Real-icks

Recently, Katherine and I took a rented jeep on a long road trip to Santa Fe, NM. From Omaha, that's 14 hours by car. We did it in one day. A drive like that would ordinarily be exhausting, but the scenery along rural highways stretching across the eastern Colorado plains to Santa Fe was invigorating.

We stayed in Santa Fe for a couple days. I left the bike back home so Katherine and I could have some time to ourselves.  We hiked, went sight seeing and even took the jeep off-roading on deep rutted trails.

Our route home took us north through Taos, NM and Pueblo, CO before jumping back on the interstate system.  There was one stretch of road so desolate and expansive that signs were posted to beware of freely roaming cattle and horses on unfenced, open ranch land. It's uplifting to know that there's still wide open spaces on this planet.

Somewhere along this leg of the trip, Katherine mentioned smelling a foul scent. She said that it had started hundreds of miles back, possibly even in Santa Fe. She said that it smelled like death. I began to wonder if we had run over something. Perhaps a bird was stuck in the car's grill. Or that a small rodent had crawled into the engine cavity to escape the chilly Santa Fe temperatures.

So at the next gas station, I did a once-over on the car. I popped open the hood but found nothing unusual. Same for underneath the car.  Mystery unsolved, we cracked the window for fresh air for the remainder of the trip.

I may have never discovered the source of that smell until Bryan's recent post on "Relics" helped me connect the dots.

To be comfortable on the long drive home, I had taken my shoes off and stowed them beneath the driver's seat.

Could that have been the source of the mystery stench?

The shoes in question were an eight year old pair of Adidas Sambas. I played indoor soccer for two seasons before they became my casual shoes. Lately, I had grown accustomed to slipping them on and off without wearing socks.  But they didn't stink. Right?

I had to test the theory.  At arm's distance, I detected no odor.  I brought them up close for a second pass. Wow! They were indeed pungent.

Feeling more confident that I was on to something, I decided to repeat the test, this time with Katherine as the tester.

Katherine took a whiff. As she did, her face darkened and her body convulsed in a gag reflex.

Yea! Happy success, the stinky mystery had been solved. Case closed.

Hey Bryan, I've got some relics too.

At least, I did.

Breakfast Serials

On my last post, Fred left the following comment:

How about some sort of pact/agreement to blog on a schedule. I will if you will. Something like it doesn't matter what you post, just post. Charlie Burton rocks.

It's funny that Fred should suggest a pact to blog on a schedule. I've been trying to get him to write regularly for years now. And suddenly he comes up with this brilliant idea to just post on whatever?

Yeah, whatever, alright.

You're a good writer, Fred. You're certainly a good story teller. And your grammar, spelling and fundamentals are spot on.

But to post something regularly? No offense, but you're not that type.

First of all, writing takes discipline. Sorry, strike one, buddy.

Secondly, those who post regularly are typically serial people. You're not.

Serial people have running dialogs on a specific topics. They follow set sequences of events that loop continuously. You can take this off line and look at Bryan's style on the GamJams-Midwest website. Over there, he lays it out methodically. There's a theme for each day: Monday's Media recap, Tuesday's Could've Should've Would've, etc...

But you're not a serial writer, and that's by your own admission. I present exhibit A, where you literally flaunt your story as part 1 of 1:

Seriously, who labels a post, "part 1 of 1"? 

But to your credit, at least you finished that one. Yes, those who write regularly finish what they start. Sure, good story tellers may leave you dangling on that cliff-hanger from time to time, but they'll eventually let the gas out of bag. I mean, it took six months to learn that it was JR's angry sister-in-law Kristin who done it. But that was prime-time dramatic television at its finest.

In blogging, cliff hangers should dangle for 24-48 hours. Three days, tops.

Yet how many times have you promised, 'To be continued...' only to never finish the damn story? 

Did you ever think about what this reckless abandonment does to your audience?  And by your audience, I'm speaking of Wesley Johnson. (Hi Wes, I'm taking this point directly to the Man for you).  I'd be willing to bet there's a mark on your stat counter every day that originated from Wesley's cubicle.  He's waiting for you to tie up all those dangling threads. But you never will. 

I'm begging you. Unless you're absolutely committed to this pact, please, do us all (and by all, I am thinking again of Wesley Johnson) a favor and don't take up this pact. Because if you do -- and leave us (Wes) hanging --

Ack! Thpppt!!!!!  Crap, another hair ball's coming up.

Hang on, I'll be right back

Tennis Elbow, Ack Thpppt!!!

