Best Piece of Geek Gear Ever

I love gear. A lot. Most of the gear I buy doesn't really make that much of a difference, but it sure is fun to play with. Sometimes it even looks cool. Like my Zipp wheels. Man they look good. I don't know if they're any faster, but they at least look the part.

One piece of geek gear my wife bought me as a birthday/anniversary gift is this:



The swimman system of waterproof headphones and a waterproofed iPod shuffle. Swimming is easily the most mindless physical activity I do. It turns out watching that little black line slide by lap after lap isn't really that engaging. I try and focus on my stroke, but man it's boring. The swimman system rules. It works well, generates decent sound, and is durable. I've had this system since April and it's worked like a charm. It sure makes those long swim sessions easier, which is proving invaluable as I get ready for AZ in November.

The Pre-Luau Ramp Up

It's about that time. The days are starting to get a little shorter. The evening temps are getting a little cooler. College football is on the horizon. And, it's time to start getting my game face on for the luau. This year, it will be at the Timpanogos Cove park, as you should already know. Instead of the multi-session affairs of the past, this year's luau is going to be one single-session shabangabang.

So, instead of constantly cooking as the luau wears on, it all needs to be delivered at just about the same time. I've been working on layout, timing, and mechanical setup. The logistical challenge this year should be most of the fun - or most of the anguish. I've been picking up additional chafing dishes and high-volume outdoor cookers. It's time to start picking up the table settings, the charcoal, and the sauce bases. Finally, it'll be time to pick up the food and finish the final details. I've recruited Ben to man one of the grill stations. The two of us should be able to pound out the proteins in a couple of hours. I'm excited about this and hopefully you'll all be able to make it.

Ride update - it's been a while since I've updated this - since the Vikingman, actually. So with about 245 since the Vikingman, I'm half way there.

Hello, My Name is Fish and I'm an Addict

Jeff the interventionist on "Intervention" is found of saying that every addict needs to hit a bottom before they change. I may have hit my bottom on the Utah Half last week. You see, I theorize that participating in long distance events is an addiction. By long distance, I mean anything that takes more than five hours to do. My first long distance experiences came in 2006. My brother had talked me into doing the Honu Half Ironman in Hawai'i, even though my triathlon experience to that point included the American Fork Splash 'n Dash and the Turkey Tri. Those were both reverse order pool triathlons.

To get warmed up for Hawai'i, we did the California 70.3 Oceanside race. And that was really my first hit. The novelty of the experience was invigorating, from the training, getting set-up through race day, and taking the line. It was all part of the rush that topped out with crossing the line. Running down the finishing chute was one of the most exhilirating things I've ever done. As I crossed the line, I was nearly overcome with emotion - pride that I'd done pushed through the pain and self-doubt and disbelief and relief that it was finally over. It was awesome. Ever since that, every long race I've done I've been chasing that high.

And like with a drug addict, each long distance adventure seems to render a little less of a high at a higher cost. At every occasion, the question of what the hell I was thinking became a question I asked myself searchingly as I pushed through the pain rather than an ice-breaker comment made to fellow participants. Each time, the doubt and self-loathing increased. Yet each time, just like an a drug-addict, I found myself plotting my next score.

At the Utah Half, there wasn't much of a rush in signing up. Even less in prepping. Doubt and self-loathing combined with heat exhaustion and dehydration led me to utter those words, "Never again Swanney. I'm off the skag." And I meant it. It sure felt like the bottom. Only time will tell if I'm on the road to recovery or whether that the Utah Half was just a bad trip.

UtaHalf Race Report

Long posts can be tedious to read. This is going to be a long post, but one that I think may be worth reading. So, for your convenience, I've condensed it down a short version.

The short version:
-The organization was severly lacking.
-It's sheer stupidity for me to do long races in the middle of the summer.
-Triathletes can't seem to ride a straight line, but non-race racing roadies (I'm talking about the ULCER here) have are color-blind to yellow.
While this may not look like the short version, I assure you it is. I was out there for a long time.

