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.

Wake Up Call

Well, I won't make that mistake again. "That mistake" was misinterpreting Coach Gerardo's directions this morning during the bike portion of our Vineman simulation brick workout.  At the first climb in Hidden Valley on Portrero Road (just shy of Sly Stallone's place), Gerardo indicated that once I got to the crest, I should come immediately back.  I thought he meant the crest of the entire climb, which would have been the peak of Portrero Road before the steep and tricky descent into Camarillo.

In hindsight, I realize how silly this logic was.  But, I was in a cycling groove, hypnotized by a consistent pedal cadence and from riding largely by myself -- though my teammates were nearby.  It's at those moments when I'm truly in a cycling trance.  Not really thinking about anything important, but rather the ride itself.  How I'm feeling, how the ride is going, what's next whether climb, flat or descent.

I had only realized my mistake when I returned from the second Portrero peak and didn't see teammates Jason, Richard or Karen anywhere, let alone Mike's sag vehicle.  It then became a frenzied solo journey back to Las Virgenes Road and Mullholland Drive.  To make matters worse, my cell phone died.  I didn't place it in the usual Ziplock baggie, and I finally paid the ultimate price.  While the phone itself turns on, it resets itself the moment I try to dial a phone number or punch in any key, for that matter.

Finally, after an added nine miles and 20 minutes of pedaling, I rejoined Mike, quickly changed clothes and ran into Malibu Creek State Park for a 6.6 mile workout.  The time was after noon, and this was designed to simulate the expected hot and sunny conditions we'll face at Vineman 70.3 in a couple weeks.  To better combat the elements, I tried a pair of DeSoto arm coolers.  It's hard to say whether they had a physical effect, but my arms were certainly cooler and my heart-rate remained closer to 160 bpm (low zone 4) compared to the upper 160s it had been while training in 90-degree-plus weather in Arizona.  I completed the running loop, which took me through rocks, creeks, scrub, and dust to the base of the Bulldog Trail, in just about 1:05:00.  It wasn't the fastest pace, but it wasn't the easiest terrain.

Like it or not thoughm, I'm about as ready as I'm going to be for a Half-Ironman.  I remember thinking during the run that the discomfort I was feeling at the end of the run is only going to be compounded on race day. Especially since I'd need to bang out another 6.5 miles before finishing, not to mention adding a 1.2 mile swim and nine more miles to my bike ride.

So while the physical aspects of today's training session were valuable, the most valuable aspect by far was the metaphorical splash of cold water on my ego that just because I can fare well in an Olympic distance triathlon...we're about to enter completely new territory.  What I've done in the past does not matter one bit at a Half-Ironman.

Wake up call received.

Just not from my defunct cell phone.

137 days and counting.

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.

Week Done!

This week of training, while not particularly hard, left me slightly gasping for the finish.  Maybe it's the long weekend. Maybe it was waking up before 6:30 a.m. three out five weekdays.  Or that Trudy and Bam-Bam are back to wreak havoc on Stephanie's and my sleeping patterns. The more I think about it, I'm probably just a bit more tired than usual because of the mere 12 hours separating the track and swim workouts from this morning's 1.5-hour bike ride at Griffith Park.  I didn't really push it, but by the end of this morning's ride my legs were definitely glad it was time to call it quits.

I'm scheduled for some yoga now, which I'm going to our work gym to complete.  That'll probably restore and refresh me.  Tomorrow, I have an off-day as Steph and I are back on the wedding  venue scouting trail.  Ojai and Los Olivos are on the docket.

I'm looking for some highlights or superlatives to describe today's workout.  Not much comes to mind at all.  It was one of those rides where you find yourself looking at your watch more for a countdown to finishing as much to see how fast you're going or where your heart rate stands.  I know my calf compression sleeves came in handy and reduced what felt like sore and stiff legs when I woke up this morning.

What can I say...some workouts are just more enjoyable than others.  Then again, it was gorgeous out, without a cloud in the sky.  And in a few years, it will be a real privilege to be able to fit in a pre-work bike ride.  So I file this one away to, Don't Take It For Granted!

139 days and counting.

