What's been up

In short, i've been away from this blog for way too long. I actually forgot I had it still active. The crazy shizz that has transpired in the last 6 months is too much to go over. The good news is that my vision is back to acceptable, and I can train again. Enough with the sob story, since you're a faithful blog reader I am gonna post a piece I wrote for the Texas magazine "The Racing Post". It was all because of the pic below:

“Elyse, can you grab my helmet out of the truck? Thanks, love.”
I guess it’s time to warm up. What am I doing here? Just 2 months ago I was completely blind in my left eye. I mean, hell, I just got my vision back to acceptable like a month ago. These guys all look so fit. I’m not even close to my best fitness this season. I should have chosen my first race back a little more wisely; maybe stick to triathlons or try agrandfondo for fun. But a ‘cross race? You’re certifiable. Weare getting called to the start. Man, this is about to get real. Where do I line up? Oh crap, I’m on the front row. Don’t make eye contact, don’t look around. I just looked around; not good. Everyone is staring at me like a vulture about to feast on its prey. Ok, relax. Don’t panic now, just adjust your goal. The new goal is to not finish last, and a bonus for not getting lapped. My name gets called, it’s too late to bail now. How are my hands numb? It’s like 75 degrees outside. There’s the gun! BIG POWER. GO GO GO! CLIP IN CLIP IN! Get your position in line for the first hard right hander. YOU’RE GOING TOO SLOW! PEOPLE ARE FLYING BY YOU! I told you this race was a bad idea. Unclip and jump the barriers. BACK ON THE BIKE! CLIP IN CLIP IN! Next lap clear those barriers less like a ballerina and more like a ‘cross racer. POWER UP THE HILL! TURN, TURN! You gonna jump or dismount? JUMP OR DISMOUNT? MAKE A DECISION! THE LOG IS HERE! That was weak, the guy behind you is pissed. Make a decision and stick with it.Downhill into the sand. PICK A LINE, DON’T CHANGE!YOU CHANGED, NOW POWER THROUGH. YOU’RE LOSING TIME ALL OVER THIS COURSE! YOU GOTTA PULL THE LEADERS BACK, DON’T LET THEM RIDE AWAY! That’s it, this is where you’re gonna fly. Get to the pavement, and around the baseball field. That’s it, lay the power down. GOOD EFFORT, GET IN THE PAIN CAVE. As the race gets longer, you get better. OH, TOO CONFIDENT IN THAT CORNER! CRASH! GET UP QUICK! CLIP IN, CLIP IN! PEDAL, PEDAL, PEDAL!You didn’t lose too much time. CLAW BACK INTO THIS RACE! Be smooth over the barriers. You know you’re faster once we’re out of the sand. No mistakes now, the race is almost over. Ok, just take a quick peek to see if someone is back there. You’re clear. Can I catch the guy in front? He’s so close. BIG EFFORT! VENGA VENGA VENGA! It’s the last turn, DIG DEEP! So close to catching him. Maybe next race. Now breathe. I gotta grab my wheels and find a place to clean up. Where is Elyse?
“Well, how was your first race back?” she said with a smile.
“It was just as painful as I remembered. Would you be cool with me racing next weekend?”

Maybe it's time to quit goofing off and put up some updates, eh?

FINALLY, the St. Croix report...