Pre-Race
Three hours of fitful sleep didn't quite refresh me like I hoped when 4:40 rolled around. I got up, went through my race-day routine and arrived at Utah Lake State Park nearly on schedule. The line of cars queued up at the entrance to the Utah Lake State Park was an ominous sign of things to come . You see, the organizers were collecting a parking fee and figured that instead of using the two lanes already there, they'd block off one lane. Nothing like sitting in line in your car at 5:30 a.m.

Fortunately, the poor organization was spaced through-out the day. Upon arriving at the race venue, I thought I knew the swim was going to be one-lap, the bike course headed to west mountain and included four aid stations, and the run included part of the road around the airport and as well as the river trail.

It turns out the organizers decided on a two lap course that morning. Confusion abounded as race time approached and no one really knew where we were going. I don't know how they measured the course initially, but even they admitted afterwards that it was too long. The problem for me is that I have a hard time judging distances in open water and so count on the race organizers to have the distances measured correctly. Seeing how long it took me to do the swim, I started the bike even more discouraged than normal.

As I made my way through the bike leg, I was nearly hit by a car in a roundabout by the Provo Town Center. The driver was looking to see if anything was headed into the roundabout while failing to look to see if there was anything already in the roundabout. I shouted to get her attention, to which she honked and yelled. I responded with a full version of a TLA (three-letter acronym, courtesy of Jon). It's one of the TLA's that the youngsters are fond of texting. And it wasn't LOL or OMG.

A slight headwind slowed me as I made my way toward Lake Shore. I've ridden that road enough times to know that given the time of day, it'd probably be a head-wind on the way back as well. I was making good time and at around mile 14 I started looking for the first aid station. Nothing. You see, instead of four aid stations on the bike, the organizers decided on one instead. Unfortunately for me, I set up the water bottles on my bike on a four aid station strategy as I count on organizers to have the course according to the information they publish on their website the week of the event. I know, foolish on my part.

I noticed two things as I limped into the only aid station. One is that triathletes do a masterful job of drafting in races, but can't seem to stay off others' wheels in group rides. Tight groups of five or six in full aero tucks made their way past me on their way back. Maybe I'm just weird, but I wouldn't consider a time to be worth anything if I'd cheated to get it.

The other thing I noticed is that century riders are color blind to yellow. The ULCER and the UtaHalf shared the same route, so excitable types in Rock Racing jerseys started coming the other direction as I headed back from the turn. Three or four of these guys in every group would be riding on the wrong side of the yellow line. This wouldn't have been a big deal if the roads were closed, but they weren't. As a result, several cars swinging wide of these guys pushed me into the gravel on my side of the road.

On the way back, one of my two water bottles rattled out at a cattle guard and spilled onto the road. One water bottle wasn't enough as I made my way from Lakeshore with another head wind. As a result, when I started the run, I was already getting dehydrated. Good thing on the run there were eight aid stations and the shade to look forward to. The run did have some shade and there were eight aid stations. On most out and back legs of more than a mile, there's usually an aid station at the turn around where volunteers are making sure you run the whole leg. The problem was that a three mile stretch of the run headed through a festering swamp with very little shade. And no aid station. The pavement simply ended and a spray-painted u-turn sign on the pavement told you to turn around. With that, my dehydration was complete and I spent much of the rest of the day walking while trying to rehydrate. At some points, I'd get enough fluid in to start to well enough to run again, but those were short lived. It was a long day that may have cured me of the long course. I'll save that discussion for another post.

PDX '02, Part I of N

Those who know me at all also know, or at least have heard me speak about, a few people. I met B the winter semester after I married Cindy through a mutual friend. In short order, we were fast friends. We studied together through undergrad as well as law school, and then worked together at the same law firm for three years. As such, B is one of my oldest friends that I didn't grow up with.

Between our 2L and 3L years, both of our wives were pregnant. We were each relying on their respective insurance plans from their jobs. We each ended up getting jobs in the Portland area. So, we decided to leave the wives at home to take maintain insurance coverage while we headed to Oregon where we would share an apartment.

B had a truck, so we rented a U-Haul for him to haul most of our stuff. I loaded 5 bikes on the top of my sweet 96 Subaru Loyale and headed for Oregon. Why so many bikes? I needed a road bike, a mountain bike, and a bike to commute in to downtown PDX. More on my commuter in a subsequent post.

