Race Time Awaits

Bike is cleaned.  Bags are packed.  Race packet is picked.  Stickers and bibs affixed. Carbs eaten.

Race time awaits.

What else is there to say, really?

I am ready.  I want to crush the course tomorrow.  My parents are coming.  Steph will be there too.  I want to end the race portion of my long season with a real bang.  I want to hit 2:25 at the finish.

I am going to do everything I can to meet that goal.  (Without accruing penalties!)  I am going to race hard tomorrow.  Very hard.

I am going to look the way I did at the end of the Santa Barbara Triathlon, pictured below.

Spent. Exhausted. Relieved.

I am going to make my third Nautica Malibu Triathlon my best.

What else is there to say, really?

70 days and counting.

Magazine Writin'

Tonight's regularly scheduled blog will not be seen, though the results of not blogging tonight will be see soon enough. I just knocked out 700 words for the Lava (triathlon) magazine website piece I'm writing.  After some fact-checking, I'll be submitting it to the editor tomorrow.

Magazine writing and blogging different in that the former requires a little more emotional distance than the latter.  However, given the subject matter (can blogs aid a triathlete's performance?), I think I was able to combine the intimacy of blogging with the journalistic integrity that comes with quoting other people.

Ultimately, you'll be the judge!

Now, it's off to Simi Valley, where we need to pick up a back-up mobile that I'll be driving until Steph's car is fixed.  Joy.  I've got 17.5 hours of training this week, with two days of cycling back-to-back.  Not sure how I'm going to do that just yet.  Perhaps it's back to Balboa Park and braving the morning rush hour traffic gauntlet.  That's like cycling Frogger.

Gotta jet.

83 days and counting.

The Only Choice

I grew up going to two schools, public and Torah. At the latter, we'd discuss Judaic teachings, of course, but we'd also cover more general moral lessons too.  One always stood out to me.  This is the scenario: You're at the beach. You spot a random stranger drowning in the surf.  Nearby, your favorite pet dog is swept up in the tide and current as well.  You can't save both.  Pick one.  There is a right answer.

As a child, this was a true dilemma.  Your pet is a family member, right?  But really, it's obvious now which one you should save, I hope.

Now what the hell does this have to do with triathlon?

I found out today during the bike portion of the Santa Barbara Triathlon long course, metaphorically speaking.  After an intense, choppy and frigid swim, I found myself struggling up the first several miles worth of climbing on the bike.  Until mercifully, I reached the top to begin a fairly steep, technical descent filled with switchback turns.  It's the kind of descent that sneaks up on you in a race because the first few miles on the bike are usually spent recovering from the swim, and then the focus turns to keeping the heart-rate in check on the climbing.  It's easy to fall into a hypnotic mental and physical rhythm because doing so dampens the pain in your quads, neck, shoulders and lower back.  The challenge becomes balancing relaxing on the downhills while remembering how dangerous they are.

Unfortunately, I saw just how dangerous they were firsthand.  As I began to rocket downward, I realized I was carrying too much speed around the right corner heading into El Toro Canyon.  I squeezed the brakes...hard.  Flashbacks of my Santa Susana Pass crash in 2009 raced through my head.  They helped me avoid panicking though as I looked through the turn, composed myself and corrected while staying on the right side of the road.  But someone was riding behind me closer than they should have as I crushed the brakes.  The cyclist consequently veered around my left-side, forcing him farther out beyond the double-yellow lines on the turn.

Things went real bad from there.  His back wheel wobbled and skidded on loose dirt and leaves. He tried to correct the skid, lost control, and slammed down on his left side, hurtling down the street on his shoulder, legs and back.

I keep playing in my mind the grimace on his face as he slid down the street.  I can see the whites of his teeth and wince in his closed eyes.

The sad part is I kept pedaling for a moment, choosing between competition and compassion.

It's not really a choice.  Compassion quickly won out -- but not without a brief internal struggle.  I work hard to arrive at race day ready to do my best, and once the starting gun goes off, that's my reward for all the hours spent training and preparing.  It's my time to shine and see how I stack up with the best!  Still, what kind of man would I be had I kept pedaling, even finishing with a personal best?  That's something I would have regretted quite possibly for the rest of my life.

Thankfully, I won't have to put myself through that kind of self-torture.  After the accident, I slowed, pulled over safely several feet downhill, turned around and rode back up the incline to check on the rider.  He was standing, hands clutched on knees, waving me off.  "I'm alright, get back to your race.  I'm OK," he said.

I shouldn't have listened.  The impact sounded horrendous and looked even worse.  But, the man told me he was fine.  I asked him if he was absolutely sure and if he was going to try and continue. He said yes to both.

I solemnly turned downhill and resumed my race.

I later found out the cyclist needed an ambulance and was placed on a flatboard.

On one hand, I know I did the right thing by stopping.  On the other hand, I didn't do enough by neglecting to stay with him until medical attention arrived.  I knew better.

However, I would have done exactly the same thing as the downed rider.  I wouldn't want someone else's race ruined because of my crash.

I keep telling myself that.

Maybe I need to go back to Torah school.

84 days and counting.

