The Grudge Report

It’s not that I didn’t want to write about Idaho, or the race. I honestly really didn’t have much to say about it all. However, since I’m a man of a million words, and I promised myself I couldn’t write about anything else until I wrote about Coeur d’Alene, the race report goes down like this:

The preparation leading up to this race was about as perfect as I could have asked for. The usual suspects kept me healthy and rolling. Jason Abshire and Keith Terro kept me upright and walking, and Dr. Joe and Joey at LaCaze Athletic Solutions helped me with my crazy gangster lean problem on my right side. The great thing about a June/July Ironman race for those of us blessed enough to be inbred, I mean born and raised in Louisiana, is that the weather conditions for us during the big training is semi-bearable. Granted, there is the uncertainty in the spring of 45 and windy, or 80 and no humidity, but it sure beats the hell out of 95 and humid, with a 30% chance of afternoon showers and a 20% chance of dying if you stay outside longer than an hour, which we get all summer. Anyway, back to the race at hand. We stayed in Post Falls, which is about 10 minutes from the swim start and exactly one town over from Coeur d’Alene. For the most part, you are nice and isolated from the hustle and bustle of the Ironman spectacle. But the most important reason for staying in Post Falls when I go back to do this race again (yes, I am for sure going back) is the Whitehouse grill. A blip of a building right off of exit 5, this is the best restaurant I’ve eaten at, ever. No exaggeration, I’m doing this race again for 2 reasons: First because of all the crowd support and the second is Whitehouse grill. It’s a Greek restaurant with a catchy slogan, “You love garlic, and we love you!” Enough about the food and festivities, it’s time to race!
Race day came, and it’s been a long time since I’ve been so calm before the start. I told ENM as we had our awkward moment of her trying to get me wedged into my wetsuit. “Elyse, I think this wetsuit makes my butt look fat. Does it?” Women don’t find it so amusing when you use their questions against them. Anyway I kissed my mom and Elyse, and man hugged my dad (dudes don’t kiss, come on!). I waddled down to the beach with a confidence that in about 10 or so hours, we’d be talking about when we were flying to Hawaii, and who all was coming. Now before you call me an arrogant prick in your mind for being so bold, keep in mind that I had a pretty good idea what it would take to get to the big baby dance show that is Kona, and I knew that my training and racing results put me on the UPS truck. All I had to do was deliver the goods. The gun went off, and it was on! The swim was the most brutal I’ve ever encountered. There was about a 3 minute period where I really worried about drowning. I got punched in the head like a man, as opposed to all the girl slaps you normally get in open water swimming, and someone behind me grabbed my hips and pushed me under. I don’t care how good you are in the water; you’re never ready for that. I decided for my next race, I’ll do a bit of training with my weight room buddy “Crazy” Tim Credeur to get ready for the swim.