This is so late, I know. But I wanted to write some other stuff about training, so I figured I'd post my St. Croix reveiw.
St. Croix is always mentioned in the small list of races that you have to do if you race triathlons. So when my buddy Brennan called and said that he and a friend were headed to St. Croix to do the 70.3, it didn’t take much convincing for me to book my ticket. The humorous part of this little adventure was that it was Brennan and Khalid’s first half ironman. Good thing Khalid never bothered to look at the course profile before signing up, as Brennan would have never jumped on board and I would have never been coaxed into going.
First thing about St. Croix is that it pretty much sucks to fly in to. American Airlines has really outdone themselves in being ridiculous with flight schedules, and equally ridiculous in ripping every dime you have out of your hands just to get your tri gear there. However, you forget about it as soon as you set foot on the island. The people are genuine, upbeat and not in a hurry for anything. And it is OBVIOUS that you are a tourist there, but that doesn’t stop anyone from greeting you on the street and telling you “Good luck Sunday” when you pass. We all went out to the swim start Thursday to get a swim in and check things out. To say the water was clear is a huge understatement. You could easily see 30 feet to the bottom. After the swim, I went to registration before realizing I forgot my I.D. In true island spirit, they said “No problem”, two people who agreed that I was who I said I was worked for them. After registration, we hit up a restaurant that looked good. However, when they told us it was a vegetarian and raw restaurant, we tried to leave. The waitress was heartbroken and pleaded with us to try it. I’ve had break-ups that were less uncomfortable than this little exchange. I don’t think she got it when I told her, “It’s not you, it’s me.”
Race morning came early, 4a.m. We loaded up the transition bags, and rode over to the swim start. For a world-class 70.3, the venue is super chill. I was putting my bike on the rack and setting up my transition area, and took a glance around. There were some real age group studs here, and it was pretty clear that this was gonna be a fast day. Keeping with the spirit that everything in St. Croix is just “a little more difficult”, we had to swim across the channel to a little island where the race would officially start. It was a quasi-beach start where it was a drag race for 50 yards, then you take a hard left. When we took off, there was chaos, followed by a hard left, followed by more chaos. The good news is that I didn’t get hit in the head and I got out of the water in a good position. Now, here’s the first of many things I learned in St. Croix (besides that it’s a good place to hide if you have outstanding warrants). Make sure you pre-drive the course, even if it is “only” a half ironman. Good thing for me, THE Jeff Cuddeback gave us some tips and tricks on how to stay out of trouble. The thing that most stuck out in my mind was “Don’t even think about racing until after the Beast. That’s when it starts to get tough”. That was good advice, and definitely helped out. Of course, driving the course would’ve shown the countless sharp turns, pavement, how difficult the backside of the island was, and oh yeah, where the 10 unmarked HUGE speed bumps were on the course. Nothing gets your attention like getting both wheels off the ground at 25mph while you’re in your aero bars. It’s quite an experience…really. A word on the Beast. It is as bad as they say it is. Good thing that the locals have a heart and a sense of humor. They paint the road to show you the start of the climb, and are kind enough to paint each 1/10th of a mile (the climb is 7/10ths of a mile in total) as well as painting the percent grade next to the mile marker. Like I said, those locals are super friendly AND helpful. After you crest the Beast is where the fun begins. That is where the coastal winds start to really hit you, and the shade is nowhere to be found. If you made the mistake (I did) of wearing an aero helmet, the backside of the island is where your head starts to cook. As for me, I kinda felt I went WAY too easy on the bike, but it made me ride strong the last 15 miles of the bike. I was shocked to see how many strong guys were sitting on the base bar just soft-pedaling in those last 15 miles. Being able to ride strong past those guys, and the energy to dodge that rooster (seriously, a rooster on the road) told me I made the right call on riding easy. I came into transition in about 11th for my age group, and knew that the run was going to be brutally hot. Brutally hot isn’t my favorite weather, but being from the swamp of Louisiana, brutally hot is about all the weather that I know. Ice on this course was mandatory. I was stoked to have my K-Swiss K-Ona shoes on, since they are wicked light but also have holes in the bottom for all the water I was dumping on myself to escape. I ran without a watch, but would just run on effort and try to run faster the second loop. When we were running through the golf course, Bryan Rhodes passed me. He didn’t fly by me, which is what I’m accustomed to whenever a pro passes me. This told me I was at least running ok. That 2nd lap was a real gut check. While picturesque, this race is brutal and grueling. I saw some pretty fit dudes and girls walking, or just sitting under a tree blown up. It was quite the sight. In the 2nd time through the golf course, I caught 4 or 5 guys in my age group. I had a nice foot race going with this one guy and thought that I would start my surge like 2 minutes before the 2nd lap turnaround. Well just a head’s up to anyone wanting to do that race, the finish line is NOT just beyond the turnaround. It’s 3 blocks down, then a block to the right, and then 3 blocks back in. So my little surge turned into a ridiculously long time in the pain cave. When the damage was done, the clock read 4:51:00. Not my fastest half ironman time by a long shot, but it was a satisfying finish on a tough course against some truly BAMF triathletes from around the world. Of course, the fun of this race would be the awards ceremony and after-party. I won’t answer any questions directly, but there was a good time had by all, and I do in fact know that Cruzan rum is made in St. Croix and that there are quite a few different flavors of this storied rum. Here are some pictures of said events: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=112986&id=516672989&l=b0262f396d

