Sunday February 24th 2008, 1:16 am
Seriously, how can you not want to stay in a country like this? It was like God’s own watercolor set just spilled from one horizon to the next as everyone gathered in the evening cool.
Pencarrow Lodge
New Zealand…rocks!
Monday February 18th 2008, 6:02 pm
Actually, this was taken at home, but my entire body feels like my hair in this photo: upright and awesome. So far I’ve survived driving on the left-hand side of the road, a steak and mushroom pie, and the squeaky top bunk at the hostel. As soon as my lungs clear out, I’ll be off on a training ride around the Bays. You stay classy, America!
Dear Nathan Fillion
Monday February 11th 2008, 3:36 pm
Hi, there. May I call you Nathan? I’d call you “Captain,” but I’m sure you get enough of that, especially from the Internet.
Here’s the thing, Nathan: I had a hell of a tough weekend. 22 miles on foot on Saturday, then 1.5 hours in the Pacific (water temps somewhere in the high 50s), then 8 hours in the saddle. I was supposed to bring in 115 miles, and the weather was beautiful, just the kind you’d want on a big ride. Problem was, see, I still can’t do the hills on PCH, so I had to go south along the bike path. And if I thought it was a good day for cycling, so did half the city. The other half decided it was perfect for walking and rollerblading, and that the bike path would be the perfect spot to get their mobile on.
So, it was a long day of slowing down, dodging pedestrians, helping people out with flats because I wasn’t going fast enough to escape their pleas for help, everything. And the sun was going down, and I still hadn’t found the last 17 miles and…
Nathan, I had to pack it in. I probably could’ve grabbed my windbreaker and lights, slugged down one more Powerbar and done a fast Marina loop, but I was done. No more dodging cars, no more looking out for taxis fighting for fares, no more swerving around jaywalking Venice hipster wanktards. Finito. Finished. Done.
I felt like an utter failure, that I was going to travel to Taupo only to get pulled from the bike course because I couldn’t finish the bike course in time. It’s been a long nine months, man, and I’m sure you could imagine how frustrating that would be. I flopped on the floor, without even the energy to stretch, and I flipped on the tube, hoping to have myself a good manly cry.
And there you were. TNT was playing “Saving Private Ryan,” right at your scene.
I don’t know if your turn as James Frederick Ryan, Minnesota, is one you recall with fondness (though, dude, getting a speaking part like that in a Spielberg movie had to mean a pretty good paycheck), but it has now earned a special place in my heart because, just at that moment when I lay on the floor, completely out of gas, and you started bawling. And I mean bawling, just sobbing your guts out like the entire world had come to an end and there was nothing else to do.
And I realized: I don’t need to cry, because you did it for me.
After watching that bit a few times (thanks, Tivo!), I felt better. Granted, the hot shower, banana and resting in my wife’s lap helped, but I will always know that it was you, Nathan Fillion, who pulled me out of that funk. And for that, sir, I thank you.
-A.
Stay On Target, Part the Third
Thursday February 07th 2008, 6:21 pm
This has been the toughest week of training, just because I thought last week was it. I’d get through that long ride (97 miles, in the rain, with headwinds, wolves and snotty Manhattan Beach teenagers chasing after me), pour myself a fish taco martini, put my feet up and relax until race day. It was time for The Taper, that mythical time when triathletes’ broken bodies magically knit themselves into something stronger, mightier, sexier than before.
But no. I had one more week to go.
This, of course, is where the mental preparation is supposed to come into play. “I think I can” must give way to “You bet your sweet ass I will,” even though every little bit of me wants to sleep thirteen hours a day and spend the other eleven hours on the couch with a stack of comic books at my side. I am tired, man, tired in a way that I’ve never been before. It’s not just the physical exhaustion, either. I am sick and goddamn tired of Powerbars, pre-dawn risings, going to bed at 8.30, the stretching, the icing, the whole enchilada. Tired. Sick And.
But I’m still going to get up early for tomorrow’s 40 miler. And I’m going to do that 22-mile hoof on Saturday. And I’m going to do the swim and the last big ride (115 miles!). And then that is it. Until race day. And then that’s it.
At least, that’s it until the next race.
Waiting
Friday February 01st 2008, 11:59 am
I feel like I’m in a holding pattern. Waiting for my leg to heal. Waiting for Ironman. Waiting for my birthday. Waiting for the inevitable hassle that the TSA’s sure to inflict. Waiting to hear from Clarion. Waiting for time to write. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
And it’s a lot of crap. Waiting is the opposite of not doing, and not doing is the same as being dead. The worst drug in the world isn’t tv, it’s waiting. Waiting kills time, murders by inches, crushes the soul one tiny weight at a time. Doing is being, is living, is telling entropy to take a flying leap. Yes, it’ll get me in the end, but, dammit, it’ll never take me alive.
So. Doing. Edit this gawdawful copy. Finish that story. Start another one. Do those stretches. Ice those limbs. Get in that saddle or that pool or those shoes and do, dammit. Let everyone else wait. I need to do.