Forging Ahead

Somewhere in the middle of my 9.5-mile Nike/Westridge trail run this morning -- between the 20-degree temperature climb, running past a mountain biker with a parrot on his shoulder, narrowly escaping multiple bee stings from a small hive clustered at a rest stop drinking fountain, and inadvertently insulting two Ironman women triathletes -- I had a vision. I was tired, hot, sore and running low on water.  I already thought I had hallucinated considering a magnificent red parrot squawked at me on a descent. (I'm pretty sure he said, "Too slow!")  So, having a vision as heat waves undulated from the dusty gravel seemed totally normal.

There, at my weakest point, at the end of what would become a 16.5-hour training week, I physically felt myself becoming stronger.  I felt like a piece of iron being forged into something powerful. Pounded.  Blasted.  Shaped.  Hot.  I pictured one of those movie scenes where the angry hero descends into his weapons lair and creates his signature weapon.

Only in this vision, I was the weapon.

I realize I sound more like Leonard from Full Metal Jacket than William Wallace from Braveheart.  And I don't really care.

After this weekend, I'm harder.  Stronger.  Tougher.  Better.

I'm rounding into Ironman form.  I can feel it.

I had ridden 101 miles on Saturday at an 18 mph pace, with 4,000 feet of total climbing.  It was only my second century ride I've ever done.  I felt superhuman throughout the day.  Nothing could slow me down and I never really tired out.  The highlight was a pace line with three other cyclists on the final five miles where I averaged around 23-24 mph.  The guys complimented me after, thanking me for pulling them and telling me I made their wives happy because they'd return home to their families ahead of schedule.

I've never been complimented on my cycling before, especially by strangers who were no slouches themselves.  I'm always struggling to keep up with other LA Tri Club or Fortius members whom I deem better.  To be acknowledged for my own skill was refreshing.  Special.  That alone probably fueled my three-mile "recovery" run off the bike. I've never done that before either.

And just one year ago, there's absolutely no way I would have been able to run 9.5 miles the day after a century.  In fact, last year I bonked on the last 25 miles and Frank had to essentially tow me into port.

What a difference a year makes.

Sure, this morning's run was slow and stiff.  But I did it.  I survived what turned out to be 93-degree heat and kept my heart-rate in zone 3 at the highest.  That was a huge moral victory for me. I proved to myself I could bounce back the next day after a tough workout.  In the heat -- without overheating.

I didn't technically race this weekend, but mentally, it feels like I did.  Something changed in me.

During my ill-fated Ironman conversation with the two women this morning -- ill-fated because I made a joking comment about people with "140.6" stickers on their car, which they both have! -- one of them remarked that their Ironman training was harder than the race itself.  If that's the case, this weekend helped prove her point.

Yet I have three full months of training as of yesterday.

I want more training!

90 days and counting.

100 Days & Counting

I can't believe it. Starting tomorrow, I will have crossed into a double-digits countdown until Ironman Arizona.  Nevermind that there's currently no place to swim for the event.  We won't concern ourselves with that trivial detail for the time being.

I've written approximately 230 blog posts to date on the Ironmadman website (plus dozens of other posts on the Blogspot site).  Each one trying to capture some nugget, some detail about my training that I can internalize for the future.  A mental file folder I can click open in my brain when I need it during a race.  When I pause to think about all those file folders I've accumulated during this now 10-month Ironman journey that began last fall, I recall one sentence that Coach Gerardo spoke very early into my training.

"By the time you get to your Ironman, you won't recognize yourself."

He's right, both physically and mentally.

Physically, I've lost close to 10 pounds (from where???). I have muscular definition for the first time in my life.  I can see what vaguely appears to be a six pack on my abs.  I can see the little veins on my biceps that I had wished showed up in high school.  For the longest time, I didn't even think I had veins there!  Like maybe I was a reverse genetic defect.  My quads are getting so big that certain pairs of pants are starting not to fit because my legs have no room to breathe.  Believe it or not, that used to be how my waistline felt when trying to squeeze into a pair of Diesels that Stephanie bought for me.  Now I can wear them without a belt.

Mentally, I've changed even more.  I've learned that toughness comes from within, not from how long I might last in a martial arts studio sparring session -- as was the case with my prior passion. I've also learned that my personality is uniquely suited for triathlon.  The sport rewards tenaciousness.  Grit.  Hard-work. Sacrifice.  Guile.  G-d given talent alone doesn't propel the best triathletes to the podium.  While innate skill certainly helps, in my opinion it's a triathlete's sense of will and want that determines wins on race day.

I won't necessarily be faster than the competition, but I can outwork them.  I can out-grind them.  I can out-will them.

Of course, this is my big-picture assessment so far.  I've got a lot more training to go.  Zooming back in to the past 100 days, here are my top 10 lessons learned.

1) Pain is on a sliding scale relative to rest, recovery and nutrition.

Pain can be managed and mitigated.  It can be compartmentalized too, but it requires training just like speed workouts at the track or five-hour marathon rides in the Malibu hills.  There are triggers for pain that can be neutralized with proper training as well.  That's where rest, recovery and nutrition come in.  I've definitely performed better when I have between 7-8 hours sleep over a few days, when I've been able to stretch in the morning and at night, and when I'm not eating fast food (which is rare now) or over-eating in general.

