Parking

I thought I'd write down the unwritten rule of parking because some of the people who visit my neighbors apparently haven't heard it. Here it is: if possible you should park on the street in front of the house that you are visiting. People who visit one set of neighbors in particular don't seem to get it. A single car will park on the street in front of our house even though the street in front of the neighbor's house is empty. Strange. One time an unknown young man lingered in front of our house for so long that I considered calling the cops and instead walked out to talk to him. He could tell I was a little worried, so he rolled down his window to note that he was waiting for someone else to arrive so they could both show up together at the neighbor's house. I'm not saying there aren't circumstance where they shouldn't park on the street in front of my house - if the street in front of the neighbors is full, like when they're having a party - by all means park in front of my house. Now to convince my neighbors of that.

Cabin Fever

Unlike a lot of people who live in Utah, I don't head out into the back country much during the winter. I used to snow shoe a lot, but haven't been in a while since I haven't been able to get excited about the zero degree temperatures at night, which is when I have time to go. As result, I spend most of my winter indoors. For some reason, the three hour training rides on the spin bike were starting to get a little stale. Finally, this Saturday it wasn't snowing and was above 40 degrees. As I headed to the AF Fitness Center I saw a surprising number of people out to take advantage of roads that were merely wet rather than covered with ice and temperatures that were above freezing. You would have thought it was spring time. It was good to see others were suffering from cabin fever as well. In the afternoon I headed out for a road ride. I'd forgotten how good a nice ride outside could be. The sushi endeavor was okay. I hate getting up in front of people. Predictably, it started late, which made the rice a little clumpy. The organizers did a good job of setting up and decorating. I probably could have served Uncle Ben's and it would have been okay. It was also no surprise that we had entirely too much food.

The Blame Game

I've somehow made it on the do-not-call-to-ride list. Either I changed to make it off the list or the list changed and I just didn't make the cut. Unfortunately, I'm not sure which came first, the chicken or the egg. With the lack of riding partners, I've found myself turning more to triathlon. Or was triathlon what got me off the list? These are two of the possibilities. Is it that triathlons drove me away from mountain biking. Could it be that I turned down invitations to go on really good rides and/or that I was intolerable company by turning a fun ride with friends into a training session for a triathlon that left me lagging so far behind that the others simply couldn't put up with it? Or is it that the lack of riding partners drove me away from mountain biking. It could be that I turned to triathlon as my former riding buddies decided, for whatever reasons, to leave me off the call list. I'd understand. In year's past my complete lack of fitness made me a less than ideal riding companion, especially for my riding buddies. But for the last few years, I've been in my best shape ever, making me a more suitable riding buddy. That leads me to think that maybe most of my old time riding buddies have moved on from recreational rides to racer types, thereby embracing Elden's theory that every ride is a race. If every ride is a race, I'll never be a worthy 'riding' companion for the racer types. So, I've looked for something else to pass the time. After all, I don't need other people to train for triathlon - solitary suffering is kind of the point. Regardless of how I got here, there are a couple of things I need to come to terms with. That I'm slow is not one of them, I came to terms with that years ago. Primary is that I need to start looking for riding companions who ride for the same reasons I do.

Impending Doom

It's coming. I like to help out in the ward where I can and so I agreed to help out with a ward activity. The idea was that 4-5 couples would show up at somebody's house and I'd show them how to make some basic sushi rolls. No problem. I have enough equipment to turn out enough rice to turn out 8-10 rolls in one go, which would be enough for people to get a demonstration and try their hand at it. Those 4-5 couples are up to 26+ and it's going to be at the church. With sushi, timing and moisture content are everything. The timing and logistics of making 50+ rolls at a time in a foreign and unstocked environment is more than 4-5 times more complex - it's more like an exponential function. I'm going to crash and burn, but I'm already on the hook. I predict sweating, nervous banter, snapiness (if you've helped with a luau, you've taken more than one pointed instruction), and several instances of profanity. I have a feeling I'll be off the hook from now on.