If you've been across eastern Oregon, you know it can be pretty bleak. We were making our way through the hills near Baker when the front end of my car suddenly resembled a guyser. The temperature gauge confirmed the obvious as the needle was almost instantly in the red. We pulled over to assess the situation. As I opened the hood, the remaining liquid in the radiator spilled out on the ground. Water drawn from a nearby stream similarly drained immediately out of the radiator. Upon closer inspection, we realized that the axle that supports one of the fans had broken loose and made its way through the radiator. No big deal, I'll call a tow truck and get it fixed in Baker. The problem was there was no cell service. What to do? We needed to get to PDX in time to move in the apartment so we could be to work the next day.

So, we had a broken car, no cell coverage, and we needed to keep moving. As the saying goes, necessity is the mother of invention. I'm not so proud of our 'invention'. B had a tow rope but nothing to fix it to on the trailer. So, we threaded the tow rope through the door latch on the trailer and pinned it in place with a tent stake. We made our way toward Baker with the truck towing the trailer and the trailer towing me. We kept this makeshift train moving all the way to Pendleton.

On the way to Pendleton, it all started to go wrong. You see, there's a massive descent on the way into town. Any number of warning signs tell you of the curvy, long, steep descent. The trailer provided the perfect draft. That was great on the flats, but it made for an interesting descent into Pendleton.

B did his best to keep his speed up, but there were a lot of vehicles going slowly down the hill, which made for lots of breaking. The brakes heated up quickly and started to smoke. They continued to smoke until I wore through the pads and the calipers were pushing on the rotors. It turns out calipers don't work so well. Unfortunately, we weren't even close to the bottom. What to do? Only one option, the clutch. So, I got braked with the clutch as much as I could. Finally, we made it into Pendleton, my nerves frazzled. The final damage? The clutch drove the engine at high enough rpms to burn up the alternator. And not surprisingly, the clutch wasn't doing very well either. So, we packed everything as best we could into B's truck and the trailer, pulled the radio and plates from the car, and left it in a junky part of Pendleton, and made our way to Portland.

Illustrative Example of Why Triathletes Suck

This weekend we packed the little ones and all our geek gear and headed to Burley, Idaho for the Spudman. My wife is from Burley and this race has been an annual tradition since long before triathlon was cool. This year there were ten of us affiliated with the Christenson-brand racing.

Prudently, they put the fat kids in the last wave so we're out of everyone's way. I entered the water an hour after the first wave and waited for the gun. Once the announcer gave the 30 seconds to go countdown, my adrenaline spiked and I was ready to go. Only to be pulled back. Seconds of waiting turned into a couple of minutes before they pulled us all to the side. More and more minutes passed and I finally climbed out onto the docks.

During this time, the announcer's incomplete description of the situation downstream fed speculation and rumor. After a few more minutes or relief-society style gossiping the race director called us all together. A man had been seen by some others in his wave to yell for help and then had slipped under the water. It had been nearly 10 minutes and it was clear that the rescue effort had now switched to one of body recovery. As the recovery effort continued, the race director told us all to head to T1 as the swim was cancelled. As the crowd walked by the river near where the boats were doing the search, we were called back to the start line as the body had been recovered.

Immediately, the race director started getting heat to restart the race. That wasn't a typo. People immediately began pressuring him to allow them to swim past the same spot where literally seconds earlier Donald Morehouse's body was pulled from the river. His now widow was actually waiting for him at T1 and broke down at the news that circulated that they found him and he didn't make it.

I stood there in disbelief at these people, who made up about 1/3 to 1/2 of the crowd. They shouted, "It's not fair, we trained for this." "If you're going to cancel the swim, I want my money back." Seriously. My wife noted that the problem with triathletes is that their focus makes them selfish. That's why they can't go on a ride for fun or have fun on a ride that also doubles as training. Nothing is more important than the next race. Unfortunately, I saw the limits of how far that thought extends - for those sorry bastards, nothing is more important.

The Funniest Thing I've Read So Far in July

The word smithing in this post is beautiful. For those of you who don't know him (I've only met him once), this is Dug's brother-in-law Sleepy.