2) Know when to push and when to hold back.

This is critical for intensive training.  You can't go at Mach 5 every workout.  I've had to learn to prioritize.  For example, last night I ran with less intensity during the run portion of the Griffith Park brick knowing I had a 6 a.m. swim workout today and what would be a grueling speed session at the track (5x800s at 10k pace, one mile at 6:00 pace).  I didn't hit all my goals during this evening's track session, but I had enough energy to finish strong.  I've also learned when to push within workouts, whether it's that one hill I'm trying to climb faster than last week or saving myself for the inevitable timed 100 during the swim workout.  Practice pacing translates to proper race pacing.

3) Hard training pays off on race day.

While I've learned to pace myself better during training, I'm still going pretty hard every session.  I know I'll only get out of my workouts what I put into them.  So I generally put in everything I have.  What this has allowed me to do is find that extra reservoir of strength and power come race day.  I know what exhaustion feels like.   I know what my body can handle.  And I know when I can dig to find that precious extra energy at just the right moment when I need it most.  This has propelled me to strong finishes at Breath of Life and Wildflower, not to mention surviving the final three miles at the Vineman 70.3.

4) So does having the right equipment.

Of course, this past 100 days have been highlighted by the addition of my Charlie, my Cervelo P2 tri bike. Combined with the Bontrager/Hed Aeolus 5 race wheels, I've picked up about 2 mph on the bike.  As the great Ferris Bueller once said: "It is so choice.  If you have the means, I highly suggest picking one up." He was talking about a Ferrari, but you get the point.

5) In swimming, competitive fire can replace form when it comes to gaining speed.

Some swimmers are graceful and fast.  Others, like me, are ugly to watch.  When I'm sprinting, I'm splashing.  Flailing.  But I'm also hauling ass.  It may not be pretty to watch, but if I'm pitted against someone in a 50-yard sprint, I like my chances to win.  I simply hate losing, and I've learned through the Fortius-coached workouts that I'll do damn near anything to avoid it.  I treat every practice race like a real one, and honestly I think it translates when the real starting gun goes off.

6) I need to find a way to generate more income to help pay for this sport!

I recently got a credit card bill that dropped my jaw and bugged my eyes out.  I was reminded how expensive this sport can be, and that with a wedding coming up I really need to be more careful about which events I participate in, where are they located and whether I truly need that next "must-have" piece of equipment (current obsession is a power meter).

My solution: Returning to freelance writing.  For triathlon only.  So, if you know of any magazine, newsletter or blog site looking for experienced writers, please let me know!

7) 70.3 doesn’t feel that different than an Olympic tri if you train right...

With the exception of some dehydration issues, completing my first Half Ironman didn't feel that different from completing my first Olympic triathlon.  If you follow a training plan for a prescribed distance, that volume of work and effort should bring you to the finish line.  Now I won't say you'll get there pain-free, but with the right regimen it is a lot easier than you think.  Dedication and commitment can make all the difference.

8 ) ...Which is why having a coach makes a huge difference.

That said, my first Olympic triathlon was a solo effort.  I had no coach, no plan, and ultimately no clue.  I overate and drank on the bike and cramped on the run, finishing in three hours on the dot.  Now that I'm part of a coached team, I've never cramped in a race (knocks on couch) while knocking off more than 30 minutes from my Olympic triathlon PR.  Yesterday I detailed why coached swim workouts are so beneficial.  Multiply that times the bike and run, along with the intangibles associated with the camaraderie and it's easy to see why I'm feeling so good about my health and life outlook.

9) Supplements: Proceed at your own risk.

I tried beta alanine over the past few weeks and while I can feel the benefits during a workout (increased energy), I also have experienced negative side effects that affected my sleep patterns.  However, before I ingested my first beta alanine pill, I did research on it.  And made sure it wasn't an illegal performance enhancer (it's not).  I hope you'll do the same for any nutritional aid.  And don't just assume that because it works for your buddy, it'll work for you too.  Every body is different.  Every metabolism works differently.

10) Be a fan.

It's shocking to me that the biggest lesson I learned from my training the past 100 days came while watching other people race.  My experience at Vineman Full was so eye-opening.  It felt just as good as to cheer on others as it did to race myself.  I enjoyed witnessing the purity of the sport at its finest without worrying about all the anxiety associated with negative splits, quick transition times and proper pacing.  I will remember watching Rusty and my other friends finish their first 140.6 event much more than I'll recall most of the individual workouts I've logged the past few months. If you haven't supported someone by attending their race, DO IT.  Even if you're not a fan of the sport, I bet the life stories in motion will make you reassess your own goals and priorities.

I'd say the last 100 days have been quite fruitful.  In feeling stronger, I feel wiser.

In the next 100 days, I may or may not become an Ironman officially -- depending on the water situation in Tempe.  But no matter what, I feel like I've developed an Ironman mentality that will carry me through the rest of my days.

I can't believe I still have another 100 days to go though!

I wonder what's beyond the horizon.

100 days and counting

From Tin to Steel Man Part III: Post-Race Vacation

Every romantic holiday should start by shotgunning beers. At least mine did!  Stephanie and I celebrated our Half-Ironman achievements with my Fortius teammates at a friend's home in Santa Rosa.  I knew it would be a raucous time when Mike sent me a text message, "We gonna shotgun beers!"