Ice Fishing

Some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent. Several years ago I joined B on an ice fishing expedition. He had initially planned to go do some ice fishing with his Young Men and his co-leader Lee. I had no interest in a Young Men's activity, so I declined his invitation. The morning of the event, he called to say that none of the young men had shown up. He and Lee for were already all set to go and figured I'd be interested. I didn't have much else going on, so I met them at the mouth of Provo Canyon. I jumped in Lee's big ol' truck, where I was joined in the back seat by Zach. I greeted Zach and received a two-pronged response. The verbal component was something most akin to a Chewbacca groan. The ohter component was an overpowering fecal smell. Not like he'd passed gas, but more like Zach had filled his pants some time before and nobody had bothered to change him yet. I mentioned I changed the name of the innocent - Zach was not really his name, but is rather a reference to how his breath smelled 'xactly like his a*$. When we stopped in Heber to get snacks for the day, I excused myself from changing him - "Not it to change Lee's special younger brother's depends," I whispered to B. It was then that B pointed out that Zach was neither Lee's younger brother nor did he have specially needs - at least not technically. Although he did point out that he wouldn't disbelieve that Zach could have had a brown out. As we piled out of the truck at Strawberry my lungs burned as I gasped as much of the -5 degree air as possible - anything to get the stench out of my nose. I got a short reprieve as Lee took Zach on his snowmobile as we headed to the fishin' hole. Once there, Lee and B set up their ice fishing tent, complete with a heater, seats, and a fish finder while Zach and I sat on the snow mobiles. Unfortunately, I'm not Han Solo and can't understand wookie. Fortunately, like Chewie, Zach understood English. As the saying goes, revenge is a dish best served cold. Since my eyes and nose were pretty much frozen shut, I figured it'd be a good idea to get a little payback. We hadn't had so much as a nibble the entire day. I had deciphered some of the gestures and grunts as questions from Zach as to why we weren't catching any fish. I told him about the magical fish finder Lee had and how it showed how many fish were around as well as how deep they were. I also told him that I didn't really understand how it worked, but that he should definitely ask them about how it works. I also mentioned they might have snacks. And maybe something about warmth. For nearly half an hour, the comfy enclosure that was keeping my companions warm served as a steaming pouch for the aromatic goodness Zach had to offer. To get Zach's head out of the tent, Lee suggested that Zach take the snow mobile out for a spin. Zach got the feel for speed quickly. Unfortunately, his skill didn't follow. Soon after he started riding he took a huge jump and pancaked the landing. Instead of falling off, he held on to the handlebars for dear life. His death grip on the handlebars had him maxing out the gas. After digging a 50 yard trench with his legs, the snow mobile sucked him into the tread, pulling his hands from the handlebars. His plaque-caked grin belied his shreaded overalls and ice-encrusted whiskers. Apparently, he'd never had more fun. Lee and B on the other hand had already had a gut-full of ice fishing by then, so we loaded up and headed for the truck. All the excitement had stirred up Zach's odor enough to what I had thought were impossible levels. Seriously, it was overwhelming. Lee couldn't take it and cranked up the fan as high as possible. Nothing. Lee rolled the windows down, but even though it had warmed all the way up to 10 degrees, the highway speeds still made the truck a blast chiller. In desperation, Lee ripped open five or six Tree-Deodorizers and started jamming them into the vents. Lee tried in desperation to wolf down his sandwich while the trees masked the odor. He was still working on his first several bites when he started sputtering the sandwich out into the wrapper. "You've got to be kidding me!" he screamed in disgust as he threw his sandwich out the window. After a while, the smell settled in the back (with me). Lee opened a bag of chinese crackers and offered us all some. Zach was happy to get involved. Lee asked whether Zach would like more and then promptly offered him the entire bag. I was confused. Lee was starving and he was giving away a nearly full bag of tasty crackers. Sensing my confusion, Lee glanced at me in the rear view mirror and then fake licked his fingers. Apparently, Zach had been licking his fingers after each handful. Lucky for me, that wiped out any appetite I might have had. As fun as that was, I haven't been ice fishing since.