Track Virgin

Today marked my first official workout on a track.  After 36 years, I guess it's about damn time. Psychologically, I felt faster just being on a track.  My timed 800s at 5k speed didn't reflect that because I missed my 2:55/800m pace.  But I felt faster thanks to all the energy and ambiance surrounding me.  The Fortius team meets at Harvard-Westlake High School in Studio City once a week for this coached workout, a very posh institution with a college-level track and football/soccer field.  Today, two large football squads from what appeared to be Santa Monica High School were working out, along with a club-level youth soccer team.  Fast, young athletic kids whooped and hollered everywhere, and it was almost impossible not to get caught up in the near-rambunctious vibe.

According to Coach Gerardo, I essentially made every mistake in the track workout book.  I paced myself when I should have been running all-out during my timed 800s.  I should have been reviewing each 800 lap on my Garmin watch to adjust my pace accordingly.  I should have been leaning forward while running, not backwards.  My arms needed to be striding forwards, propelling me further along with my pumping legs -- which needed to fire higher.

That's OK.  I didn't beat myself up.  Honestly, I had a great time tonight!  The experience took me back to what it must have been like to run on the track or cross-country team in high school.  And having my Fortius teammates all around me, flying by on the track, or leisurely jogging in between sets -- well, it was just plain motivating.  I got to see my friend Christina, whom I haven't visited with in person in what feels like months.  We ran together, joked together, and swam together in our evening Foritus-coached swim session at VNSO park.  Yep, I did a double workout.  Last night, I indicated I was getting up early in the morning for the early swim session.  I just couldn't do it.  The body wanted no part of that 5:40 a.m. wakeup call.  I know this because in is an all-to rare experience, I slept straight through from 10:15 p.m. through 4:15 a.m. I usually wake up a couple times a night for a quick bathroom break.  Fatigue was talking last night, and I listened. Really glad I did.  I made it through the track workout with enough energy to swim a 1:33 timed 100 at the end of a 2,450-yard session.

And I even had enough energy to let out a little primal yell on the way to my car, that's how good I felt.

Of course, that's because I saved a little energy on the track when I shouldn't have, but I'm no longer a track virgin.  I know what to expect now, and I'll do it better next time.

Now it's off to try and rinse the chlorine off me and jump into bed.  I've got a 6:15 wakeup call to get a 1.5 hour bike ride in at Griffith Park.  Zones 1-2 are the order tomorrow, sitting for most of the ride.  I can dig that.

Puttin' in the time.

140 days and counting.

Do the Work.

How I'm ending the day is pretty much how I started it.  Tired.  Lethargic.  Ready for bed. At least I can fulfill that desire instead of trudging out for an early morning brick.  Stephanie pretty much had to kick me out of bed this morning, literally.  She did so successfully, with the promises of making me oatmeal.  It helped.  My cycling felt about as slow as oatmeal transfers out from the ceramic bowl to the plastic one.  Please. Just. Go. A. Little. Faster.

For whatever reason, I just didn't sleep well last night.  I was ready to train at 4:30 in the morning, and since Trudy and Bam Bam have been making more regular early morning cameos lately, I figured what's the use of going back to sleep.  So I got caught in that "no doze zone" -- somewhere between being awake and drifting off to sleep.  It took me about a half-hour of cycling to wash the malaise off my body and generate some pedal power.

The run turned out much better.  The breakthrough from last Wednesday's Griffith Park brick with Coach Gerardo and Richard is really paying dividends now.  Despite my general tired state, running at tempo pace (heart-rate zone 3) felt surprisingly easy and relaxing.  My heart-rate never rose past 157 bpm but I was averaging what felt like an 8:30-mile pace -- and it was fairly effortless.  In the past, I would labor a lot more running at tempo.  Granted, I only ran a shade under 4.5 miles in just about 40 minutes.  But I felt like I could run another 4.5 or more at the same pace if not slightly better. Given my groggy frame of mind, I'll more than take it.

I suppose the real victory today was simply getting out of bed and doing the work. That's all you can do sometimes, as I've said before.  It's the difference between coming close to your race day goals and either meeting or exceeding your expectations.  You've got to put in the work, the time, the sweat and the effort -- whether you feel like it or not.

That's really all that today was about.  And at this point countless other training sessions I've written about. It's probably the theme of my Ironman training: Do the work. Period.

Speaking of, it's back to work tomorrow morning. At 6. In the pool.  Track session in the evening too.

Let's do this.

141 days and counting.

I Fought the Law...