Uh, OK.  Actually, I think I texted back, "Fuck."

I hadn't shotgunned a beer since college, back when I was known as "Twiggy" and "Two Beer."

After 70.3 total miles in nearly 90-degree heat, I knew I'd be "One Beer."

We all laughed, drank (fairly heavily), traded race-day stories and ate a ton of carbs -- all with the Tour de France playing in the background.  It was this triathlon dork's dream party.

So began what has turned out to be a decadent week off from training, which I've enjoyed as thoroughly as the race itself.  So far in this racing odyssey, I've really yet to take adequate time to savor a race experience to the fullest.  I'm usually analyzing (and re-analyzing) every detail, immediately writing the blog, planning the next race and comparing notes with my fellow competitors.

For once this season, I decided to fully unplug and do what's most important: celebrate with my fiancee.  No Facebook (well, a little).  No Twitter.  No blog.  Just Steph and me.  Roadtrip companions.  Riding down PCH, no hotel reservations, no destination in particular, no plans.

No problem!

I've probably written about this before, but triathlon is a selfish pursuit.  It requires a lot of dedication and discipline, often coming at the expense of friendly social outings with mates and family.  That can pose problems in a relationship, especially if the other person isn't a triathlete.  That's why I've tried to ensure that Steph knows  that even though I'm doing the actual racing, she's my real race companion.  The person who makes my motor run.  The inspiration that makes me go just a little faster.

When I compete, I refer to us as Team Schneider.  And I really mean it.  But if that's the case, then WE need to celebrate better.  And that's what we did Sunday, Monday and Tuesday.

On Monday, we drove the Vineman 70.3 bike course so I could show Steph the route's beauty. Of course, that meant showing her several charming wineries that nearly led to impromptu wedding venue visits.

Annnnnnd we're moving right along. ... I sped up a little more at those intersections!

We had a good time talking about the key moments in the bike race and where exactly they occurred. I think it helped Steph visualize more of the experience since she could only see me during brief transitory moments.  We then took River Road past Guerneville all the way to Bodega Bay, stopping whenever the thought struck us for photo opps, an oyster shucking lesson and eventually a gigantic burger in Point Reyes further down on PCH.  Did you know Sir Francis Drake visited North America in 1579?  Yeah, neither did I.  Apparently he stopped in the Point Reyes area, maybe because the burger was just that damn good.

We eventually snaked our way on Highway 1 past Mount Tamalpais, through Saulsalito, past the Golden Gate bridge (hiding behind the clouds) and through the western most part of San Francisco.  By then it was close to 7 p.m. and we realized our plan of reaching Big Sur by sunset was going to fail.  But this turned into a big win since we had been trying unsuccessfully to visit with Steph's best friend Annie the entire weekend.  We shifted course to Annie and David's apartment in Los Gatos and enjoyed a late-night feast.

Tuesday was largely uneventful as we leisurely drove home from Annie's.  The key words are leisurely and uneventful.  Both my life and Steph's are so heavily scheduled that the notion of "free" time for either of us is almost unheard of.  This vacation was special not because of what we did, but what we didn't do.  We didn't rush from activity to activity, or plan around my training.  Of course, we did touch down at home around 4 p.m. only to leave a few hours later to enjoy another feast -- this time in Santa Monica -- with our good friends Erika and Adam.  (If you haven't eaten at Rustic Canyon, I'd recommend it. Though I'd avoid the pork chop unless you like it on the drier side.  The corn soup, crispy polenta, lamb meatballs and assortment of desserts more than compensate.)

We got home around 10:30 p.m. Team Schneider's whirlwind five-day Half-Ironman had crossed the finish line.  Much like how I looked at the end of the race, that's how I felt by the time the long weekend was over.  Gloriously spent.  We left nothing in the proverbial fuel tank.

To all my friends racing Vineman Full: I hope you will celebrate as hard as you trained.  I hope you hug or kiss the people in your life whom also sacrificed to help you reach your goals.  I hope you let them know how much it means to them when you see them screaming for you at every transition -- knowing they're really waiting several hours at a time just to catch a glimpse of you.

We couldn't do any of this without our race partners.  I can't do it without mine.

And I'm happy -- almost happy beyond words -- that I don't have to.

I may be signing off for a couple days.  If something comes up worth writing about during my time off, I will blog. If not, I'd like to spend more time with my friends and family before I dive back into the deep end of Ironman training.  I know what's in store for the next four months.

121 days and counting.

Ryan's "Bad Boys" Episode

I'm almost afraid to set foot outside my condo this morning, for I have no idea what may lie in store. On Saturday, Stephanie and I experienced what we're referring to as "Weirdest Day Ever."  (This played off what we had called "Best Day Ever" about a year ago on a fantastic date.)

Last night, I nearly experienced "Longest Day Ever" courtesy of the Los Angeles Police Department.

Saturday's drama featured a horror movie plotline as the backdrop.  Yesterday's drama would have been the perfect "Curb Your Enthusiasm" episode.  And it all happened because I was trying to be a nice guy.