Party with Pat's Barbeque

I'm currently sitting on my couch in a rib and bread-pudding induced stupor. I wouldn't have it any other way. Tonight was the premier of an episode of "Diner's Drive-Ins, and Dives" on the Food Network. Pat's threw a huge bash to celebrate and my buddy Pat (Lorimer, no relation to the pit boss that I'm aware of) picked up some tickets. We got there fashionably late - in time for there to be a line out the door. As we neared the buffet line, a table opened up and we pounced on it. Great call - it gave us great access to the buffet line. The line was moving slowly and Pat (the pit boss) had his entire menu on offer. The small plastic plate was quickly filled with sides, even though I skipped the salad. To make more room, I employed the expand-a-plate (trademark claimed by Pat (my buddy). The expand-a-plate is the sacrificial bun I placed on top of the sides that provided separation and a buffer between the meats I stacked on it and the sides below. The chicken was excellent - but remained chicken. The pulled pork was somewhat disappointing. The BBQ Meatloaf was worth the gastrointestinal real estate, as was the brisket. The star of the proteins was predictably the ribs, which I saved for last. In the past I've made the mistake of starting with the very best. It's a mistake because there's only so much of one dish you can really enjoy and if you start at the top, everything else is a let down. So, I did it right and finished the proteins with the ribs. As I was working on my third rib, Pat (my buddy) had abandoned the proteins and was focusing on his second huge piece of bread pudding. I should have known it would be good by how he ignored the best ribs around for a desert. When I tasted it, I immediately had a food-O, complete with goose-bumps. I continued eating past the point of common sense until I was sweating and exhausted. You know how the saying goes - Hawaiians don't eat until they're full, they eat until they're tired. It was worth it. If you're in the mood for some amazing food, head over to Pat's near 21 South and West Temple in the industrial area of Salt Lake. I'd suggest a half rack of ribs with the red beans and rice. If you can, head over on Thursday and order the bread pudding - they make it Thursday and predictably it doesn't last long. A special thanks to Cindy for accommodating me tonight by watching the kids while I pigged out.

The Most Disgusting Thing I Can Remember

If you're disturbed by boogers or snot, stop reading now. Otherwise, enjoy. This story was so disgusting the retelling of it made my sister vomit. Seriously. Maybe it's a family thing, but other people's phlegm, lung cookies, or whatever you want to call it fouls me out instantly. If I see a loogie hanging in a drinking fountain, it's all I can do to limit the noise from gagging and hope to not lose it on the floor. So it should come as no surprise that a childhood friend of mine frequently disgusted me--to protect the innocent, let's call him Nate. You see, rather than being booger-phobic he was booger-philic. That's right, he was a booger eater. During church, he would often take the time to load up each of his fingers with the finest his nose had to offer. Thereafter, he'd take out his retainer and then savor each one in turn. He'd do this while sitting in the choir seats. And no, that's not the most disgusting thing he did, though it makes me throw up a little in my mouth to think of it. The nastiest thing he did happened right before lunch hour while we were in the sixth grade. The rest of the class had lined up for lunch but for whatever reason the two of us were running behind. Mr. Toledo sent us back to the sink to wash our hands. As I followed Nate to the sink, he sneezed. A hearty, lung clearing sneeze from his flu-filled lungs. As he assessed the damage, he realized his retainer had snagged a good portion of the lung cookies of his sneeze. There was no way he was going to let that go to waste, so he slurped his retainer clean. I am now gagging uncontrollably, so I'll have to stop.

The Happy Median

In my opinion it's best to avoid extremes. And despite that, I'm about to haul off on a rant, so apparently I don't practice what I preach. Anyway. I don't actually mind driving in the snow. I grew up driving in the snow on slick roads. The plus side to growing up in a really small town is that you learn to drive on slick roads that aren't full of people. What I don't like is driving in snow with other people. It drives me nuts because the extremist drivers end up screwing things up. On one hand, you have the idiot in an SUV that doesn't seem to have a basic handle on common-sense, much less a grasp of basic applied physics. They don't realize that the ability to get an object moving is an entirely different set of issues than getting that same object to stop. On ice. So, since their 4WD gets them moving well in the snow and ice they seem to forget that stopping that huge weight isn't quite as easy. How does that slow me down? These are the self-same idiots that go barreling into a traffic, lock up the brakes, do some reckless swerving with the brakes locked up, and get into an accident. That accident then chokes down traffic and I end up waiting. Forever. Then you have the idiots who are so freaked out by the possibility of sliding that they meander down flat, straight, open roads at 10 m.p.h. They only want to travel at speeds where they can lock up the brakes and still skid to a stop in 15 feet. These people are the ones who usually get hit by the speeders. Like yin and yang combining to drag all traffic to a standstill. Even if they're fortunate to avoid a collision with the other extreme, I still end up stuck behind them somehow to crawl to whereever I'm going. If you're that freaked out by the snow, you should probably get a doctor to write you a note (hopefully before it snows) indicating that you can't drive in the snow. When it snows you can send the note to work and take the day off. Or maybe I'll just take the day off next time it snows so I don't have to deal with them.

