Speed...

I don’t like swimming. Or, it’s not that I don’t like swimming, but more getting up early to drive across town to a dingy pool, and paddling through my laps like a caged rat, swimming with assholes, assholes telling me how terrible my stroke is and that I should call them and pay them to fix it (Except Sergio, Sergio is a stud), showering in dingy locker rooms, taking hours out of my precious life to do something I grit my teeth and power through. I don’t like any of those things.

About a week ago, I was in bed and not sleeping and thinking about how I would design this contraption that would allow me to swim in place in my apartment pool. Then I looked it up and found TYR made one. Today, minutes ago, I tried it out for the first time. Perfect. You hook it up to anything outside of the pool, then to the belt around your waist, which is absolutely comfortable. Then, you get your ass kicked. Seriously, you absolutely get your ass kicked. Once you get away from the attachment, the elastic stretches and acts as a vicious current. It’s perfect for triathlon because it’s a power builder, no doubt about it, and though you can kick without obstruction, the arms have to motor. It’s violent, it’s tough, it’s just like open water swimming. I love it.

And of course, whenever I start to take myself too seriously, I think of this...

Are You Kidding??

Because It's Magic...

Let's Go Soft Core And Talk About The Rock...

Fitting that a little time has passed since last Sunday, a little time to not get too caught up in the race, a little time to take a step back, realize that all I have is a lewd near nude post race photo to lead into how it went down. Fitting that I’m watching the movie on TNT right now, at the end of a quiet, ass-kicked week.

I had a strong race. Feels good to say that after getting stomped in St. George. I had arbitrary aims to finish in the top 100 after finishing around 250 last year out of around 2000. Came in at 103 overall. Something like 250 in the swim, 40 in the bike and 110 in the run. Overall, I took 10 minutes off last year’s time, which is significant on a course so short. It’s been a year since I began running triathlon and feel like I’ve come some way. Also, I’m beginning to see low numbers in my age group, like 3rd in the bike. Low numbers are good for the heart, good for seeing myself places in the future, like stumbling onto an eventual podium or reaching the world 70.3’s in Vegas, something I need to someday crack.

If I’m beginning to learn anything, it’s to let go of the fear. Fear of going into a race, fear of breaking down, fear of failing. Running always used to be my strength. Now, there’s soon to be a changing of the guard…if there hasn’t already been one. My experience is eventually going to level my times, that’s what I’m hoping. I think the day I find success is the day I find harmony between the three, and my understanding that I can hammer the swim and not fail the bike, hammer the bike and not fail the run, then hammer the run. This was a shorter race, 2:33, so it’s easy to talk composure. Still, I can feel my head shifting. I’ve been to ugly places now, and back (CamSur, Cozumel, St. George), and will continue to go to ugly places (Kona in October). Maybe someday I’ll become quite fast. Maybe not. In the meantime, there’s a 70.3 about 6 hours north of me called Vineman a couple weeks into July. I’m going to see if I can hammer for about 4.5, see how things hold up, see if my chin is still up at the end. It will be. I’m ready to fall in love with the 70.3.

Genius!

Back To Alcatraz...

Sometime around May of 2010, I was standing in the general manager’s office of Equinox Westwood. I had just gone through the employee time trial for a shot at winning an entry in the prestigious Escape From Alcatraz Triathlon. My bike wasn’t calibrated exactly right, and my overall time slid below the national top 25 that would have gotten me into the race. I was begging this guy to understand what I was saying, that I was completely screwed by the computer (which was very true), and even rode the leg again on another bike to prove it. I was begging him to do the right thing, because I deserved it, because I needed it, because I was convinced that racing Alcatraz would somehow change my life. Somehow, I got in.

It’s May again and I’m about to go back to Alcatraz, the very thing that started it all. This year, to make damn certain there was no confusion on my invite, I somehow pulled in the Equinox National #1 time the night before the LA Marathon. That means a couple of things. First, after some TOUGH races, it was nice to see my name next to a number like that. Second, and far more important, it means that everyone I beat is hopefully saying something to themselves like I’m going to beat THAT fucker, especially the guy who lost by 1 second. I hope he’s pissed. I hope I can find him out there, shake his hand and then battle him. Honestly, all I’ve ever wanted to be in this world is THAT fucker, so it should be a fun, fast race. I need one. I’m really looking forward to it.

My whole life, I’ve been a somewhat high level athlete, but an athlete second. There has always been something else driving, something else incendiary inside. In the past, I’ve looked back on stretches of my life and deemed them not acceptable against the standards I’ve set before destroying my collected comfort by stepping into new worlds, usually about a dozen at a time, before returning, winding my clock, and starting anew. I mention this because Alcatraz has made me peek over my shoulder, wrap the year into a single box, and examine. It’s been a serious 12 months.

But I don't support indulgent satisfaction. Or falling off. Ever.

The Reason Arctic Monkeys Slam The Door On Book #1...

This Girl...

Again with the fascination. It's all I can think of this week or all that's reaching me. Completely surprised and then not at all. Jealous of NYC for a night. Then, go listen to 1-12 of Actor.

Fascinating...

Dear SNL...

Fallon made cameo last week in the extraordinary live action Ambiguously Gay Duo. So clearly, this is in the playbook. You don't have to say anything, but please, please tell me you're rehearsing Barry Gibb right now with JT back in the saddle for the season finale. You don't have to say anything, but please. It would make my week.

Why You're Playing College Baseball At Radford And High Point...

It's Not What You Think!

It's About Time Someone Put Charlie Day In An Actual Movie...

Might Be Here...

I'm Finished...

There's a large chunk of this video that's cut out. I bitch a bit about the course, about not being able to breathe, the wind, the heat. Then I go on to talk about how Kona is going to be my last full Ironman. I ended up taking all of that out. It all seems so trivial now, even as I was saying it. There was a distinct point somewhere in that run, where I was more defeated than I have ever been in my life, more broken than I have ever been, where it felt like something fell from me, like I let something go that would have otherwise tormented me for breaking down, for not being stronger, for not finishing higher. It's not here. Wasn't this morning, or last night. I don't think it will ever be here again. If that's true, then what I'm taking away from St. George is so big, it's nearly unspeakable. I've been gone for 3 days and it feels like months. Sometimes people ask me why I do what I do - any race, but in this case, a 2.4/112/26.2. Because without bullshit, a single day shows me exactly who I am. Because I cried a little bit for every person I saw finish that race, because I knew.

Here We Go, Almost...

3:27 in the AM and I've got my boy BF here, nearly running on repeat. Things are looking good. The world is outside, and waiting. The day is waiting. I feel like there's a dame outside my door, waiting to take my hand and show me everything that's anything. I'm going to make her wait for another hour because I'm primadonna, but also because when I walk out that door, the gloves have to come fucking off. And I need to breathe just a little bit longer.

So Utah...

It sort of feels like there's nothing here in St. George, and that it goes on forever. Tonight, I was driving part of the course after the sun had set and everything was glowing. Then, I just started screaming. That's what it's like here. I'm going to try and find that tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and then I'll go back to California, and remember how simple my life really is, knowing all I'm ever after is something that makes me scream.

Fuck Week...

NPR is streaming Okkervil River's new album. This is the second time I've made it through today. Love them, not yet sure if it's better than really good. There's all this shit on my desktop, motorcycle insurance and appointments and academic articles I write because I'm a false fucking whore. Tomorrow morning, I have to go into the DMV, then I have to run, have to sit in the sun, have to let my skin strengthen and burn and grow confident under this suddenly scorching California. I got a call today from someone trying to make my man-u into a movie, who told me about some big swinger in some faraway city who is afraid of my truth, afraid to take my hand, afraid I will break her bones. No, she won't even look into my eyes and it's making me fire, and it's making something recently dormant inside of me agitate. The seams aren't splitting like they used to, instead resilient, expanding and stretching as I breathe weighted, obscene, absurd breath. Everything about this feels so fucking absurd. Everything about me, this week. Hopefully not next. Thursday, I'm driving to Utah. Saturday, I'm running the Ironman and I feel flat, controlled. I feel strong, like I can see him, the Devil, looking at me, hands already tight in white tape. His clout is fading. I'm going to take him by the throat and pin him against the ground, drool and spit rage all over his face. I'll tell him these things, speak my peace then let him up, before I ask him to take my hand and show me what's next and where to wander and where to not fear the fall. He is my friend, sometimes my mentor, often misunderstood as vile. Only when he returns do I realize how much I've missed, the depth of my responsibility. Someone's hand is on my face, holding it, a girl. I'm not dismantling her for trying. There is no desire. There's a ring on my finger that won't come off. It means more to me than anything. It has to always. The streets are too many, my remaining steps too few.

Tarsem...

If you haven't seen The Fall, go out and see it. For me, one of the most affecting movies I've seen in a long time. That's why when the trailer for the director's next comes out, I jump on it, because this guy is a one of a kind talent.

And I see the images and the movement that's recognizable Tarsem, and then see it tied to 300, which is an understandable marketing angle, and I see name actors, and then I see the lead who is going to be the next Superman...appear strained, and I begin to wonder if the finer work is behind us. Of course, my ability lately to peg trailers has been less than keen. So I'll remain hopeful. If ever there was a movie for a midnight show, this is it. Still, I couldn't drop "genius" as the title to this post, and we all know how much I like to do that.

Genius...

Can we talk about how amazing it is to be able to grab clips from shows on Hulu, like Chris Pratt on Parks and Recreation, who I've been saying to myself for some time is a comic genius, and physically gifted, and drop it here. Love that. Love this show, everything about it. The cast is so good, it makes me tired even thinking of a way to describe it, so I'm not going to. But this dude just kills me...