I come out of the water in 1:05:xx, and frankly I’m pissed. I know I can swim an hour, how did I not swim an hour? Just as I ponder my swim fate, and millions of beautiful Ironman groupies were screaming my name(hey, It’s my lie and I’ll tell it any way I want to), I face plant. Sweet move! Now I’m pissed about the swim, and the odd off color chance I hear someone say, “Huh, huh. John Fell. Get it?” Uh yeah, real original. Out of the change tent and onto the steed. The 1:05:xx swim got to my head, and I thought I had given up a bunch of time to the guys in my age group wanting to get their Kona ticket. (Little did I know that the lake level was causing a wicked current, and everyone’s swim was slow. Let that be a lesson, kids!) So I did the most brilliant thing I could think of, which is ride the first hour of the bike like I was trying to keep the yellow jersey. My heart rate was jacked, and didn’t come down till I finally calmed a bit and found a rhythm. The rest of the ride was pretty uneventful, except that stark realization that people from pan flat Lafayette, LA will probably suck at hills. Unless you count overpasses, then I’m a world champ. Anyway, I told my dad to run a covert op for me of counting everyone he saw in front of me with the ages 25-29 on their calf. I would have asked ENM to do this, but she goes to UL-Lafayette, and well I was a bit concerned to trust a UL student to count. When I came by on the run, they told me I was in 8th. Man, not too shabby. I knew we had 5 slots, and if I could just run the pace of every long run I’ve had since March, it would put me in the chute at 9:45, 9:50 at the latest. And for sure that would be top 5. I passed a “legendary” triathlon coach who was racing, and basically trains all day with zero stress, so I knew I was going pretty well. Then it happened. This guy comes by me with a good pace. I knew I could pick it up a touch and match him, so I decided to attach myself to him. In short, we ran stride for stride for 23 miles. We were catching people left and right. There was no funny business, as he was 30, and I 28, so we could use each other and not have to have a “There can be only one victor” race at the end. I was ecstatic, until I looked at one of our mile splits. The LCD simply read “8:03”. I was crushed, as I knew I was going as fast as I could for this moment, and that kind of running wasn’t going to pull the 3 guys in front of me back. I kept running hard, and the pace never really increased. It was that cold, scary, pit of the stomach fear that I had just realized. “What if I train my ass off, taper well, rest, do everything right. And then, on race day, I just don’t have it?” Well, I can now check that box, as I was just off what felt like 2 or 3 percent all day, from swim to bike to run. I felt horrible as I just basically quit on the course at mile 25. I cramped at an aid station, and then just cruised it in with this guy that I had been running with about 10 seconds up the road. I apologize to anyone who was watching Ironman live; as I’m sure I looked about as excited crossing that finish line as a 5 year old did who got a sweater/sock combo from Santa.
In short, I’m not bummed with the day, the preparation, or the sacrifice. I’m bummed because I’ve got a great, talented group of people behind me and who put as much into this as I do. As an athlete, I’ve got the easiest part; deliver the goods. And on the day, I didn’t deliver. But, hey that’s life. The (sorta) cool part was that the guy I ran with got his ticket to Kona, and I helped. That made me feel a little better. Wait, nope, it didn’t. Just kidding. Seriously, John from Los Angeles, enjoy Kona. I’ll be tracking you on race day, hoping you rock it. Anyway, after the race, all hope for a rolldown was demolished, as we only had 4 slots in our age group, I was sitting in 8th place. How much separated me from 4th? 15 minutes. You know how much time is in feeling off 2-3% on a 10 hour day? 15 minutes. So, the cool part is that I know I’m close to getting that spot. I just need to have a good day, and not have the German national Semi-Pro Triathlon team show up to the race I’m doing. And oh yeah, the moral of this story? Ironman still hurtsJ