Call for Info

I love to ride bikes, but don't like doing so when it's bitter cold outside or while it's snowing - both of which tend to happen in the winter here in Utah. In years past, I snowshoed in the winter on the bad days, but haven't done so in a while. I'd like to remedy this, but don't want to waste time driving up AF Canyon until the snow is deep enough to bother. So, have any of you been up there since the last snow? If so, is it deep enough yet?

Special Needs

Last night I attended my first master's swim class at the AF Rec Center. I figured it was a cheap way to get some coaching - which would hopefully keep me motivated and help improve my form. After all, it's only 25 bucks per month - you read right - per month. The tri-geek in me has justified much larger outlays that even at their best had questionable benefits. So, I finally dragged myself to the pool, overcoming my self-consciousness and just getting to it. There were three groups swimming - a group of collegiate level swimmers (I know because one of the girls just finished at BYU, where she was on the team), a group of intermediates, and all the rest. At first, the coach put me in the slow lane. Where I belonged. After we warmed up he moved me to the middle lane. At first, I thought it was because he thought I was fast enough to hang with them. Not so much. He put me there because there was no chance of me screwing up the swim order with the other two swimmers in my lane, especially since we were only swimming fifties. 30 of them. Hard. It was awful. I felt like that guy who showed up to a group road ride on a mountain bike. You know the guy. And like the fellow on fat tires with a flapping T-shirt and a bottle of root beer in his cage, I suffered mightily just to keep up. I made all the splits within the times, but not without pain. And then, to keep things interesting, after 2000+ yards of high effort swimming (not fast, just painful), we did a 100 yard test swim. Nice. One of the guys there wearing baggy board shorts swam the same time I did. He complimented me on a nice job and then asked why, since I was the new guy, I decided to start the class. I told him that the swim is my weakest portion and the one I could really only get better at with some help. After asking with amazement if I did triathlons, he commented that I was doing pretty well, for a first timer. Yeah, thanks. Now I'm getting my ass kicked by the guy on the mountain bike as well. The next step is to get humbled by an old guy on an adult-sized trike. Perfect.

Favorite Jonboy Quotes

If you read this blog, there's a decent chance you know Jon. And if you know Jon, you know he's a lot of fun to be around. He and I seem to be on the same wave length and I really laugh at his sense of humor, which can be biting at times. One of my favorite stories Jon tells is of a trip he made to Costco. Jon may have some corrections in the comments, but here's how I remember it. Costco, despite all its progressiveness, did not provide bike racks. I don't know if they still do, Chad will have to weigh in on that. But at the time, they didn't. So, when Jon stopped by on his bike to pick up some things in bulk, he had to lock his bike somewhere. He locked his bike to a shopping cart in the parking lot and started to make his way in. He'd scarcely made it a few feet when the shopping cart attendant threw his bike in the shopping cart and started to take it into the building. As he hauled Jon's bike off, he began muttering about how stupid cyclists were, etc. Jon, not one to take that lying down, responded. I forget everything he said, but the gem was the question, "Cart pushing, what is that - a four year program?" I still chuckle when I think about that. Jon told me that story just before we started a ride along the ridge up AF Canyon. As we were descending toward the PineHollow/Timpanooke intersection, I heard Jon behind me. His story came to mind, and I started chuckling. It was enough to break my concentration, which made me blow a turn and I ended up out in the weeds. Another time was after we'd finished up RAWROD a couple of years ago. We were waiting to be seated at one of the pizza joints in Moab. Delena was wearing a tuc. A portly, ruddy-faced fellow wearing pajamas walked by and commented, "Nice hat!" to Delena. Without pause and at the same time both Jon and I answered back, "Nice pajamas." He looked back at us, stunned that we'd comment on his choice to wear red flannel pajamas to dinner. The nerve.

Twilight Musings

Friday night, I took one for the team and went to Twilight with Cindy. I was braced for bad. I wasn't braced for that. But, I dug deep and gutted it out. After the first hour, I was numb to the constant closeups and never-ending wistful looks. I even got used to the clumsy, choppy, awkward dialogue. People always say that the books are always better than the movies. That has to be the case in this, because I have a tough time imagining the movie being any worse. I've read a few passages of the books - enough to quickly see that Stephanie Myer is no Elmore Leonard. But still. Even bad books often make at least watchable movies. The thing is, the women in the audience knew it was bad. But they were so in love with the idea of the movie, they let it slide. Women often shake their heads in disgust with men and their action films. Before, the garbage romance novels didn't make it to the big screen and Jane Austen had been elevated to classic status. Both kept me from having anything useful in response. Now, now I have Twilight. At least it wasn't a complete waste. I take that back.