...And The Law told me to shove it. I lost my appeal with the USAT regarding my Breath of Life cycling penalty.  It wasn't even close.  Here's the full explanation, in all its glory, courtesy of the head race official.  At least my appeal made its way to the top of the food chain short of the USAT Protest Committee itself.

"Violation notes:

#906 Male  LA Tri jersey - Observed entering passing zone from rear.  No pass attempted after 40 second count. - 5.10a - Drafting - 2:00 penalty

Explanation: After an individual enters the passing zone from the rear, they have 15 seconds to complete the pass.  A complete pass is when the individual's front tire passes the front plane of the front tire of the person being passed.  I observed this particular violation on my second lap of the course on W. Gonzales Road, most likely your 2nd bike lap as well.  As observed and recorded, the assessed penalty for violation of Competitive Rule 5.10a will stand."

I tried in vain to explain that the guy on my right was steadily veering left, forcing me a wider passing angle that would require me to circumnavigate the orange cones -- which would also be a penalty.  Unfortunately, the appeals process doesn't work that way.  Unless there's a factual mistake, these kinds of appeals rarely are overturned.  Here's why, and thanks once again to the race official for explicitly pointing this out:

Article X

Protests

10.1 Proper Subject of Protest. No protest may be filed with respect to matters which were observed by or previously ruled upon by a race official. No person may file a protest which requires a judgement call. A "judgement call," as used in these Rules, means the resolution of a dispute involving one or more material facts which cannot be determined with certainty solely through the production of tangible physical evidence. The term "judgement call" shall include but shall not be limited to a resolution of:

(a) any purported violation of the cycling position foul Rules (including alleged drafting violations);

(b) allegations of blocking, obstruction, or interference; or

(c) allegations of unsportsmanlike conduct.

Any protest filed in contravention of this Section shall be summarily dismissed under Section 10.4.

10.4 Summary Dismissal of Protest. With respect to each protest filed, the Head Referee shall make an initial determination as to whether the protest complies with all of the provisions of the Article and whether the protest is factually sufficient to support a ruling by the Protest Committee. If the protest is improper or deficient in any respect, the Head Referee shall summarily reject and dismiss the protest and shall not be required to submit the matter to the Protest Committee. If the defect is curable in the opinion of the Head Referee, the Head Referee may allow the protest to be resubmitted within a reasonable time, even if the time period in Section 10.5 has already expired.

...And with that, my last gasp for Breath of Life glory was extinguished.  Coldly.  Impersonally.

Of course, those precious few of you who read my blog every day know that I essentially brought this on myself by joking the day beforehand that I'd be drafting during the race.

I hate being right...especially in this instance.  Especially when I went out of my way not to joke about it!

Oh well.  Breath of Life is officially over.

Helllloooooo Vineman 70.3!

(Now where is that darned visor I just got in the mail?)

142 days and counting.

Hold On For 1 More Day

My celebration/commemoration of the Breath of Life Triathlon lasted all of 24 hours. Until I received an email from Coach Gerardo indicating that today marks the beginning of my taper towards Vineman 70.3.  And the stern reminder that "everything we have done the past few months is for this race."

As if that wasn't enough to force me to refocus on the race ahead instead of the race I just finished, I received in the mail today another omen: My Vineman 70.3 visor.

Breath of Life is soooooo June 27.

Out with one incredible life experience, on with another.  But something is nagging at me.  Tugging like a kid pulls on his dad's belt buckle for attention.

Where is the journey in all this?  The soul?  Where's the pause for reflection?  Jubilation?  Course correction?  Does it occur in the eight hours while I'm sleeping?  My 10 minutes in the shower each morning?

Being a "nester", I need at least a little bit of time to assess and put everything in its rightful place before moving on to the next project.  In this case, my first Half Ironman distance event.  I'm still busy remembering moments from yesterday's race before I put them in my mental scrapbook. Or in this more technical example, my blog.

Closing my eyes and really feeling the National Anthem, for example. Swaying gently side to side thinking of my grandfather and how proud he'd be if he were there physically in that moment.  Smiling to myself.  My pre-race ritual complete.

These are the moments I want to hold onto.  The moments that make a race an event, not just a training exercise.  The moments that threaten to escape me if I let them.  If I move too quickly from one memory to the next, like a bee anxiously finding the next flower while working herself into exhaustion along the way.  Never enjoying for a moment that hard-earned pollen.