What if....

First off, I know I haven't written a race report for Couer d'Alene yet, and you are probably checking this blog to see if I have posted it yet. I'll pry write one, but I'm just not ready yet.

Here's my thought of the day for you. My very own Nike Triathlon commercial, if you will....

What if triathlon had nothing to do with awards, rewards or results?
What if there was no Hawaii?
What if there were no sponsors or free stuff?
What if there were no age group awards, no "championship" races?
What if there were no finisher medals or T-shirts to display proudly?
What if it was just a swim workout, followed by a bike, then a run?
What if you raced the course, and had no idea where you finished in the field?
What if it was truly just a group of guys going for a morning swim, bike and run?

Would you still be here?
Would you still be dedicated and focused?
Would you still sacrifice?
Would you still get the same feeling?
Would you race soley for self-discovery?
Would your passion still be strong?

The Silence before the Storm

The popular saying is always “The Calm before the storm”, but I find that laughable. There is nothing calm about anyone before the big storm goes down, so I’m renaming it “The silence before the storm.” Everyone in the room sees the 800 lb gorilla trying to blend in and mingle with the bow tie and slacks on. But we all know he’s there, and we all know why. That’s a lot of how I feel about Ironman Coeur d’Alene this Sunday. There may be silence, but I know what’s coming. And oddly enough, the emotion isn’t fear, or even relief that it’s gonna be over in one short week. Nope, the dominant emotion is silence. Is that even an emotion, you ask? Well, it is now.
See, I know it’s gonna hurt, I know I’ll be tested and stretched and maybe even hurl a few times. But I signed up for this, my preparation has been absolutely flawless, and there are no excuses coming into this weekend. I’m gonna “run what I brung” fitness-wise, and see where the cards fall. If you are curious on Sunday, I’m number 287 or 288. Now how I got 2 numbers for the race, I’ll never know. Maybe they’ll let me bring a friend to jump in and do the race. Any takers? But for sure, the lady at Ironman headquarters told me no dice on getting 2 schwag bags. God forbid I get 2 license plate holders!
Anyway, I just wanted to take a quick second as well to thank all of you for the well wishes and votes of confidence for this weekend. No matter how many races you do, or where you fall in the race results, its always a big confidence booster to hear people are excited for you and will be cheering you on. Thank you, really. I can’t say it enough.
As for Sunday, the storm is coming. Whatever takes place in the week before doesn’t take my eye off of the 800 lb gorilla waiting to throw down on Sunday. I may be silent and calm now, but come Sunday…it’s on.

Thanks for reading

Banned in the USA!!!

I figured I would hit up a little 2Live Crew in the title, and it may explain what exactly went down this weekend. If you'll look above, you'll see the REAL results of the Heatwave Triathlon in Ridgeland, Mississippi. However, if you went to the awards or looked online, you'll notice that my name is inexplicably left out of the results. How could this be, you ask? Well, it seems that USAT has McGruff the crime dog as an official. He deemed my Pimp daddy Jens Voigt Bell helmet illegal for this race. Now McGruff, being from the slow speaking part of the south(R_I_D_G_E_L_A_N_D, M_I_S_S_I_P_E_E), could not fathom that this helmet was not bought illegally by me and smuggled across the pond. No, this inbred Einstein was blown away that it was actually Jens' helmet(since his name was all over it), and was given to me as a gift. And no way could a helmet not for retail sale in the US could have a CSPC sticker (which it did). But the largest flaw in this whole fiasco, other than this guy's lack of tact and awareness of personal hygiene, was the fact that no official was at transition before the race to even check helmets. If he would have told me no way before the race, no matter what, I would have gotten my back up helmet. Instead he waited till I was out on the run to google the entire world of helmets so he could present his judge and jury verdict deeming me expelled from the race. Nevermind those silly iPod's people had on the course, or that he only checked my helmet. Even more curious was the "winner" of my age group was also from R_I_D_G_E_L_A_N_D. Interesting....

Anyway, aside from the assinine crap, it was cool to race with Jeremy and Will again. The swim was great (the blurry photo says 9:37, 11th fastest o/a), the bike was decent, even though I was still feeling pretty flat from the 1st week of taper (read, I didn't feel human yet, but not like I was run over by stampeding cows as was the situation earlier in the week). The run, well, I got to stop 3 times in the first 2 miles so I could remind myself why we don't mix strong gatorade for a short brutal-fast race. Silly rookie mistake, after 5 years in Triathlon. Maybe I'm the slow one? After I finally got rid of the stitch, it came together well. My "race" was good enough for 4th place overall. Before the McGruff incident, of course.

And yes, Jeremy beat me by 30 seconds. I outswam and biked him. But he got me BAD in the transitions, and on the run. So the belt was passed on to him. Even though I got beat, it was nice to see that spikey, gelled up club hair back in the transition area. Rivalry renewed!

After that episode, it's back to focusing on Coeur d'Alene, and getting mentally ready to go to the well for Ironman on the 22nd. Looking back now, it's just crazy that the race is here, and we're so close to dropping the gloves and gettin' it on. I feel that my preparation was as good as it can be. Now I just need to be patient (I know, it's a virtue...I don't have), and make some really good nutrition decisions so I don't pack on any Fattie McTaper weight. I also need to apparently wear a McGruff AND USAT approved helmet for CdA.