Pre-St. Croix and the Parable of the Mustang

So I’m headed out tomorrow to St. Croix to race the half-ironman there, and see what this beast business is all about. I’ve been kinda messin’ around with doing the St. Croix race report to a Dr. Seuss theme, but it’s all still touch and go right now. I don’t know if I’ve got the chops to pull it off. He was a grumpy old genius who hated kids and still the people bought his children’s books. I’m a 7-5 paper pusher who occasionally highlights. I know my role, but I might give it a shot anyway.
While in St. Croix, I thought I might be no dice on the twitter, as my phone has decided to give up on me. Well, not completely, maybe the phone is on strike. So the 2, 5, and 8 keys don’t work. Try texting anything without the letters on the 2, 5, and 8 keys. Most of my stuff is Word!, Yes!, No, good. Real smooth vocab, for sure. However, they’ve got free Wi-Fi at the hotel, and Da Bear has an extra Cingular phone “just in case” that he’s loaning to me until I can FINALLY upgrade to the new iPhone in June. Who knew his “just in case” would actually happen (him, I’m sure.) Anyway, that’s a long-winded way to say stay tuned for updates, and general silliness from the US Virgin Islands.
I’ll end this quick blurb with my favorite parable. A buddy of mine called and we were talking smack. He told me something someone said he heard 8th hand from a guy next to a bus stop talking to a lady who used to babysit for my friends’ parents. Anyway, you get the picture. He told me the story, which was basically slamming me. So I felt inclined to share my “Parable of the Mustang”. It goes like this: When I was in high school, I had a 1968 Mustang. This beast was BAD. 390 cubic inch engine, slicks in the back. Just the sort of car you want a 15 year old full of testosterone to have. Anyway, this car attracted all kinds of attention; good and bad. But without fail, every time I drove the car anywhere, some dumbass would make a comment that went like this: “Well I’ve got this friend who’s got a (fill in the blank), and it’s got a (###) engine, and it would smoke your car!” After hearing this enough, I finally put together my clever reply. “Well go get your car. You should call your friend and get it and then we can race. I have nothing important going on, so call him and we can race right now.” This little reply was usually met with stuttering, mumbling, or embarrassment when they said, “I told you it wasn’t MY car, but a friend of mine’s. He’s pry not home anyway, volunteering at the nursing home, etc. etc.” While my bad ass car is long gone, the moral of that story still rings true today. Don’t run your mouth about a friend of a friend of a guy who used to live in your neighborhood, and how he would crush all our wills’ to live. Or how if your buddy could just sober up long enough to train, he’d be like miles ahead of us. You just end up living vicariously through other people, but more importantly you just look silly. A wise Portuguese fellow once told me, “You’re only as good as your last race.” But more importantly, in drag race talk, You gotta run what you brung. You don’t get to run what your buddy used to be able to do, or the race you woulda had if only x, y, and z didn’t happen. Talk less, train more.

