family tree that looks somewhat like the wisteria that winds through the trees in the yard. This one had a sister who married the brother of the aunt on her paternal side, who was married to someone else on her maternal side, and his cousin is also his nephew…. My head spins considering this. I am going to draw myself a diagram for further reference.
After the viewing, we head over to a local restaurant, where we see our auto mechanic (who is now basically a family member since we see him more than we see our own family, thanks to the Corvette) and his wife eating dinner. We sit next to a large table of high school students, two of which are in Allen’s class. Our waitress graduated from another high school, but her boyfriend is the stepbrother- well, not exactly the brother, but a friend of the family who lives with them who basically is a family member- of a kid in Allen’s class, who, incidentally, told Allen that he “talked like a girl” (to which Allen replied: “You look like a girl.”). Now the boyfriend of our waitress also had Allen as a teacher (and said very nice things about him and his class). And our waitress is also the babysitter of one of the doctors who works with me in the hospital. And, no, he doesn’t own the late-model Corvette in the doctor’s parking lot, as I had speculated.
Anyways, the owner of the red Corvette is still a mystery, though I expect to meet the sister of the wife of the husband who works in the Emergency Room who heard from a nurse that the doctor who drives that car is….. my husband’s cousin.
Editorial Comment:
On a serious note, I’m sick of hearing about how stifling small-town life is. As humorous as I found the incident above, I see it in a different light after I read about the gunman in Pennsylvania who, according to reports, blew away half of a Latin Cardio class at his gym because he was bitter and angry that he was rejected by women his whole life. We can never say that “it can’t happen here.” But I suspect that he wouldn’t have been so anonymous and marginalized here in Wayx. Instead of a lone blogger, broadcasting his hatred of women and his detailed plan for revenge into the black hole of cyberspace, he’d be “so and so’s weirdo cousin that we had to call the law on back in July because he was talking crazy sh**”
After the viewing, we head over to a local restaurant, where we see our auto mechanic (who is now basically a family member since we see him more than we see our own family, thanks to the Corvette) and his wife eating dinner. We sit next to a large table of high school students, two of which are in Allen’s class. Our waitress graduated from another high school, but her boyfriend is the stepbrother- well, not exactly the brother, but a friend of the family who lives with them who basically is a family member- of a kid in Allen’s class, who, incidentally, told Allen that he “talked like a girl” (to which Allen replied: “You look like a girl.”). Now the boyfriend of our waitress also had Allen as a teacher (and said very nice things about him and his class). And our waitress is also the babysitter of one of the doctors who works with me in the hospital. And, no, he doesn’t own the late-model Corvette in the doctor’s parking lot, as I had speculated.
Anyways, the owner of the red Corvette is still a mystery, though I expect to meet the sister of the wife of the husband who works in the Emergency Room who heard from a nurse that the doctor who drives that car is….. my husband’s cousin.
Editorial Comment:
On a serious note, I’m sick of hearing about how stifling small-town life is. As humorous as I found the incident above, I see it in a different light after I read about the gunman in Pennsylvania who, according to reports, blew away half of a Latin Cardio class at his gym because he was bitter and angry that he was rejected by women his whole life. We can never say that “it can’t happen here.” But I suspect that he wouldn’t have been so anonymous and marginalized here in Wayx. Instead of a lone blogger, broadcasting his hatred of women and his detailed plan for revenge into the black hole of cyberspace, he’d be “so and so’s weirdo cousin that we had to call the law on back in July because he was talking crazy sh**”
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