The fun started around 6:30 p.m. in the Carl's Jr. parking lot at the intersection of Santa Monica Blvd. and La Brea. I had left work early for two reasons.  First, my cell phone officially died during my brick workout on Monday.  Rest in Peace, oh hard-working Blackberry Pearl.  I'll never forget all the good times we shared.  Second, I was invited to attend a first cut movie screening with a production company at The Lot just off Santa Monica Blvd.

As is so often the case, I was foraging for food before the movie screening when I decided to settle upon Carl's Jr.  The food court across the street would be too complicated to navigate quickly to leave in time for the movie screening.  I ordered a chicken teriyaki sandwich and parked in the lot to scarf it down while reading a Sports Illustrated issue I just bought while purchasing my temporary replacement phone (a no-contract Nokia while my iPhone 4 is on reservation).

Just as I was finishing dinner (if you can call it that), a scruffy-looking man came over and asked me if I could spare any money for food.  Considering I was finishing my meal, the sky was shining, I was in a good mood with some time to kill -- and because I generally do give to those less fortunate when asked -- I provided some cash.

Now is a good moment to acknowledge that  many friends and I are split on this topic.  I know several generous folks who refuse to give money to those on the street.  I completely understand both sides.  My perspective is that it's "just" money and if I am so calloused as not to offer at least a dollar to someone -- regardless of how they use it -- then I've lost a part of my own soul.  My own sense of kindness and compassion.  I imagine what it would be like for me to have to ask someone else for enough change to buy a meal, and that thought alone is usually enough to open my wallet.  It is not my place to play G-d and tell people how to spend their money.  But if I can offer a moment of kindness that doesn't hurt me in the long run, I'm more than OK with that.

Of course,  I nearly had to tell that to the jail warden.

No sooner had I given the man money and started to back out of the parking lot then an LAPD squad car burst into the lot seemingly from nowhere and slammed its brakes directly behind my car.

And when I say "my" car...I mean my dad's car.

Try telling a cop who's pulling you over for what looks like a drug buy that, by the way, this isn't my car.  It's my dad's!

LAPD: "Put up your hands!"

RS: "Why?!  I didn't do anything wrong!"

LAPD: "Get out of the car immediately!  Keep your hand where I can see them!"

RS: "But I didn't do anything!"

LAPD: "Get out of the car NOW!"

I got out of the car.

I still have no idea why I'm being pulled over.

RS: "I gave the guy $5 cash!  That's it!"

LAPD: "Yeah, right.  Gimmee your license."

Meanwhile, I've got one cop with his hand on his gun staring at me while the other checks my record.

It's at this point that I realize A) I have an outstanding ticket that I need to pay. B) I'm being fingered for a drug buy, but am not totally sure. C) I'm not driving my own car.  D) My cell phone is dead -- so if I do get arrested I can't even make a call from my own phone.

Cue "Curb Your Enthusiasm" music.  All over feeling generous and giving a shady-looking dude $5 to get a cheeseburger.

As my record was being checked, I truly thought I had a very good chance to be arrested on suspicion of making a drug buy. I admittedly started to panic because the silent cop next to me wouldn't respond to any of my comments or questions.

RS: "Sir, you can search any part of me and my car.  I have no drugs, if that's what this is about."

RS: "Sir, will you at least tell your partner that the car is registered in my father Mitchell J Schneider's name?"

RS (exasperated): "Look!  I'm a triathlete for G-d's sake...I don't do any drugs!!!"

(Yes, I really said that.)

Finally, the record-checking cop -- the meaner of the two who stood almost two inches shorter than me if that's even possible -- told me I was free to go.  But before doing so, did I understand why I was pulled over?

Of course I did.  But Officer Mean further explained that the Santa Monica/La Brea intersection in particular was notorious for drug activity, and it looked incredibly suspicious for someone to hand something to a homeless guy and quickly pull away from the lot.  I agreed.  Then, Officer Mean told me I "was a better man than he was" for giving anybody anything, as he tells those guys to "pound sand" whenever they get close.

I understand his perspective and think it's equally valid.  In fact, I'm far more tempted to avoid giving money now -- which is sad.  It annoyed me that the person to whom I gave the money didn't even bother to leave the restaurant for just a moment to explain I had simply paid for a meal on his behalf.  I scratch your back, you scratch mine, right?  Wrong!  Of course, I'm not so naive to think the solicitor was completely clean.  Still, he left me hanging, and that situation could have ended a lot worse than it did.

Despite all that, I'm not sure this experience will deter me entirely from sparing some change.  I'd prefer to continue assuming that people are good until proven otherwise.  Shutting myself off to helping others because of one bad episode that lasted no more than 15 minutes doesn't feel right.

Just  please be ready to accept any and all phone calls I may be making to you.  They may be coming from a jail cell! (If my phone is even working.)

136 days and counting.

PS: Yesterday's events completely obscured the real big news of the day: I signed up for Ironman Coeur d'Alene in June 2011!  I'll write more about that later tonight or tomorrow.

A Most Bizarre Wedding Adventure

We have narrowed our wedding destinations down to three. How we arrived at that decision is a story all its own.