We all train many long hours to achieve our goals.  And then we wake up at 4:30 in the morning, stumble out of bed into the darkness, don our wetsuits as the sun rises, and sprint earnestly into the salty water.

Then, we wish for the pain to end. For the finish line to show itself. Eventually, it complies.

And then the race is over.  The chapter is written.

Meanwhile, while the body recovers, the brain is still trying to figure out what the hell just happened.  At least mine is.  What did I learn?  What will be burned into my memory like a cattle brand?  What excess experience can I quickly snatch from impending forgetfulness?

I suppose what I'm getting at is that retention is part of recovery.  And recovery needs to occur before a new chapter begins.

That's where my head is at right now.  Even if my body is eager to take the next step on this Ironman odyssey.

Even as this Vineman 70.3 visor stares at me on my office desk.

There will be time to wear you soon, M-dot.

But not yet.  Not today.

143 days and counting.

They Can't Take That Away From Me...

What a blur. That's what today's Breath of Life Olympic distance triathlon felt like.

I remember the race in flashes.  The chaos of entering the water and literally grappling with several people through the first buoy.  Elbows over other competitors' shoulders.  Elbows in my head.  My foot buried in a competitor's torso who grabbed my leg for momentum at a buoy.  Bedlam in the water.  The only way I can describe it more visually is that swimming in this break felt like watching the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan when the soldiers are scrambling underwater to get their bearings while their heart-rate is going through the roof from the panic.

Of course, there were no machine gun nests and pissed off Nazis at this event.

On second thought, bad comparison.

Back to the swim.  The water in Ventura Harbor is putrid.  The kind where you truly regret gulping in your mouth.  I thought so much about how awful the water was that a few times I had to re-focus my concentration on my swim stroke.  The color was just as bad.  Brown, murky, muddy...only punctuated by moments of jolting warm or coldness determined by whether you swam through someone's pee stream.  The ocean water was so thick the pee seemed to pool together, almost like an oil spill.

It was that kind of swim.  But the worst part was the course map itself.  Nobody -- not even the lifeguards stationed on paddle boards in the marina -- had any idea where they were during the swim.  You just sort of followed the people around you and hoped you weren't going too far off course. I got lucky.  My Garmin watch data map revealed only a few spots where I needed to recalibrate direction.

The uncertainty of my bearings and my displeasure with the water actually worked in favor of a personal best time.  I just wanted to get the hell out of the water, and because I wasn't sure when the turnaround was coming back to shore, I maintained a stronger pace than usual.  Therefore, I was literally astonished to find the shore on my right and catching glimpses of a cheering crowd when I thought I was just getting to the turnaround buoy.  At first I thought it was a different crowd watching from a separate viewing area.  Then, my foggy goggles spied arched balloons.

"I'm here already!" I exclaimed internally.

I made it out of the water in 24:55, by my Garmin watch.  Nearly five minutes faster than my Wildflower swim.

After a fairly quick transition, it was time to get my bike on.  I was encouraged to see my friend Chris just leaving the transition area, for that meant my swim time was even more competitive as that's his specialty. (Later, Stephanie would tell me that I was among the last two-thirds out of the water, causing her worry.)  My Fortius teammate, David, was nowhere to be found though.  He was long gone, perhaps with him my only shot at qualifying for the age-group national championships I coveted.

I vowed to catch him and Chris, though in my head I figured they were as good as gone.  They're both strong cyclists and runners, and with a couple-minute lead I wasn't sure if I could close the gap. It took all three laps of the course, but I found them on my final lap, on Victoria Avenue just past Gonzales.  We exchanged some friendly banter and then it was back to the races.

I felt strong on the bike today. I was rarely passed and while my back ached, little else did.  The difference of racing on a tri bike compared to a roadie cannot be understated.  Proper equipment -- including an aero helmet and race wheels, definitely makes a difference.  And I was able to catch my breath more easily after a hard swim.

