I know that the world is burning down around me, and the sky looks like Pompeii on a bad day, and that work will likely be a royal pain in the ass of clients and shit-eating, but you know what? I just ran ten miles, and the iPod was nice enough to put on Guns ‘n’ Roses playing “Knocking on Heaven’s Door.” The live version from the Freddie Mercury Concert. The one where Axl cries, “Gimme some reggae!” and the world is burst of joyous, riotous dance. And I know it’s a little thing, a wee synchronicity that might have happened on any day during any run, but I’ll take it. Good God, yes, I’ll take it.

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Good gravy, but that hurt.

I only managed four (or maybe three?) laps before my legs and pride completely gave out. I just couldn’t hack the pace (at least 28 mph, the highest my computer got) and dropped behind after the second turn.

But Paul, one of my teammates (and a triathlon coach), told me he crapped out on his first race, and I didn’t feel so bad. It’s a different feeling than a triathlon, where my only concern was my own time. In a crit, you’ve got to suck it up and muscle in with the peloton and hold your spot. All that jostling still scares me, but, dammit, I’m not going to let it get to me.

Plus, I had waffles Benedict for breakfast. Any activity that allows me to suck down that much food and still have room for a chocolate croissant, fish tacos and big bowl of pasta for dinner and still feel hungry is eight kinds of good. We’ll see how Friday’s ride with La Grange goes.

No dropping out. No whining. Ironmen show up.

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So, Scott dropped in on Saturday, and, while we were talking about racing next year (and, yes, we all are. I’m planning on a triumphant return to Camp Pendleton, where I’ll rip through that course like a ferret on crank [note to self: don't forget crank-flavored gels]), he brought up our little pact from last year: that he and I would race Ironman New Zealand in 2007.

Now, while we could still get in, the chances of us surviving the course without permanently damaging ourselves are slim to Oh-Sweet-Mother-Of-God-That-Hurts, so we pushed it to 2008. So, I declare now in front of all the Intar-Tubes: I am going to enter Ironman New Zealand 2008, and I will finish it without throwing up. However, I reserve the right to weep copious tears around mile twenty-one of the marathon.

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Went to see Warren Miller's Journey last night. Woof. It's snowporn, plain and simple, and I walked away feeling amped about this season. I know I'll never be a boarder of the same caliber as the people in that movie, but you know what? That's okay. I get as much juice out of a perfect S-turn as these guys do riding down sheer mountain faces in the Alps. Snow is snow, and I'm stoked.

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