As I eluded to in yesterday's brief post, it's quite the story.  Twenty-four hours later, it feels just as surreal. Stephanie and I started the morning late for our 11 a.m. appointment at Acacia Mansion, in Ojai.  The drive leading into Ojai was pretty enough, though it brought back many memories of being dragged to Camp Ramah in the hills as a kid (that's another story for another time).  As we got closer to Acacia, Steph remarked how the wedding directions on our invitations would require us to use a beat-up and rundown muffler shop and a sanitation plant as landmarks.  We had no idea how accurate these omens would be.

We actually passed the "mansion" without realizing it.  Acacia was on a small nondescript street filled with unassuming houses and a corner liquor store.  We looked at each other with incredulous expressions as we pulled up to the "mansion."  It was just larger than the other homes on the street.  Roosters crowed in the distance.

Acacia Mansion was the depiction of false advertising.  The photos, as you can see from this link, make the venue seem like a Santa Barbara villa.  What wasn't advertised was the fact that Acacia doubled as someone's home.  Or that the insides looked more suited for a Halloween party, complete with a creepy player piano that ought to have belched its haunting tunes at the Magic Castle alongside Irma. Or that rooster and dog crap were splattered all over the patio, along with the stench of horses on the side barn.

This is why the internet needs Smell-O-Vision.

In short, we couldn't have gotten out of there faster, though we were polite to the owner and listened to her spiel.

I think I left skidmarks on that street from peeling out to get back on the road. Our destination salvaged our time in Ojai altogether: The Ojai Valley Inn.  But it wasn't the destination itself that made this visit memorable.  Not even close.

It was the fact that we ran into not one, but two couples with whom I've worked for or with over the past several years.

We were in Ojai.  Bascially 1.5 hours from civilization.  On the back of a Cadillac golf cart (yes, you read that right).  On a tour of the wedding venue, when off the back of the cart I spotted my friends Jason and Jennifer (who were so instrumental in my LA Marathon rallying run), and then at the very end of the venue site check, my old boss at BNC, Doug, and his longtime girlfriend Tracy.  In both instances, we spotted our friends just as they were either emerging from the spa or their car.  It honestly changed my perception of the venue completely.  I've never wanted to be married at a conventional golf or country club.  I'm not really a country club kind of guy, to be honest.  But, these folks are good people whom I look up to, and Jason and Jen were in fact engaged and married at the Inn.  We changed our plans to dine with Jason and Jen, listened to their wedding experience, enjoyed the cool breeze and completely pictured ourselves being married under the shade of a giant oak tree.

The Ojai Valley Inn is now one of our three finalists, all because of two bizarre, random encounters.

By now we were almost an hour late to our appointments in Los Olivos.  To make up time, we shot across Highway 150 and caught some stunning views of Lake Casitas.  I made a mental note to return here with my bike one day. Climbing and descending the picturesque hills would make for a fantastic ride.

With the windows down in my dad's borrowed 1981 Corvette Stingray T-top, we raced through Highway 154 and past Lake Cachuma towards our next destination, Figueroa Mountain Farmhouse.  To say that Figueroa Mountain Farmhouse is nestled in the Los Padres wildnerness would be a MASSIVE understatement.  In fact, what transpired getting to and from the farmhouse -- not to mention the visit itself -- had all the makings of a horror movie.

Judge for yourself.

A wildly in-love couple searching for wedding venues is charmed by the promises of a beautiful, rustic wedding off the beaten path.  The "farmhouse" as it's called lies beyond the outskirts of a small, charming time filled with all the trappings of Americana -- especially on July 4 weekend.  To reach the destination, the couple passes a bizarre sight all its own -- Michael Jackson's former Neverland Ranch, and remarks unknowingly how creepy it felt just to be in the same neighborhood.

That would be the most normal part of the next hour.

The road to the farmhouse began to wind up a mountain road that quickly became devoid of any other vehicles except for construction tankers.  Gretchen, the friendly host of the farmhouse, instructed the couple to just keep driving for another 20 minutes up this road until we found a side road with a mailbox and an address.

Okayyyyy...

When the couple comes to the side road, it's not paved and filled with gravel.  The descent is at a 15-degree angle. The couple is driving a sports car, but decides to brave the elements.

How far could the farmhouse be from here?

Very, very far, is the answer.

The 'Vette performed as admirably as it could.  Until an 8-percent grade stood in the way between the couple and the farmhouse.  The car groaned and whined.  The temperature gauge rose.  It was time to shut off the engine or be stranded.

The couple is now frazzled.  Where the hell are we?  Why are we here?  Haven't we seen enough wedding venues at this point?  How are we going to get out of here?

And then it hit the couple...we may be fodder for a death trap.  Maybe the farmhouse is a clever rouse to bring young lovers out into the wilderness -- where nobody can hear them scream.  This greatly displeased the female.  The male was more concerned about his father's 'Vette -- knowing that if the farmhouse didn't kill him, Mitch most certainly would.

Gretchen arrived in her Land Rover to rescue us. She reminded me -- err, the leading male -- of Rebecca de Mornay.  Yeah, the one from The Hand that Rocks the Cradle.  She seemed to be a pure-bred Scandinavian, and far too alluring to be the caretaker of a rustic farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.  It didn't add up.  The crystal blue eyes were innocent enough, but the devilish grin offset Steph to the point where she didn't want to be in any confined space with the caretaker.