The First Hit is Always Free

In short, I got tempted the same way I’m sure that any addict gets lured in. As I was walking off the pool deck after swim practice, Claire said “John, we have an entry for the Louisiana Triathlon this Saturday if you’re interested.” Now, I had fully resigned to the fact that I was gonna race New Orleans and then St. Croix with nothing but training between. Well, it was that offer that set the wheels into motion.
When the alarm went off at 4am, it was pouring. I mean, typical south Louisiana swamp deluge. So I made the deal that since I was already up, I earned my bowl of pre-race Cinnamon Toast Crunch. After that, I would look outside and make the call. As luck would have it, the rain broke just long enough for me to pack the Banana Trek and all my gear into Subie and get on the road. I wasn’t even down my driveway, and I got a text from Jeremy. We were both waiting for the other to say they weren’t going, but neither of us did. The whole way to New Roads was pouring rain with bouts of driving rain. Thank goodness for Subie’s all-wheel drive, and nimble footing. And to the drunkard going the wrong way down the boulevard in Krotz Springs, thanks for staying to my left. I got to New Road’s, and parked Subie in a spot that I felt was way too close for the time I arrived. This is never a good sign.
Despite my negative Nancy thoughts, registration was wide open, and from what every volunteer and race official said, it was “Game on.” False river looked especially inviting with its white caps rolling into the boat launch. The usual pre-race was in order with the small adjustment to prepping the Banana for racin’ in the rain. 100psi in the tires, K-Swiss stickers on the disc, and roll dat action!
The water was kinda chilly, so they let us wear wetsuits. Right before the gun went off, a blast from the past (Terry B!) hollered at me to get on the other side of the dock. I guess he saw the bouys drift and could see the current from way up there. Turned out to be a good call. Thanks T! The gun goes off and it’s pandemonium. I mean, I swim HARD for the first 200, and there are 5 guys in front of me, and like 6 on the side of me. I know I can swim this hard to the turnaround, but don’t particularly want to. However, natural selection and lactic acid got rid of most of the guys next to me. At the turnaround, I was with two dudes, and I could live with sitting back there. I came out of the water right behind Lawson and some other dude that was wicked tall and had exquisite taste in wetsuits (2XU). I hit the boat dock and just decided to go. T1 was as fast as I’ve ever done, and with my new “Stay Fly” Bontrager kicks , I could actually put my shoes on while riding the bike. After my sweet knee gash trying to ride up the boat ramp last year, I decided to run up the hill. But don’t worry, my injury streak is still going as I somehow managed to find something sharp enough to gash my foot. You need a souvenir from every race, and nothing says souvenir like a scar!
Now, before I wig out, I gotta gather myself and get my shoes on. F that, Holy Shi-ite Muslim, Batman! I’m leading this race! I mean, not my age group, but the flippin’ cop car is out there in front for me! The internal dialogue went something like this:
“This is crazy.”
“Ok, focus.”
“Quit geeking out.”
“Obey the yellow box(PowerTap).”
“Man, this is SO COOL!”
I knew that coming out of the water with Lawson meant I maybe had 45 seconds or so lead on the guys behind me. So I just tried to ride around 270-310W on the yellow box of pain. I was frightened to look back, and with my choice of the ridiculously deep yet uber-cool Zipp 1080 on the front couldn’t because I was getting blown around from the gusts of wind. I hit the turnaround and figured this was where I could figure my time gap. I was 1min up on Lawson and about 2:30-3min up on JJ, Johnny D, and Norman. If I could keep the gap, and keep the pressure up, I might actually have a chance to be the Triathlon King of New Roads (it has a nice, trashy ring to it, eh.). I came into transition convinced that I held the gap the same, or maybe put a little more time into the guys behind (I was WRONG). Tammy D was too sweet with her comments when I was trading the banana for some runners and a visor. She bragged about my fast transition, so I kinda felt obligated even though I wanted to just chill for a minute and take my time. In retrospect, it was good she told me to get movin. As I came out onto the run course, Terry B shouted “You got plenty of time! No need to gut yourself. Just run.” (Note to self: ALWAYS gut yourself, but never in the first mile.) I still knew those guys were behind, but figured that I had plenty of time (2nd note to self: Never think during the run of a sprint. VAMOS, VAMOS, VAMOS!) I looked back a few times, until finally the biker leading me asked what I was doing. I said, “Looking who’s coming.” He said, “Who, dude? There is NO ONE even on the road.” The realization that I might actually do this sunk in. However, when we made the turn, the biker kept looking back. I asked what he was looking at, and he said, “That guy that just passed the car wash.” I didn’t need to see, I knew who it was. JJ was running me down. I knew pre-race that this would be a Battle Royale, and he wasn’t just gonna let me win. I kept digging but I felt slower and slower. The cruelest thing about New Roads is that you pass exactly 4 feet from the finish line with 1 mile to go around a concrete track; and everything is open, so you see it all. So I saw JJ as he ran into the park and flew past the caboose while I was just starting on the concrete track. I couldn’t believe I was gonna lead this race outta T1 only to lose it on the concrete jungle track. I made the decision to muster up my “sprint” on the backside of the loop, as I figured he’d gutted himself to bridge up to me. Maybe this surge would break him. Well, it worked, but barely. I just had enough time to zip up the UL-Lafayette jersey and come across the line. Mignon made me laugh when she said, “Well, you made that look easy.” So I took off my shoes and showed her my souvenirs. I think I may have frightened her.
Post-race was crazy, as I got to visit with TTrahan and Mignon, CBoggs, Hunter, Mr. Gary, and re-live being hunted like a gazelle with Jeremy. However, I think the coolest part of the whole day was the lead police guy coming up and introducing himself, and telling me congratulations. This dude made my whole week, and kept me safe; although he wouldn’t let me get close enough to the car to motorpace. Another cool part of the day was running back (well, me limping) with the legend, Johnny D.
Sorry to be so long winded, but this was special as it was my first big triathlon win. When I started this game, it was New Roads that kicked off the season. I always wanted to put my name on the top of the results list, and it was a special feeling to finally do it. It’s a shame that there might not be a 2010 edition of the race, as Mr. Dunnaway is retiring after 16 years. Even if it is, thank you Mr. Dunnaway for all the years of motivation to get out in the cold because I knew the Louisiana Triathlon was coming up, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself. I’d also like to thank Mr. Gary and Mrs. Cecile for the entry, and my awesome sponsors: Giles Subaru for Subie, Capital Cyclery for my pimp daddy Banana TTX, Zipp for my go-fast wheels, K-Swiss for those awesome K-ona shoes, and my parents for, well, everything. You guys are the best. Oh, and thanks Claire, for offering an addict a Saturday hit of adrenaline….