Iron Tourist (The Long Version of IMZ '08)

“It’s deeper than I thought,” I noted myself as my descent into the murky darkness was paused by the buoyancy of my wetsuit (and maybe some extra fat). Two nights before the race director had claimed the water was only five or six feet deep. I was at least three feet underwater. Luckily, it didn’t feel nearly as cold as it had yesterday. Still, something wasn’t quite right. The last time I had that feeling was moments before I ate a shore break and broke my collarbone in two places in Hawai’i. I was a tourist at a locals’ beach. I’d been in Hawai’i nearly a week and figured I was ready for something more than the relatively small waves at another local beach, Hukilau. So I made my way to La’i’e City Beach, otherwise known as Pounders. The locals’ incredulous looks should given me an idea that I was in over my head. But, I had just enough experience and know-how to be dangerous, but only to myself. Similar looks of disbelief had met me in the predawn darkness as volunteers with bullhorns herded us into the starting pen. It was clear that I was different than the vast majority of the other competitors. The most plausible explanation was that my body type was so much different than most of theirs. Another explanation had to with the makeup of the field. What I mean is, the percentage of A-Types in a field is directly proportional to length of the event. Since this was the longest standard distance in triathlon, it should have come as no surprise that there were a high-percentage of A-Typers. And everybody knows that “A-Type” is just a polite way of saying a$$ hole. So I wrote off the looks as dismissive as coming from people who felt that someone like me was no threat. I also figured that the looks reflected some of their disbelief that someone like me would even think about competing with them. I was in this for me and had no intention of competing with them, so I wasn’t that worried about it. Still, the people huddled into that pen were the Ironman locals. This is their world. People that weigh their food. I was just a visitor, a tourist into this Ironman thing and should have taken note from the looks before hand. But then again, like every good tourist, I thought I was prepared. I’d read the guide book (Going Long by Gordon Byrne and Dirk Friel), I’d purchased the equipment, and I’d been to several other places that I thought were similar (I’d completed five half-distance races before the start). So, I figured I was a more of a local than a tourist. Yet at the start, I was as obvious a tourist as a blotchy-skinned white guy with plaid pants and a straw hat asking the clerk at the Superette in Kahuku what poi is and whether it was any good. Despite my misgivings, I jumped in. Literally. In fact, I pushed some of the more hesitant out of my way, muttering, “Let’s get this over with,” as I plunged into the cold water. I swam to the start line and found myself dead center in the middle of 2200 people. At 7:00 sharp, the starting gun went off. I’d heard horror stories of swim starts in open water. But by now, I’d done at least ten races in open water. Each time it got a little easier to settle in and swim normally. None of those experiences prepared me for this. It was like the push to the stage as a concert begins as I tried to pick my way past hundreds of people to a comfortable, open spot while hundreds of others tried to claw their way to the front. It didn’t get much better at any point during the swim. Throughout the swim, as I reached ahead to anchor and pull I’d occasionally get a handful of foot, or ankle, or swim cap. Or something else. Finally, the final buoy appeared and I turned for home. I felt good coming out of the water. A quick look at the clock confirmed it – I was only three minutes off what I thought was a ridiculously optimistic goal. Nobody seemed really amazed that I’d made it through the swim. Anybody can suffer for an hour and a half. My guide book had suggested a few things – first was that comfort was more important than aerodynamics unless I planned on going significantly faster than 19 mph, a road bike would be a great idea. Second was that I needed to ration my effort, taking it easy on the first third of the bike. So, I swallowed my pride as overweight women and wrinkly old men started to pass me with surprising frequency as we headed out into the wind. Surely I’d start to bring them back as the race wore on. Not so much. I usually do fine into the wind. But, I fall apart going uphill and into the wind. It was windy that day and half of the course was slightly uphill. It didn’t help that I brought the wrong bike. I’d brought my road bike and my position on that bike had me sitting up and taking the full force of the wind when I really should have been hiding from it in an aero position. I’d brought the road bike to be comfortable, to avoid back pain from riding for too long hunched over. But soon I found my lower back in agony from struggling against the wind in my upright position. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I wasn’t thrilled with my first lap time, but at that pace I would have only been ten minutes off my projected time. Near the end of the out portion of my second lap, the wind switched direction, leaving me to fight a head wind again on the way back in. The choice of bikes was now really starting to hurt. Maybe that’s why the vast majority of the ‘locals’ were on tri bikes. My confidence in the guide book was shaken. The next thing you’re going to tell me is that Rachel Ray actually can’t eat well on $40 a day. Or that Guy Fieri raves about anything, regardless of whether it’s actually any good or not. Seven hours later along with several stops to stretch my aching back and feet and the bike portion was finally over. I took my own sweet time in the changing tent for T2 before heading back out for the marathon. This was the part I had dreaded the most. I ran the first mile to the first aid station. After the first aid station, I fell into a motivational hole. After twenty minutes of walking and the first of several long negotiations with myself, I found a groove and ran for nearly 13 more miles except for walking up hills and through aid stations. And then it all came unraveled as the sun went down and it got dark. My motivation faded with the light. Shortly after sunset I found myself working with Alfredo from Miami – a fellow tourist doing his first Iron distance race. We walked/ran the last part of the second lap – I was optimistic we could keep each other motivated. I was wrong. Walking into finish the second lap, Alfredo stepped off the pavement to talk to his girlfriend. As we moved to the side, a pair heading to the finish bumped into me in their haste. “Get out of the way!” one of them yelled in disgust. Since I was standing on the very edge of a 20 ft wide path, I didn’t feel like there was much more they could expect me to do. This prompted an instinctive response: “Go to hell!” I shouted back. In most situations it’s not really smart to provoke the locals. But while Ironman locals are able to beat me handily at racing, they don’t tend to be physically intimidating. As we started the last lap, Alredo was done running and he told me so. Since we were on our last lap, there was no wondering if anyone else was on the same lap as us and the course got a lot less busy as we made our way around the last loop. A third of the way through the last lap, I was sick of being out there and wanted to run to just get it over with. But, I’d already picked my horse and so we gutted it out to the final finishing loop. There, we shook hands and I ran the final distance alone. Since the race, I’ve thought a lot about the race. While the race didn’t get the best of me because I finished, it did get the better of me mentally. At first, I had no intention of ever returning to the full Iron distance and was content to have gotten through it. After all, I’ll never look like the typical triathlete, much less like the typical Iron-distance triathlete. I’d like to think I’ll never fit their profile (A-Type, etc). So, at the end of the day, I’ll never be an Ironman local. I’ll always be a visitor to their world. But, as I sit here, I think of one of Anthony Bourdain’s mottos – be a traveler, not a tourist. I could be a traveler to Ironman world. I think I’ll start planning my next trip.