The blunt metal objects hanging in the kitchen inside the farmhouse didn't help.  Nor did the comment from the caretaker that she often desired to project images from horror movies out onto the trees in the looming distance at night while guests were on site.

To be fair, this was also the point where I fully expected a Blair Witch Project sequence to occur as the doors bolt shut, Steph and I get separated, and full-on carnage ensued.

This was also the point where I decided that we were officially done wedding venue shopping.

Stephanie and I eventually fled from the farmhouse, not even waiting for Gretchen to guide us off the dirt road in case we had car trouble.

G-d bless that 'Vette.  In the movie, the car would stall, we'd be forced to stay overnight, and the search parties would still be hunting us down. All while the caretaker giggles and playfully tells the police that no visitors ever came on property, but they should come on in to try the mince meat pie she just baked up.

If we could have made the Scooby-Doo running sounds as we bolted to our car, we would have.  The dust cloud caused by the Vette is probably just now settling down.

As we sped back towards civilization -- if Neverland Ranch can be called that -- I calmly told Steph that we were no longer visiting wedding venues.

She whole-heartedly agreed.

The rest of the evening was lovely.

We dined at Brothers Restaurant at Mattei Tavern in Los Olivos, which if we get married at the Firestone Vineyard in town would be the site of our rehearsal dinner.  Our hands were still shaking from our Freddie Krueger-near miss, but it didn't stop us from scarfing down by far the best pork chop and applewood bacon mashed potatoes I've ever eaten.  Not to mention the homemade shortbread berries 4th of July sundae.

On our way out of town, we checked out the Fess Parker Inn as a possible place for guests and Steph and I to stay for the wedding.  While the hotel itself is small -- only 10 rooms -- it was charming and quaint enough for the town's official cat to prop herself in a lobby chair and proceed to clean herself in unmentionable places. (Because she can.)

Yep, we'd experienced it all yesterday.

Finally, about 12 hours after we started, we stumbled back home and went straight to bed.

As unbelievably ecstatic as my night with the Lakers was a few weeks ago, yesterday's wedding venue adventure was equally unbelievable -- in a creepy, bizarre way.

Surely there's a movie plot in this story somewhere.  I may just have to write it one day.

138 days and counting.

Weirdest Day Ever

But you'll have to wait until tomorrow to hear all about it. I'm too tired to write anything to do it justice. Let's just say this: A player piano, a cat licking herself, Neverland, and a horror movie scenario were just some of the highlights.

After my swim and run in Marina del Rey tomorrow, I'll share all the details.

139 days and counting.

Greatest Sports Night of My Life

I'm 12 hours removed from what is unquestionably the Greatest Sports Night of My Life (GSNML), and among the greatest moments in my life period. My heart-rate is still elevated. My hands are still shaking.

Why?

Thanks to my friend Ophir, I scored a ticket to the Greatest Sports Event One Can Attend (GSEOCA): Game 7 of the NBA Finals...Lakers vs. Celtics.

To say "I was there" would likely be the greatest understatement I've ever made.

No, I was much more than "there."  I squeezed every memory out of the experience the way I wring my swimsuit dry after a workout.  I left every emotion out on that basketball court the way I do at the end of a race.

Except, unlike triathlons, the best part of the experience happened after the game!

As I type these words, I'm still shaking my head in disbelief that all of this actually happened.  And while I don't have photographic evidence for everything stated below, you'll just have to trust me and my word that none of this is exaggerated.  No embellishments.

None needed.

My GSNML started inside a suite at Staples Center.  The energy inside the building was so intense I felt like I was playing in the game!  It felt like before a triathlon.  Giddiness.  Nervousness.  Anticipation.

Then, Gerard Butler (yeah, the dude from 300) came over and introduced himself, simply as "Jerry."  But because he didn't get a good grip on the handshake, he started over, saying, "Mate, that's a shit handshake let me try again."  Jerry was THE nicest guy.  Totally unassuming, just one fan among the near 20,000 on-hand to yell, beg and plead our team to victory.  More on him later.

On to the game.  Or what threatened to turn into the Worst Sports Night of My Life (WSNML).  We all know how the score turned out so I'll quell my sports-writing temptations.  What I can tell you is that I've never perspired completely through a shirt watching a sporting event that wasn't weather related.  (For the record, the shirt was linen, which contributed to my sweatiness.) That's how intense the GSEOCA was.  And I seriously thought we were going to lose around the third quarter when LA was down 13.  During halftime I was utterly stunned and shocked.  My hands were on my face, elbows locked on the table in the suite.  Could this really be happening?  I've waited my whole life to see a Lakers-Celtics game, let alone a Game 7 like this.  Was I going to have my heart ripped out and stomped on, and then put in a blender for good measure?  It sure felt that way.  The Lakers looked horrible!  The gravity of the moment clearly weighed heavily on Kobe and Pau in ways I hadn't seen from them before.  But I've certainly felt that way myself.  Maybe we all have at some point, sports or otherwise.  I remember playing freshman high school basketball and not scoring a point until halfway through the season.  When I finally made it into games, my mouth was always dry.  My legs never felt steady.  My hands shook uncontrollably.  I lost muscle memory.  My adrenaline was out of control, and my performance suffered greatly.  It happens.  But not to the Lakers! Not on Game 7!  Not tonight!