And as for someone calling me the "Bad Boy of Triathlon"? I have a bike with skull and crossbones on it. You think that's an accident?....

Clarity and a Peace offering

How do I know that I’m doing enough training for the upcoming Ironman? I’m just about right when I’m trying to figure out ways to sleep at work, without people realizing that I’m actually sleeping. You know, the same way we tried to pull this off in high school? So, I figured I would drop in for a little bit, and end on a bit of a rant.

Training is good. The only rough thing is that there is a lot of it lately. I remember the good ole’ days when once a day training was the norm, and a two a days were “pushing the envelope.” Now, two a days are commonplace, and three a days are getting me on the bleeding edge. It’s amazing how the body adjusts to workout stress. Instead of accepting the adjustment, we continue to push that fitness envelope in search of the tired feeling that coddles us and comforts us into thinking that we have a proper workload for the upcoming race.
While I was still trying to recover from Gulf Coast last week, I was definitely still in need of some coddling. The highlights last week were a ride I’m not allowed to talk about, but will hence to forth be known only as “The 135”, and a brutal ride the next day with Mucho work followed by a brick run whose pace will only be described as “not cool”. So all in all, a pretty basic week. On Thursday, I’m packing up the trunks, runners, and wheels to go all Peter Reid one last time before Ironman. A place where the men are men, the sheep are nervous, and roads to nowhere go on for miles surrounded only by cotton fields. That’s right, Lake Bruin baby! It’s a great place to train, sleep, rinse, repeat. All the while not being distracted by anything remotely resembling technology (i.e. cell phone reception, Wi-Fi, and other fun time wasters). I’m even kicking around the idea of bringing the iScoot up there for some Motor pacing mayhem. But the jury is still out on that one.
Speaking of the iScoot, I have been riding it plenty but haven’t chased it yet. Benny is still willing to humble his 180+ mph machine to dragging me up and down the Youngsville/Abbeville highway, so the iScoot has been relegated to street go-kart, and general fun runner. Every time I ride that thing, I feel kind of like I’m breaking the law. Commuting shouldn’t be this fun.
Onto yesterday’s motor pacing session, and a bit of a rant with a splash of clarity. At the end of another successful (by successful I mean that I’m not sure if I wanna cry or wet my pants, or both at the end of the ride) session, Benny and I pull up to the corner of our route that pretty much signifies the end of the ride. It’s a long flat road, with a dip and a small incline, and we always drag race to finish the session with a high top speed. Anyway, off to the left was a lady, her car, a truck, and two of Youngsville’s finest in their squad cars. I noticed some fresh paint on the road, and the officers’ looking at us funny. Later on, I find out that only 20-30 minutes earlier at that exact corner, Jonathan Falgout was struck by the woman I saw sobbing by her car. While Jon and I aren’t close, I consider him a friend, a great ambassador for the sport of cycling, and a hard working athlete. At first, a feeling of panic rolled through my body, as this could have very easily been me that got hit. Same route, same time, same typical post-work driver carelessly going home and saying “Damn it! These skinny queers are just taking up the road. What the hell are they doing? Don’t they know it’s my time to go home. They are so inconsiderate! They need to get a damn job!” Or even worse, and in the case of this woman, she just wasn’t paying attention and never saw Jonathan till it was too late. Then I thought about this woman. I hope that she was sobbing because she temporarily took a dedicated, focused and hard working athlete out of the sport that he has sacrificed so much time and effort toward, instead of sobbing that she might be ticketed or her insurance go up. Then I thought about what I’d like to say to her if I had known the instant that our eyes met on that corner, that she had just hit Jonathan.
“See ma’am, you see a biker in tight clothes lying bloodied and battered on the asphalt with a shiny red, mangled bike tossed on the side of him. What I wish you would see are the tens of thousands of miles in his legs. I wish that you would see the dreams that he carries deep inside of him for the season ahead. Or the group of buddies that depend on him for stories and jokes on those long weekend rides, while depending on him to pull them back into the race or chase down a break in the heat of battle. I wish you would see the people that constitute his fan base, and watch with baited breath every pedal stroke of every race, hoping that his form is good, and cheering for him as today might just be his day for victory. See ma’am, I hope you and all of the other drivers see these things; not because cyclists’ want praise, awe or fame. I want you to see all of this so you realize we aren’t so different from each other after all. Cycling is a blue collar sport. Just like the job you put in countless hours at, cycling demands countless hours and miles for even the smallest hint of achievement, success and satisfaction. Sure, it’s a hobby and an extracurricular activity, but it’s a hard life and hard work nonetheless. And we fit it in the hard miles whether it be early, late, rainy, cold, windy, hot, or we plum just don’t feel like riding. We aren't solely bike racers. We are people just like you, strapped with life's responsibilities. We are husbands, fathers, youth coaches, doctors, engineers, accountants, students, mechanics, technicians and a million other different backgrounds. We fit it the hard miles around work, kids’ sporting events, family gatherings, birthday parties, etc. So see, ma’am, we aren’t so different from each other. I am very thankful that, while this was a tragic accident, Jonathan will be riding again soon. I hope that you and other drivers take away a lot more than you hit a biker, and he’s lucky to be alive. I hope you take away a respect for us for our dedication and sacrifice to get the hard miles in, no matter what; as we respect you for your desire to get home quickly and safely after a hard day’s work. Two blue collar people, sharing the same space in the universe for a split second in time. And maybe with this twinge of respect, we’ll co-exist peacefully as we both go up the road.”