IMZ Redux

I finished. The swim went well in terms of time, but the washing machine did a number on my back. I was three minutes off my pool pace, which I was happy with considering the congestion and the fact that I swam past the buoy because of the morning glare. A head wind compounded the back issues, and I stopped three or four times to stretch my back and my aching feet. In fact, the wind switched direction as I neared the end of the out portion of the second lap, the wind turned. The run was a death march. I ran/hobbled, walked between half and 2/3 of the run - it's all kind of a blur. I know I walked the last 1/3 with someone I met on course - Alfredo from Miami. We initially started running together, then he gave up on running and I didn't have the mental energy left to achieve escape velocity, so we walked until just before the finish when one of his friends caught up. I'm not happy with my time. In fact, I'm pretty disappointed with my mental showing on the run. I could have and should have walked many of the portions of the run that I walked, but I was mentally hammered and so I didn't have it to push. A more complete version will follow. I need to sort out how I feel about the whole thing.

Scissors

While my law school class wasn't particularly close as a class, I met a couple of my favorite people while in law school. Jim is one of those people. The first day of orientation we found ourselves in the same orientation group. One of the first things we did was tell the group why we decided to attend law school. After several of the standard BS answers - I want fight injustice, I want to provide a voice for the voiceless, etc., etc., it was Jim's turn. He responded frankly, "I'm a sociology major, so when I graduated I had to choose between folding shirts at the Gap and law school. So, here I am." We've been friends since. Jim also said one of the funniest things I heard in law school. We were sitting in a classroom during our second or third year, waiting for the professor. One our classmates came in and sat down on the other side of the room. It was clear that she'd recently had a hair cut. Her hair wasn't at all even, especially in front. I looked at her, puzzling over her new look when Jim leaned over and whispered, "It looks like somebody got a hold of the scissors," just as the professor was getting ready to start class. The combination of the chuckles and the effort to hold it back had tears running down my face for a good while. Good times.