Fortunately, it didn't.  And even that is an understatement.  At the low point of the game, I began preparing myself emotionally for the notion the Lakers were going to lose.  I detached from the game.  I didn't get so hyper-joyous or dejected with every made or missed shot.  I found a center and stayed there.

And the funny part? Believe it or not, my triathlon training helped.  I realized that at an Ironman, bad stuff can happen. Things can go unexpectedly bad.  I can get a flat.  Or crash.  Or cramp.  Or dehydrate.  And that's that.  A year's worth of training can go down the toilet in a flash.  But in the middle of the event itself, you can make a choice to be resolute.  To fight through the pain.  The suffering.  The injustice of bad luck.  You just have to stay focused.  And remove yourself from the emotional panic of the situation.

So, as that Lakers deficit kept decreasing, as everyone else's emotions around me kept rising, I stayed calm.

At least until Derek Fisher tied the game late in the fourth quarter.

Then I went apeshit.  Along with the rest of the building.  Like cresting a huge summit on the bike and seeing nothing but downhills and flat roads ahead, I knew the Lakers had it.  They would not lose from that moment on.  They climbed the mountain. They wouldn't be denied.  The fight and resolve was going to pay off.

Now during all the pandemonium of the closing minutes, Ophir and I learned we were sitting next to another famous somebody...at least a famous somebody in training: Baltimore Orioles centerfielder, Adam Jones.  Another super cool cat.  We talked about the Orioles' new manager, Juan Samuel ("a good guy, hope we keep him") and about whether it's harder watching a huge sporting event or playing in one ("I don't know, I've never been in a World Series.").

As the seconds ticked off the clock to the Lakers' 16th title against my arch-nemesis Celtics, I found myself celebrating, high-fiving and hugging a Major League Baseball player and the star of one of the most badass movies of the past few years (the CG one about the Spartans, not the drivel with Jennifer Aniston).

GSNML!

And my night would only improve from there!

Following the game, and singing "We Are the Champions!" along with a delirious crowd until I became hoarse, Ophir and I were given two NBA Game 7 Day Passes.  This would get us on the court for a photo -- which alone would have been enough.

But why stop there?

"Why stop there?" became a catchphrase for the next two hours.  Why stop at the court when we can try to get to the locker room?  Why stop at the locker room when we can get to Kobe's press conference?  Why stop at the press conference when you can actually talk to some of your favorite sportswriters like Scoop Jackson, JA Adande and David Aldridge?  (BTW, each writer agreed hands-down that Game 7 was the "worst best game" they'd ever seen in their careers.) Why stop at Kobe's press conference when Aldridge is interviewing Pau right in front of us?  Why stop at watching Pau get interviewed and actually share a few words with Derek Fisher (and his wife), Pau, Shannon Brown, Jordan Farmar and even none other than Vic "The Brick" Jacobs ("Feeeelin youuuuu!!!!")?  Why only meet some of the Lakers when you can fist-tap Kobe, Ron-Ron, Lamar, Andrew Bynum (who couldn't walk and was riding with his leg outstretched on a kart), Josh Powell and even Adam Morrison?

Why stop with all of that when you can touch the Larry O'Brien trophy with your own hands!?

Now, why shower?  Why wipe any of that experience off my fingertips?  The sweat from Lamar's shorts.  Derek's shoulders.  The champagne coating the trophy. The stench from Vic "The Brick's" poncho.

Yeah, showering was probably a good idea, come to think of it.

In the end, I'm reminded of a Jewish prayer recited around Passover.  It's called Dayenu, and it simply means "it's enough." For example, if G-d had delivered the Jews from Egypt, it would have been enough.   If G-d had delivered the Jews from Egypt but not opened the Red Sea for them to cross safely, it would have been enough.  And so on through a long list of singularly epic moments.  But G-d did all those things, and for that we are supremely grateful.

That's how I feel about the GSNML.

If you told me I was going to attend Game 7 Lakers-Celtics, it would have been enough. (It was on my Bucket List.)

If you told me I was going to attend Game 7 Lakers-Celtics and sit next to athletes and celebrities, it would have been enough.

If you told me I was going to attend Game 7 Lakers-Celtics, sit next to athletes and celebrities and the Lakers would win, it would have been enough.

If you told me I was going to attend Game 7 Lakers-Celtics, sit next to athletes and celebrities, the Lakers would win, and I'd get my photo taken on the court afterwards, it would have been enough.

If you told me I was going to attend Game 7 Lakers-Celtics, sit next to athletes and celebrities, the Lakers would win, I'd get my photo taken on the court afterwards, and meet most of the Lakers while celebrating, it would certainly have been enough.

If you told me I was going to attend Game 7 Lakers-Celtics, sit next to athletes and celebrities, the Lakers would win, I'd get my photo taken on the court afterwards, meet most of the Lakers while celebrating, chat with my favorite sportswriters AND touch the Larry O'Brien trophy...I'd keel over and faint on the spot.

But it all happened.  And even more that I'm probably forgetting.

GSEOCA = GSNML

153 and 152 days and counting.