Get well soon, Jonathan. God’s speed on your recovery.

Jonathan leading the TTT smackdown at a local race.

That's HOT!!

So Gulf Coast Half Ironman has come and gone. Good times, and more importantly a good time for me to see how I’m progressing for Ironman Coeur d’Alene. No real excitement on the way up, except another example to solidify my theory that no one needs you at work until you’re gone. I put on the voicemail, Call me at XXX-XXXX if this is an EMERGENCY! Sure enough, I get a call. Is it an emergency? Hardly. The office world would be a better place if some people could wear footie pajamas to work. That way they could feel secure without calling just to hear you say that you’ll take care of things when you get back.
Anyway, back to the race. I get my crap at the expo, and am really excited to try and screw up my race. How? Well, I’m gonna run in the “Team issue” marble bag, aka Speedo, aka Man-kini. Never done before, not by this guy. So while I’m at it, I figure to go ahead and buy some new racing flats since mine are shot. Run them in the race? CERTAINLY! Anyway, the only semi-interesting things that happened pre-race are that I got Mean mugged (stared down for those not fluent in Ebonics) by Spencer Smith on his pink Planet X. Yeah, I know my bike is painted like a WWII plane, but yours is pink. And we are in the panhandle of Florida. When in Rome, Spencey boy. The second thing cool was I saw a Hoffbrauir House. The last time I was in one of those, I almost got jumped on the streets of Munich, got denied entry into some German clubs, and we climbed on a Smart Car. In short, it had sentimental appeal. I never did get to that place post-race, but I highly recommend it if you are in Panama City Beach, like beer, and getting plastered at a picnic table.
I didn’t sleep much the day before the race. No real reason, but I felt a bit off for the pre-race. Gulf Coast, while on basically the same general area as Ironman Florida, is WAY more low key than the money making, dream inducing juggernaut. Plus, they have wave starts. BIG PLUS! Anyway, we were the #6 wave, after pros and every woman in the race. I had Timmy Thomas in my wave, so I figured I’d let him know my swim strategy. “Timmy, I’m on you like a Prom date for the swim.” It worked out well, and despite the crazy swells (Some guy in a later wave drowned. Very sad, but proof that the sport is dangerous. So please be comfortable and confident in the water before tackling the distance you choose. That includes open water swimming!) I came out in 30min. Pretty slow, but most of the top guys in my age group were either right in front of me, or still swimming. Got on the bike, and just “Rolled dat Action!” Nothing real exciting. Tailwind out, brutal headwind back. I decided to spin on the way out, and use all the remaining bullets in my gun for the ride back. At the turnaround, I was in no-man’s land between the guys behind me and the pros. It was wicked tough staying focused and in rhythm. There was a group of 3 that included my buddy Will from Denmark and “THE” Jeff Cuddeback (holder of every Hawaii age group record), and they were maybe a minute down at the turnaround. I thought they would