My Latest Perseveration

From time to time, I find myself getting hung up on insigificant details. Nowadays, I know that it's irrational. However, that doesn't stop me from getting hung up and fixating on the thing in question until I get it resolved. For example, once in high school I went with some friends on a one day shopping trip to a nearby town. On the way back I spilled grape juice on my favorite shirt. For some reason, I got it in my head that I needed to wash it immediately. I insisted to the point that we stopped halfway back and washed the shirt. This in spite of the fact that a girl I was sweet on was in the car and thought I was nuts. I know I've got issues - I'm trying to work through them. Last night I found myself hung up on my shoe situation for this weekend. Long ago, I chose my gear setup and had planned to stick with it. Then, last night I couldn't remember how long I've had the shoes I had planned to use. I set about to find out by tracking receipts. No luck. I decided I needed shoes whose cushioning I could not question. New shoes just like the ones I have now were the answer. I felt like I needed to get those shoes last night. So I called around and found that a spot in Sandy had some. We loaded up the kids and drove up there, arriving ten minutes before the closed. The thing is, I could have just as easily waited until today to pick them up. Yup, I'm kind of a psycho.

The Kneaders Phenomenon

I hate Kneaders. Let's make that clear right up front. I wish them nothing but ill. And now I'll try to explain why. I've been to Kneader's a few times, and each time I swear I'm never going back. The last time I went was for the pancakes. I didn't want to go, but my brother and I had just finished doing a triathlon and he desperately wanted to try it. We showed up at 10:50 and ordered the pancakes. It was later that we found out that it ended at 11:00. When I stepped up for a reorder at 11:02, I was informed that they already made last call and wouldn't make more. The thing is, last call was apparently somebody in the back mentioning to a co-worker that it was almost 11:00. No offer to make it better, no alternatives. Not even a thanks for coming in. Just a smug comment that it ended at 11:00. I didn't even protest. If there's one thing I've learned from going to Kneader's is that they don't care whether you come back or not. And I'm not sure why. As far as dining experiences go, I think that you need to have at least two of the following things going for you: price, uniqueness of food, speed, service/atmosphere, and quality. There are times that Wendy's fits the bill - it's quick and it's cheap despite lacking in the rest of the categories. For me, Kneaders doesn't really meet any of these qualities. First off, it's expensive for a sandwich place. As far as uniqueness goes, let's face it. It's not that hard to find a place that will put turkey and avocado on expensive bread - Quizno's and Paradise Bakery come to mind. Often, the speed is a joke. Apparently the wannabe Abercrombie and Fitch models they have in back putting the stuff together haven't figure out how to efficiently put meat, cheese, veggies, and sauce between two pieces of bread. This despite the fact that Kneader's only offers pre-formulated combinations. Maybe its the combination of the frustration of having to do such a difficult task combined with the chore of having to simultaneously compete in a flexing contest while keeping their hair perfect that makes the added chore of actually providing a modicum of customer service impossible. I mean, that's a burden that no suburban teenager can be expected to bear. As a result, getting a sandwich is going to cost as much and take as long as if you actually had a meal prepared by someone with some culinary skill. The nice thing is, you get to eat it in a Thai Pan inspired, living-room styled dining area - plenty of busy, kitschy decorations. For some reason, the combination of overpriced bread, tacky decor, and awful service keeps the place packed. I guess their target demographic, whoever that is, feels that if its overpriced it must be quality; that if they're always slow that it must be worth the wait; and that if the service sucks that everything else must somehow make up for it. I don't get it. And I'm not going back.

The Short, Rapid Fade

Saturday I did the Telos Turkey Tri. This the second I'd ever done and a race I plan on doing every year. I felt great. I was able to surge several times on the run and bike without having to slow way down to recover afterwards and I bested my previous best time on the course by over five minutes. While I was happy with my time, I know it's not going to last. Unfortunately, I know how this story plays out. Right now I tell myself that I'm going to maintain my base fitness after the race. The reality is that after the race, I'll absolutely no motivation to train. Holiday parties a plenty will pack the weight right back on and by the end of December, I'll be exactly where I was last year at the same time. It's frustrating that in three weeks I'll lose the fitness that took me six months to build.