Shim clipped a tree during a mountain bike race a few weeks back, resulting in a crash that compressed some ribs.  I told him to have it looked at by our friend and physical therapist, Mike Bartels. Mike has successfully treated my knee, shoulders and ribs before. Mike told me that with the knee and shoulders, I should go easy when I felt pain. But not so for the ribs. In fact, he said I could work them until I cried and they'd still be able to take more. 

I enjoyed telling Shim that he could work his ribs until he cried.  Ha! Imagine that.

Recently, I rolled up next to my old pal Fred (aka Fredcube) during a local group ride. Fred's been kicking some ass and getting back into solid riding form. Apparently that -- the cycling, not the ass kicking -- took a toll on his right knee, which developed into bursitis that sidelined him for a few weeks. Again, I recommended Bartels.

I, too, have come down with some sort of overuse injury recently. I've got tennis elbow. But here's the deal. I don't even play tennis. I believe I got it from riding my bike.

I used to play tennis when I was a kid. I got tennis elbow back then too. From tennis, not from my bike. Somebody pointed to my racquet strings and said that the catgut transferred vibration through my aluminum Jimmy Conners racquet right into my elbow. He then gave the hard-sale pitch for a tennis-elbow prevention do-hickey device like this one:

I didn't hear much of his sales pitch. I was still stuck on his usage of the word, 'catgut.' I was flabbergasted at the thought. Did he really say just say that?! And did he really mean cat-gut, or was it an urban legend like BubbleYum being made out of spider eggs? My mind raced.  What if it was true? Were there cauldrons of dead cats boiling in sweatshops in Bangladesh, waiting to be turned into catgut for tennis racquets?

I ended up buying one of those dampeners. I don't know if my tennis elbow went away any sooner because of it. It looked cool at least.

Once, when my brother had some tendon/joint issues, he took Glucosamine & Chondroitin. It sounded interesting until I discovered that Chondroitin is ground up bovine cartilage. That ruined it for me. My mind drifted back to Bangladesh, the cats having been replaced with boiling cattle carcasses.

I'm sure some will disagree, but taking Chondroitin for cartilage health is like swallowing a handful of hair to make that bald spot on the back of one's head disappear.

Yeah, that's not going to work.  Swallowing the hair, not the bovine cartilege.  Even if you thought it would, there'd be the problem of keeping it down. Your cat can't seem to keep it down. What makes you think you can?

So, I then wondered if there was something I could add to reduce road vibration. I discovered that there's all kinds of stuff.  My favorite is the Bontrager Bzzzkill that replace your cheap plastic bar end caps with harmonically balanced brass dampeners.

As stated on the Cozy Beehive blog, "the Bontrager 'Bzzzkill' dampers apply the principle behind what is called a 'tuned mass damper'. Its fairly simple to understand and I'll let you read an entry describing it on Wikipedia."

I don't know about that Wikipedia page being fairly simple to understand or not. I mean, do those funny letters in formulas like   really mean anything?

But why sweat the tech specs when you can sit back, relax and let Ken from Ken's Quick Bike tips tell you all about it.

 

Hang on a sec...Ack! Thpppt!!! I think I've got a hairball coming up.  I'll be right back.

Ack! Thpppt!!!

I Get The Jitters

I get the jitters on race days. I get fidgety. My pulse quickens. I break out in a nervous sweat. My mind jumps all over the course, from start to finish, where attacks happen, what corners are railed, where to mash on the pedals, and when and  the sprint to the finish line unfolds.

I’m a wreck.

But the funny thing is, I get the jitters after the race is over, not before. Like, from the moment my head hits the pillow, and for the next three hours of tossing and turning -- every single detail of the race goes through my head. Over and over again.

Like I said, I'm good before the race starts. But many of you suffer from pre-race jitters that manifest into stomach issues. I've witnessed what you do to port-a-potties that were immaculate 90 minutes before the race gun. I don't have that problem. Heck, some of you were laughing at me when I rolled up to the starting line while stuffing French fries in my pie hole. Indeed, I've got an iron gut from the warm up to the finish.

But post-race jitters are the problem for me. No, scratch that. Let’s call a spade a spade: it’s not just simple jitters; it's an adrenal gland kicking nightmare.

I don’t know about you, but when I’m trying to fall asleep, all I see is Lee Bumgarner repeatedly attacking and counter attacking the pack. It seems to take forever, but eventually, like the boogie man of your worst dreams, one of Bumgarner’s attacks finally breaks him free with a few chasers jumping in pursuit.