catch me, but for some reason they never did. Anyway, I was trying my best to book it down Beach Boulevard and into T2 because I knew I played my cards on the bike. Long story short, when I came through, the people were going crazy! The announcer said “Ladies and Gentlemen, our 1st Age Grouper is coming in off of the bike. We don’t even know who this kid is.” I wondered who he was too! He is pry more handsome than me, anyway. Then he said, “#637 from Scott, LA, John Fell.” Oh Shiite Muslim! That’s me. I’m in the front. This has never happened before. Cool. Well, the announcer decided this wasn’t enough, and wanted a during-race interview. I wished my mom happy mother’s day, and continued pimping out my costume for the run. Man-kini, check. Bret Michael’s bandana, check. Doper’s Suck wristband, check. 5 gallons of Body Glide just in case, check. Well, my meticulous preparation let my buddy Will out of transition before me. So into T2 1st, out of T2 2nd. NASCAR fans would be very disappointed in my pit stop. The chase was on, and I knew I had to close the gap to Will ASAP. See, I might have had too much information knowing that he had done Ironman Arizona in April. So I knew that the longer he held me off, the more confidence he would have in his abilities. So mile 1 was 6:08’ish, 2 was 6:20’ish, etc. until I closed the gap. Once I got there, I immediately attacked him. First was to get away in the neighborhoods, but more importantly I felt bad that he had too look at the horrible Man-kini Faris ensemble’ (Faris rocks his well, I don’t). Run was pretty good until the park. That was about the time that the cool morning breeze and clouds clocked out, and the brutal Florida sun checked in for work. From this point on, I couldn’t get enough water. This was to the delight of one aid station who I heard say, “OOOHHH. Here he come! Here he come! Get that boy some Wata!”; yet to the horror of another aid station where a mother had to tell her kid (who I’m pretty sure was scarred after seeing my outfit) “its ok honey, he’s not from America.” Anyway, I must have asked no less than 100 people from mile 9 on in, “How far is he back?” I got the same reply every time, “Who? There is no one back there.” I felt like a kid convinced the Boogie monster was under my bed. I held that last mile together with duct tape, a bandana, and a prayer. Came across in 4:34:16, and 1st in my age group. I was just happy that I got to race people, as sometimes triathlons involve no tactics, and are just an insanely long time trial.
Now it’s back to the grind of training, and trying to recover enough to get some long stuff in again, with 3 solid weeks of work before the taper begins. OH SWEET TAPER! How I long for thee! The only good thing about the Man-kini run outfit you ask, other than scaring people? Now I know I can pull off the “No speak Eng-leesh” if I need to…

Some pics from the Race (I know, it's like a train wreck. You don't wanna look, but you have to..)

Rollin' dat Action on the bike. And yes, I am proud of my white, Italian shoes....

No imagination necessary. Drink it in, ladies. Drink it in...

See VH1, I can look like a burnt out rock star too! Now, Gimme my own show!