Shop Tales

When I walked into Gourmet Bicycles all those years back and offered to work for free in exchange for training, I had no idea that the shop would end up being the source of so many friends. I also met some very strange people at the shop. Dug's post today reminded of one particular customer in particular. Alarm bells went off in my head the first time I saw this guy. He was relatively short, wore glasses, and had a neatly trimmed mustache - pretty much the perfect creepy computer geek look. The kind of guy you're afraid to make angry because doing so could result in you being buried in his back yard. Yeah, he was creepy. One of his favorite past times (apparently, from how long he spent doing it) was to come in and ask about every single bike in the Bianchi range. Or least ask about the bikes we didn't carry. And this after he'd read the brochure. I didn't mind a customer seeking to make an informed purchase, but this guy was just nutty. He'd ask about a particular model and ask how much. I'd tell him, and then he'd ask when we anticipated getting one. I'd tell him that we weren't going to be getting any different models in during the rest of the year, but we'd be happy to special order one for him. We'd just need a substantial deposit to get the process going. Without pausing, he'd move to the next bike in the line that we didn't stock and ask the same questions. Once he'd been through the line, he'd start over. Finally, I figured it was worth the risk of upsetting him by cutting him off to get some work done on the repair I needed to finish. Undeterred, he followed me back to the repair area to continue his questions and I'd answer them the same way. He came back a few weeks later, and a few weeks after that. This continued periodically even after Gourmet closed and Frank's opened. We had a routine. One day he broke the routine and showed up with an actual repair. He brought in a mountain bike wheel that needed truing. The tire and wheel were immaculately clean - not a speck of dirt or grease anywhere. Despite this, he carried the tire wearing a single brown gardening glove. We trued the wheel and he returned several hours before it was scheduled to be complete. Here's where my plan came into play - by now I knew he'd show up well before it was time, so I had the wheel in place behind the work bench. As he walked up to the door, I could see that he didn't have his glove on. So, I waited behind the bench with my hand on the wheel. When he asked me if the wheel was ready, I cheerfully told him it was and swung the wheel into his hand. Reactively, he grabbed the wheel. As soon as he realized what he had done, he dropped the wheel as if it were a hot rock and ran for the door muttering unintelligably. He returned after a few minutes with his glove and took the wheel with him. I'm pretty sure he's still washing his hand.

Conversation Deja Vu

Saturday morning Dan, Pat and I ventured up AF Canyon to try a little riding. It had rained the night before and the trail conditions were questionable. But, we were there and Dan and Pat decided to risk it. (I've led enough ill-fated rides to be dubbed Gilligan by Dan's wife - you know, the three-hour tour - so I left the decision to them.) Dan brought his single speed, which meant that Pat and I were left to ourselves as we made our way up the road toward Timpanooke Campground. As we pedalled along, Pat and I chatted about gear and such, which led Pat to discuss his latest gear purchase. "I'm in the doghouse with the wife," he started. "I bought some new gear without consulting her," he continued. "But I got a great deal!" he explained. "And it wasn't that much money, anyway." Clearly, Pat had met the necessary criteria for purchasing something without spousal consent. Unfortunately, his wife didn't see it that way. The trail was a disaster as motorcycles had chewed up the entire Ridge trail. It was clear after less than a mile that discretion was the better part of valor and so we turned down to Salamander Flats and from there to Timpanooke. The trail was in great shape where the motorcycles hadn't been, which was the route we took. As it turns out, the motorcycles didn't tear up the paved road at all - which we took the rest of the way down. When we got to the car, Dan took a look at his watch. I noted how it was a good thing we bailed when we did, otherwise he'd be in trouble with the wife. "I'm already in trouble with the wife," he answered. "I bought some stuff without consulting her," he continued. "I was at Circuit City and they had an awesome deal on speakers and a receiver," he explained. "And besides, it wasn't that much money anyway, so it wasn't a major purchase." Dan had also met the necessary criteria, but he went even further - "I'd waited for almost a year to get that stuff." Unfortunately, despite Dan going above and beyond, his wife didn't see it that way. I couldn't help but chuckle as Dan told almost exactly the same story that Pat told on the way up - and that I've told to others on any number of occasions. Good times.