Now here’s the thing. Even in my sleepy, half-stupor consciousness, my brain makes the connection that though Bumgarner’s up the road, the race is on a short, closed-circuit course. Then somewhere from the crusty crags of my cerebellum I hear John Lefler’s omniscient voice: “if you’re lapped, you’ll be pulled from the race.”

A fresh shot of adrenalin kicks in. I begin mashing on the pedals furiously. Literally, this causes me to kick my wife underneath the sheets. Katherine yells aloud, waking us both up momentarily. I apologize; she lets out a heavy sigh, fluffs her pillow and rolls back over.

Moments later, she’s drifted back into sleep. Katherine's heavy breathing carries me once more to the race course, where my breathing is also laborious. I’m huffing and puffing, spinning like a fool in the chase group. I hear what sounds like a dog barking to my left. I look, and to my astonishment, my teammate is like the mythical guard dog from hell, Cerberus, with three three heads protruding from his MWCC jersey. They're stripping their teeth and frothing at the mouth. Sweat, spit and snot is flying everywhere. The first of three heads turns and looks me squarely in the eyes and growls, “CONTROL THE PACE!” Not to be outdone, head #2 turns toward me and barks, “COVER ALL ATTACKS!” Then the third one — the one with the nasty snaggletooth and the booming voice — snarls at me, “NEVER CHASE DOWN YOUR TEAMMATE!!

At that moment, Jarred Berger (Team KAOS) launches a blistering attack and is off the front of the chase pack.

I stand on the pedals to answer.

The three headed MWCC Cerberus barks in unison: "NO, NO, NO!!!!”

I sit up violently in bed. Katherine wakes up again. She says something I can’t repeat here on my blog. (She’s a lurker, reading this post along with you. Hi Katherine. Forgive me yet?)

By then I was sweating. My heart rate was upper Z3, maybe higher. I got up for a drink of water. The water does little to quench my thirst. I put the cool glass against my flush face and make a potentially marriage-winning decision to ride out the rest of the night jitters on the couch.

--//--

I’ve got problems folks. I could probably deal with jitters pre-race. But afterwards? I'm a nut job. Geez, I never saw that one coming.

The BCM Brand

Recently, I googled to see what the folks were saying about the BCM brand. What's the BCM brand? That's me -- those are my initials, even when you call me Barry.

So like I was saying, in a moment of confessed narcissism, I took a peek-a-loo to see what was being reporting about my good name, the BCM brand in Omaha, NE.

The Google reported lots of stuff. Most of it was about cycling, and most of that was on gamjams-midwest site. But one outlier that caught me eye was the Annoying comment #1082 thread on beginnertriathelete.com, a one-stop triathlon training calendar and forum. Apparently on this forum, a user by the handle "DEMIGODKNIGHT" (profile) was advising other beginner triathletes from his racing experiences. The problem was, he didn't use his own racing resume. He used mine!

See for yourself:



You barely did any training? More likely: you didn't train and didn't race. That was my time from the 2007 Cornhusker State Games, and I didn't spend over 1000 hours training over two years to have some poser claim those results and say how easy it was to finish a triathlon.

Oh no, you're not damaging the BCM brand on my dime, buster.

Fortunately another user, tdk.teacher, was skeptical of his results



Not to be outdone, DEMIGODKNIGHT went on the offensive and attacked with more of my results, this time even trotting out Old Yeller!



Oh no he didn't! Hey demigod-guy, the BCM brand was founded on that $500 aluminum yellow bike! I'm not gonna take this abuse from you.

Then, user 'Steve in IL' came to my defense. He looked up the race results that DGK was claiming. My results came up as an an instant match.


Hmmm. Funny how those results are precisely the same as those of some guy named Brady Murphy, a 37 year old who finished 5th overall at the 2007 Cornhusker State Games Triathlon.

5 1/31 208 Brady Murphy I 37 M Omaha NE 5 13:17 1:16 1:06 25 36:21 20.5 1:12 5 18:50 6:04 1:10:43

Dude. That's weak. Care to fess up? Or are you also lying about your name, and age?

Yes indeed, the BCM brand is all about 'some guy named Brady Murphy'. Thank you for recognizing that, Steve in IL. After that post, things took a turn for the worse for DGK. Another user found my athlete profile at athlinks.com and posted it. The pile-on followed swiftly. DGK wasn't heard from again.





Ugh. This whole thread is pathetic. Truly. Even blogging about it is annoying, but other than the fantastic ice beard I'm currently growing, I've got little else to blog about lately.

Well DEMIGODKNIGHT, or Robert, or whoever you are, I hope you've learned your lesson: DON'T MESS WITH THE BCM BRAND.