Whatever gains I made with my sturdy Cervelo were returned thanks to the USAT, the governing body of the sport that officially sanctioned this race as an age group national qualifier.  Apparently I did something wrong during the race that warranted a two-minute penalty.  I have no idea about the infraction (I'll find out Tuesday according to the website), but I do know when it occurred. I believe it was on my second or third lap off Fifth Street.  A motorcycle pace vehicle with two riders pulled up alongside another rider and me.  The motorbike hovered at our pace, with the person riding in the second seat scribbling furiously into a notebook and then speeding away.  I had a sinking feeling that "something bad" just happened, but I seriously don't know what.  The experience felt akin to getting a moving speeding ticket.  The only thing missing was the pink receipt telling me when to appear in court.  At least I'd know what I did though!  I do know I had someone on my right who was slower than me, which pushed me wider in the left lane.  I remained within the legal cones and I ultimately passed that cyclist.  Moreover, despite yesterday's blog post, I strictly avoided drafting because I knew there would be serious penalties for doing so.  I truly, in my eyes, was following the rules of the road today.

When I learned of this penalty after checking the results this afternoon, I filed an immediate protest.  The penalty would cost me my well-deserved spot as a qualifier.  By one minute.  Two people with slower times will go to Alabama and I most likely won't. Rubbish!  I hope they know their spots are tarnished.  They were not faster than me.

But I didn't know any of this as I jammed my bike into the rack and bolted out for my 10k run.  And bolt I did.  This was by far my best run in any race of any kind.  I felt light, strong and fast -- even letting out a primal yell in the T2 area about how goooood I felt!  This was compounded by my fantastic fiance greeting me halfway through the first mile.  She staked out a spot on the course where she could run beside me and offer support in an unobtrusive way.   I was running well before, but I picked up speed and confidence at this point.  It was good medicine.

The rest of the run comes back to me in flashes as well.  Rounding a corner on the pier after seeing my Fortius teammate Mike and giving him a forceful high-five. Entering the residential neighborhood for the first of my two laps.  Sipping a fraction of the water I grabbed from the first station realizing I wasn't thirsty -- that the three-fourths of the Perpetuem bottle consumed on the bike would be enough. Finally!  I've nailed race-day nutrition. Oatmeal two hours before.  Half a banana 30 minutes before.  A gel 15 minutes before.  Half a Clif bar on the bike.  And eating half of a Hammer gel at mile three realizing I wasn't hungry enough to need the rest and that screwing up my breathing pattern was a bigger risk. Seeing friends going out on the run as I was chugging hard at the fifth mile to find extra speed.  Confirming during that fifth mile with a hopeful glance at my watch that I was going to break 2:30:00 -- if I just held it together.  If I just continued to focus on my breathing and STAY IN THE MOMENT, like Coach Gerardo and Richard showed me this past Wednesday.  Oh, how important that workout had become!  Scorning a poor defenseless female runner who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, blocking my ability to pass on a sharp right turn at a narrow choke point. (Whomever you are, I'm sorry for yelling "c'mon c'mon!" to get you to clear space for me.  I know I startled you.)

And that final sixth mile.  Which seemed to go on forever.  One volunteer in a USC hat told me it was a quarter mile to go at what turned out to be a half-mile away.  Mike was at the restaurant perch again telling me another quarter mile to go.  That moment almost broke me as I had timed my finishing kick off the first man.  The toughest part was the final 150 yards, as the course made a sharp left turn that stripped momentum and my ability to figure out where the hell the finish line was. Of course, this prompted me to shout, "Where the fuck do I go!?" to the volunteers who pointed frantically at the right path.

Finally, mercifully, the finish line.  And it read 2:25:59 as I made my final desperate sprint down the chute.  Where I promptly grabbed a water bottle and doused myself with hit.  Elated.  Breathless.  Confident.

The closest I'd probably ever get to spraying champagne in a winners circle.  That's how that moment felt.  VICTORY!  Surprising victory...pushing through physical barriers and mental doubts.

I had qualified for nationals just now.  I competed among the best, and despite my lack of size or deep-dish wheels, I was equal to the task.

I did it!

Only to find out several hours later that no, apparently I had not.

But that is also rubbish.  I DID do it. I can hang with these bigger, stronger, tanned, buffed Adonis warriors.  And I will qualify at some point.  And there will be NOTHING the USAT will do about it.

And there is still plenty to celebrate.  Personal bests all over the place.  Friends completing their first Olympic distance triathlon.  Everyone competing together, supporting each other.

I love this sport.

Just not the suits who run it.

144 days and counting.