Coming in off the bike, trying to figure out how not to crash into Transition

Maybe I should zip the jersey AND fix the hat next time, so I don't look drunk

"You stalker, mother trucker!"
"Another half mile, and I woulda caught you."

Right before I show Mignon the New Roads souvenir on my foot. She'll never be the same.

Me and JJ, talking with the Legendary Johnny D.

Oh, you better believe you're giving me a hug! I even put on a dry shirt!

Just a preview of what's to come. Johnson/Fell, Rematch 275. This time, it's for the Title....

New Orleans Bake sale

Pretty quick and down to it race report straight out of the Big Easy. Being the first race of the year, I always get a kick out of all the simple small things I seem to forget or ignore. You know, like if you wanna go fast take in a lot of calories on the bike. And get to the race venue plenty early so you're not stressed and dodging around at the last minute trying to get it all together. A really cool part of this race was being able to take Subie, the Subaru Outback, for the weekend. Those cars are super cool, and it's a close 2nd behind the 1960's VW minibus in pimp wheels. So I got Subie all loaded up with race gear, including my dad (Tha Bear) who made a game time decision to come check out the race.  We hit I-10 and got to New Orleans just in time for some random bum to charge me $20 to not steal the bikes off the roof, I mean charge me $20 to park in a parking spot owned by the city. Ah, New Orleans, where greed and corruption filter all the way down to the street people. It's like I never left! Anyway, after some weaving and moving, I got my race packet with a shirt and water bottle. At least they didn't cheese up the packets with beads. That would have been too much. 

Race day and the trek to BFE for the swim start came WAY too early. However, the good thing about a race in New Orleans is that half the city is still up at 5am. 2% of those are sober enough to walk, but their up nonetheless. In transition to get all the gear prepped, and here was my one true gripe of the race. Sure, the race had some studs out there. But to not know Natascha Badmann's ENTIRE palmares when you know other minor pro's notable results is unforgivable. This Swiss Miss has more Ironman victories than half of the girls' podium finishes that the announcer did talk about, combined. Of course, she did go and annihilate the course, so she got the last laugh. Anyway, after a bus ride to the swim start, it was another half mile hike to the actual swim start. A quick wetsuit zip for my friend Chris Lieto (I'm like a big Internet star here, I can't act like I'm star struck cause Chris Lieto asked me to zip his wetsuit. Ok, seriously, good thing the wetsuit doesn't have pockets. Autographs and pics for sure along with automatic facebook update via iPhone that I'm kickin it with Chris). Enough chatting with Chris, I got a race to do.

We get in the water, and as much as the transfer and walk sucked, the swim was awesome. Point to point, swimming as far or close to the sea wall as you wanted. I had ZERO contact, and missed the lead group of 3 swimmers because I was following the only drunk guy who made the swim start. The rest was uneventful, and I'm happy to report that I didn't bump into any creatures or dead body's that the mob disposed of during the swim. I've still got my fingers crossed for no crazy infections post-swim. It was exciting to come out of the water at the pointy end of the race, and the banana hammock steed of a bike was ready to roll. The bike was all Louisiana had to offer. You had terrible roads, some wicked misplaced asphalt, swamp grass, mountainous overpass climbs, drunk guys in white shrimpin boots at 8am, and burnt stripped down stolen cars pushed in the bayou. It was truly a tour of Louisiana for all those that got on the bike course. The wind and some planning kept the drafting down, so that was cool to see. The headwind on the way back was wicked. At the last aid station, they were kind enough to give me a gatorade with the plastic under the cap still attached. Watching me open that with one hand would have made a good YouTube. T2 was lookin sweet as I was the 3rd amateur to come in off the bike. T2 took close to an hour.

On the run, I brought my Moroccan shakers with me. Or that's what my salt pills and jelly beans sounded like. I'll save the details, but the run was on point till about mile 4 or 5. Then things got really dizzy, I got really hot, and I really needed some ice. I would have traded you a 10 pound bag of ice for my bike, straight up, on Sunday. I was that desperate. Then there was "rumor" that I asked a random spectator if he had an extra coke. All he had was his half drank one, and offered it. I took it and guzzled, even as his girlfriend screamed, "Wait, that has bourbon in it." Ah yes, New Orleans. But like a true southern gentleman he said, "I didn't mix it yet. I'd never give away a bourbon and coke, love." You sir, would be my hero if that story were true. But like I said, it was just a rumor. Anyway, the detonation and blow up on the run was especially painful. The only thing that made it semi-acceptable was that Desiree Ficker insisted on running with me. Ok, she would really run passed me, stop, regroup, re-pass me, stop, regroup. This went on for 7 or 8 miles. It was a lovely first date, but I told her we are just leading different lives, and it's pry best if that's the only time we see each other. 

One bright spot in the race was the finish line. A bunch of my friends and family were down in the quarter. I wanna believe it was to watch the finish, but it's pretty easy to convince people to come down to the French Quarter. Chris and Stacey came with their daughter to check it all out. Stacey thought it was crazy, Chris thought it was cool. Audrey thought it was fun when post-race we were speaking the same language.

Seriously, the race I've been dreaming about was 2/3rds complete when the hatchet came down on the run. And it's hard to remember all the good when the last thing is the run. But it's a great way to start the '09 season, and it was a good reminder to keep training. It's only April, and we got a million miles to go....

Hammers and Nails

I’ve been writing this blog in my head ever since camp ended. All the elevation changes and climbing had me speaking monosyllabically by the end of the week, so I figured it would be a good idea to wait till my thoughts and speech were clear enough to expand on the camp experience. I won’t really go into too much detail of how much we did, what type of work we did, etc. For those who do wanna know the numbers, camp ran from Sunday March 15th to the 22nd. In that span, we swam 32,000 yards, rode about 328 miles, and ran about 52 miles. That comes to about 36 hours of play time out on the roads, trails, and in the pools of Tucson. While the numbers are there, they don’t tell half the story. There are stories a’ plenty of mountain climbing, scary descents, running out of food/water on the ride, rattlesnakes, wild boars checking out Lauren, bath water pools and superstar triathlon sightings that are better told over some Guinness and burgers.
To say I felt like a poser at this camp was an understatement. I mean, you had Will Ronco (5th at Ironman Lake Placid ’08), Marky V (usually 1st guy out of the water and off the bike at every race he does), Jacqui Gordon (5th at IM Lake Placid AND 7th at IM Louisville, all in the span of a few weeks in ’08, and soon to be top 3 at IM South Africa….you heard it hear first), and Danny Montoya (this guy has a standing reservation with a condo company in Kona, yeah he’s that fast). Oh, and for good measure, the 70.3 age-group world champ Lauren Harrison was flying in Tuesday ready to shred. Then there was me, the winner of…., well, I won a pool swim triathlon once. From the first training session we did, I could see that there was a big difference in this group and the training that I was normally used to doing.
There was no hammering the session, no test of wills to establish pecking order, no racing in training. The group got the session from Paulo, the Portuguese doctor of pain (Doutor português da dor), went out the door and got the work done. No extra, no less, no argument. Just do the work he says and wait for the next workout. Over the course of the week I started to understand the Posse’s (Paulo’s team name) motto, HTFU (Harden the F$&K up). Just get the work done. I finally turned off my brain and stopped trying to understand why we were doing what we were, or when I thought we would end a session. It was around Wednesday or Thursday that I just shut my mouth and took my beating (I mean completed my workout). There were only a few monster sessions throughout the week, but mostly it was just a healthy dose of swim, bike and run with some super fast, super cool, super humble people. We all suffered together, and it was so cool to get encouragement from the Posse’ when they were hurting just as much as I was.
It took a while for me to get what the camp was about. The best way I can sum up camp is that it was a first hand view that there are no short cuts, no genetic freak talent (except for Marky V’s 1:46 200 swim at the end of camp. That’s not human), and no luck involved. Just hard ass work. Either do it, or don’t; it’s up to you. And to be truly successful, like the 5 guys and girls I was in camp with, you gotta be nails. Anyone can be a hammer, and smack one or two workouts here or there. But the true bad asses, the real contenders are nails. They can take and execute any workout in any order, with any amount of work that you can throw at them. And they can do it day after day after day. That’s nails.
So thanks to the Posse’ for letting me roll with ya’ll in Tucson. And thanks to Paulo for opening my eyes to the work that needs to be done. Here’s to my new goal: Being Nails in ’09.

Still Livin’ the dream….