The Ghost of Training Past

I thought of this title, among other things, on a long ride I had. On the training side, I just started my second of two big blocks of super stupid, super crazy Ironamn training. The title reflects my and most people’s feelings that they aren’t doing enough training. Or more precisely, that the training I did last year was WAY harder, or WAY more volume than I am doing for this year’s rematch with Ironman Coeur d’Alene. That’s why I’m glad I keep a training log from years past, so I can see that I am not in fact behind in training. All those years of drinking well water out of the hose has somehow affected my ability to remember the past as it really was. I assume that most people do the same thing with their training, and look back and only remember the “Epic” workouts, or epic weeks within the training buildup. I do it, while simultaneously forgetting that most of those workouts landed me in Dr. Abshire or Dr. LaCaze’s office.
The second of these two build blocks is gonna be a little different this year from years past, in that I’m going to race Gulf Coast Half Ironman at the beginning of my first build week. Some say it’s stupid, I just think it’ll be a good way to get some race intensity in the mix as I felt I was a bit underdone on the intensity side when I raced Ironman CdA last year. I’ll then take a few days down time to absorb the race, and then hit it again. And of course, I’m looking forward already to going back to Lake Bruin to do my super – secret Peter Reid’esque, Epic camp at the lake. It’s kinda weird, but I’m actually enjoying the monster training, and will be a bit bummed when the Ironman build is over. I know that I don’t talk about training much in this blog, but I’ll carry on a bit for my sanity. Trying to be as objective as possible, I feel this is the first time since I’ve started triathlon (Ironman in particular) that I can finally do all of the stupid hard workouts that I read about, and not be cooked for 4 days afterwards. I had to chuckle Sunday, as I came in from a solo century training ride (oddly enough, my fastest ever century, and only stopped once for drinks), took a quick shower, and then headed to ENM’s house for Sunday dinner. 2 years ago, or even last year, that ride would have put me into a coma-like nap for hours. I guess the body really does just adapt to what it has to do. Why couldn’t I have taught it to throw a baseball 100+mph? Might have been a little more lucrativeJ
Benny S and my “Motorpace Chase” project has been a success. So much so, that I’ve bought a new bike. No, not the kind you pedal (Although some rumors that I do not like my Trek are going around, but that’s hogwash. I will, however, take bicycle shaped gifts….). Since it took me about 6 friggin’ months to find any half decent information on motorpacing, who really does it, and what kind of workouts to do, I’ll keep the detailed information to myself. Hell, it would be easier to find out a fraternity’s secret handshake than to get a pro to admit they motorpace, and what kind of workouts they do. Although I give mad props to Macca, as he answered all my questions about it, and steered me in the right direction on how to use the motorpace sessions. Yes, I got to talk to Macca on the phone, but no need to be impressed. I have no idea how I got in on the convo, but the information was priceless. So I’ll be bringing “The Pace Car” up to the lake for some “Motorpace Tag” on the desolate roads of Northeast Louisiana. I’m trying to talk my dad into wearing a Viking helmet while he’s on the scooter, but so far negotiations are going nowhere. As soon as I get my new steel, Italian steed I’ll post some pictures. Anytime I think of the new scooter, the chorus from Bon Jovi comes in my mind, “I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride, cause I’m wanted, WANTED!, Dead or Alive!” That’s me, a cowboy on a scooter. Try not to laugh.
Racing wise, I’ll be heading off to Panama City Beach to race Gulf Coast this weekend. As if I don’t see that course often enough! If the condo I’m shacking up at has some Wi-Fi, I MIGHT post a pre-race blog. But for sure, I’ll be posting a post-race report, and maybe even some thoughts about if the change in training has helped or hurt the racing. Riveting stuff, I know. Maybe someone should alert the New York Times. This is Pulitzer Prize winning stuff! While the racing may or may not be great for me this weekend, I do plan on being victorious in the "Marble Bag Challenge" aka the Old School reunion. While it has been brought to my attention that I am too young to be old school, I'm going all out to trump the studs that were at Gulf Coast 10 years ago. My outfit, you ask? It's top secret like the Bat Cave. But I can give you a hint: