Road Trippin'- Vegas Edition

Place: Stovepipe Wells, CA
Date: Sunday, August 1, 2010. 12:00 PM.

     I open the door of the small air-conditioned hut and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the blinding sunlight outside. I take a few steps through the door, and a brutally hot blast of air instantly reminds me where I am. The mid-day sun beats down mercilessly and I fumble anxiously with my gear, growing more uncomfortable by the second, as I walk toward my bike. I quickly reach my motorcycle and place the sticker on the windscreen, indicating that I’ve paid the park admission fee, as I gear up as quickly as I can. Every moment spent standing in this heat saps me of energy and fills me with worry. It’s 120 degrees outside- ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY DEGREES- a temperature I find difficult to comprehend, and yet here I am… in the middle of Death Valley… in August… at noon. The fact that my motorcycle is the only vehicle in the parking lot besides the park ranger’s vehicle is both disconcerting and not surprising at all. For a moment I wish I was back in the minimart 100 yards back up the road, with it’s refrigerators full of cold drinks, fans blowing cold air, and pleasant music playing on the radio. There are even a few tourists back there, though I have no idea where they came from or where they plan to go in this heat. I chuckle as I remember the ridiculous look the cashier gave me as I commented about how hot it was outside. He didn’t need to utter a word, his quick glance said it all; “No shit. What did you expect.” When he finally does speak, he makes a crack about how this is a cool spell, and next week they should be back up to their normal temperatures.

     From the first moments that I had originally conceived of this trip in my mind weeks ago, this was the stretch of road that most worried me. Every person that I’ve told of my plans has looked at me with the same incredulous look… “you’re going to ride through where? When?” I didn’t intentionally keep this trip a secret from my parents, but I may have accidentally failed to mention it until just a few days before departing. They do worry, of course, as all parents do, so I figure that worrying for a couple of days is better than worrying for a couple of weeks.

     I straddle the motorcycle and thumb the starter button, and am immensely relieved as the bike’s engine immediately barks to life, it’s single cylinder emitting it’s characteristic staccato thump-thump-thump-thump sound. As I pull out of the parking lot I accelerate with an urgency, desperately seeking to feel some sort of wind against my now sweat-soaked gear. I am greeted with a rush of scalding hot, dry air that provides no relief. I aim the bike towards Las Vegas, which still sits more than 140 miles away, and I twist the throttle sharply in disgust. I remind myself that an ice-cold beer is just two hours away.

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Three weeks earlier:

(Phone rings)
Francine: Hello? Steena-girl, what’s up? (Pause) Really? When? Hold on, let me ask John…
(Fran covers the mouthpiece and whispers to me): Christina and Billy are going to las Vegas and they want to know if we want to go along?
Me: When?
Fran: First week of August. They’re staying at the Mandalay Bay. Can we go? The kids would love it!
Me: That’s perfect. Quarter-end is over so I can get a few days off work. (Pause) Hey, how about if I ride out there and meet you guys? (Grinning, expecting a ‘yeah, right’ sneer).
Fran: … ummmm, sure. If you want to. (Turns her attention again to the phone) Hey Steena, yeah, we’re in. Let’s talk tomorrow to finalize plans. (Hangs up the phone).

     I stare in disbelief, not knowing whether my wife is serious or not. Somehow the reaction seems genuine. Suddenly my mind is racing. Did I just say I’d ride my motorcycle to Las Vegas? How exactly am I going to do that? That’s like a gazillion miles. How the hell do I do that? Is she serious? Am I insane? Is this some weird dream?

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Place: Los Gatos, CA
Date: Saturday, July 31, 2010. 9:00 AM.

Ready to ride!

     It’s too late to change my mind now. Besides the fact that buying an airline ticket at the last minute would be ridiculously expensive, I’ve told too many people I’m going to do this to back out now. My bike sits at the bottom of the driveway, warmed up, packed up, and ready to go. I’ve spent the last three weeks preparing for this trip. Countless hours have been spent going over the bike, making small tweaks, checking things, re-checking, packing tools and spares for the trip, planning routes. To back out now would be the worst kind of defeat, not to mention quite embarrassing. Am I really going to ride my bike to Las Vegas? Through Yosemite and Death Valley? I’m not worried for my safety, per se, but this trip is far more ambitious than any I’ve done so far on a motorcycle in the few years I’ve been riding. I’ve done 250 mile days before, but the trip there would be two back-to-back 300+ mile days, and the return trip would be a staggering 550 miles in one day. While not massive by some riders’ standards, for me this is a big deal, especially on a bike like the Kawasaki KLR650, which is in it’s element on dirt roads and tight, twisty potholed back roads, but far less happy on large highways. I liken the KLR to the VW Beetle. Not the new one, the old one. Though it’s been updated cosmetically, the KLR is mechanically largely unchanged today from the original model introduced in the mid-80’s. It’s carbureted single cylinder engine puts out a whopping 34 horsepower (less than a quarter of what some modern sport bikes can put out) and is as technically sophisticated as a brick shithouse. Oddly, the thought never even crosses my mind to take my other bike- a far more modern and powerful machine with twice the power of the KLR, fuel injection and a better suspension. For as fun and powerful as the Ninja is, it’s sport bike ergonomics preclude any sort of real distance riding for someone on the wrong side of 40, unless I want to pay to bring a chiropractor along on the trip. Before I can psyche myself completely out of it, I kiss the kids and Fran, wish them a safe flight, tell them I’ll call them along the way, put my helmet on, and give one last wave as I ride off on the start of my adventure.

The route

Lick Observatory - Mt. Hamilton

     I’ve carefully planned the route to Las Vegas to avoid major highways as much as possible.  Besides the fact that the bike doesn’t like highways, they’re just plain boring and tedious, and this ride is all about having fun after all. The return trip will be, by necessity, all highway in order to be done in one day, but I’ve split up the trip there into two days so I can ride at a more leisurely pace and enjoy some of California’s finest backroads. I start off the day with a run up one of the best riding roads in the bay area- Mt. Hamilton Rd, where I find UC Berkeley’s Lick Observatory at the summit (Go Bears!).  After a brief break to hit the restroom, snap a few quick pictures, and joke with the bicyclists about who can get down the mountain the fastest, I continue down the backside into the

View of Santa Clara valley from Mt. Hamilton

Livermore Valley - Del Puerto Canyon

Livermore Valley and on to Hwy 5 for a brief stretch to Manteca, where I refuel. From there I catch Hwy 120, which will take me through Oakdale, Chinese Camp, and Big Oak Flat before arriving at the west entrance to Yosemite. Even before entering the park, traffic has deteriorated to a 20 mph parade of RV’s, trucks towing boats, and tourists stopping to gawk at every pine tree and squirrel.


I decide that my plans to detour down into Yosemite Valley for lunch at the Ahwahnee Lodge are a fool’s errand, and I instead decide to head straight over Tioga Pass in order to enjoy the ride in daylight and still get to my stopping point for the day at Mammoth Lakes in time for dinner.

View of Half Dome from Tioga pass

Tioga Lake

Mono Lake

In the home stretch, baby!

     Despite the traffic (or perhaps because of the traffic) I’m able to relax and enjoy the ride over Tioga Pass at a nice leisurely pace, stopping every few minutes to take pictures and marvel at

the magnificence of the park. It’s been years since I’ve been to Yosemite, and the views of Half Dome, Tuolumne Meadows, and Tioga Lake are simply breathtaking. I really wish that Fran and the kids were with me to enjoy this. I shoot some video with my helmet cam, hoping to capture some of the magic of riding a motorcycle on this road. In my heart, I’m sure the video can’t possibly do it justice, even in high-def, but it’s worth a try. As I make my way past Tioga Lake, the road begins it’s descent and the topography and vegetation changes as I now find myself on the eastern slope of the Sierras. The contrast is simply amazing. Gone are the massive pine trees, which have been replaced with low scrub vegetation. barren slopes, steep rocky cliffs, and pockets of snow and ice that hide, clinging to the shadowy crevices of the highest peaks. Several times I have to forcibly divert my attention from the massive drop-offs to my right-hand side and concentrate on the road ahead. The scenery is all at once breathtaking and disconcerting when you’re hurtling down the mountain at 60 miles per hour without the comforting embrace of a massive steel cage and airbags surrounding you. Tioga Pass Rd comes to an end at Mono Lake,

and with some sadness that this magnificent stretch of road has come to an end so soon, I make a right turn on highway 395 and head south towards Mammoth Lakes 30 minutes away. 395 runs north/south along the eastern Sierras, and is an easy stretch of fairly straight road. Besides a few Clif bars, I haven’t had anything to eat all day and am by now very hungry, so I crank the throttle wide open as I imagine what sort of dinner I might enjoy tonight. Unfortunately, wide open throttle on a KLR at 8,000 ft elevation into a 40 mph headwind means I’m struggling to

hold 70 mph, so it takes a bit of time to reach my hotel but I eventually arrive at my resting spot for the night- safe and sound, exhilarated, and thrilled with the first day’s ride. After a decidedly anticlimactic dinner, I retire for a good night’s sleep, and dreams of what the next day holds in store for me. I am serenaded to sleep by the sounds of strong, gusting winds that blow down through the chimney of my hotel room all night making a disturbing howling noise, and by the hooting and cackling of the local kids playing at an apparently all-night miniature golf course conveniently located just outside my hotel room’s window.

Eastern slope of the Sierras on a spectacular Sunday morning

     I awaken the next morning to find that the previous evening’s strong winds have subsided, and the nocturnal mini-golfers have gone. In their place I find an impossibly clear, high-mountain morning sky, full of the bluest blue you can imagine, and a remarkably good breakfast of eggs, sausage, potatoes and toast and, of course, lots of coffee. My waiter is also an avid rider, and we chat about bikes and riding throughout breakfast. However, knowing what lies ahead, I can’t linger for too long, as I cling to the notion that it’s possible to get through Death Valley early enough to “beat the heat”. I might as well have stayed for another cup of coffee. The low in Death Valley in August is 98 degrees. Even if I’d ridden all night straight through I would have still encountered ridiculously oppressive weather.

Fun times ahead!

Well now, this is a bit anticlimactic...

     The ride down Highway 395, past Lake Crowley, through Mesa and Bishop and down to Big Pine, in the warm glow of a summer’s Sunday morning, is beautiful beyond description. I could easily see myself getting off the bike and laying there on the side of the road, staring at the mountains and the sky, for a full day. Just past Big Pine I finally reach what is, in my mind, the defining moment of this trip. The turn onto Highway 190, which will take me through Death Valley. I’ve wondered for weeks what this moment, this intersection would be like. In my dreams there is sometimes a large gate covered

in skulls and bones and monstrous warriors and a drawbridge and moat guarding the entrance. Much to my dismay this is, in fact, not the case and I find just another intersection of two of California’s backroads, full of nfinite blue sky, mountains, and a big green road sign. After taking a few pictures to commemorate the occasion, I move on, a bit disappointed by the lack of drama.

Looking back on Hwy 190.  Lake Owens on the left.

Father Crowley Point

     To my surprise, the first 50 or so miles inside Death Valley are all at an altitude of 3,000 - 4,000

feet. I make my way past the Owens Lake bed, the China Lake Naval Weapons Center, Crowley Point, and through Panamint Springs, all the while enjoying the spectacularly stark and dramatic scenery, stopping to take photos, and wondering what the heck the big deal is about Death Valley. Then, as I come through Towne Pass, at en elevation of nearly 5,000 ft, I begin the rapid descent through Emigrant and into Stovepipe Wells and in less than 15 miles I find myself at sea level, and someone has opened the oven door. Almost instantly, it has become impossibly, unbearably, unimaginably hot. The names of the landmarks now seem to reflect that this is a perpetual situation, as ahead lies the Devil’s Cornfield, Hell’s Gate, Furnace Creek, Dante’s View, and Coffin Peak. Oh, how I long for the relative coolness of a forest fire.

One hundred twenty degrees... in the shade

Heaven a.k.a. Stovepipe Wells Village

     It’s now taking a fair amount of mental energy to contain the ever-increasing level of concern. I’m comforted somewhat in knowing that I have a lot of water with me, and in the event of a mechanical failure I have a GPS transponder that can summon help. However, this is rapidly becoming a very uncomfortable and inhospitable environment. I am suddenly far less interested in enjoying the scenery, and almost entirely preoccupied with my GPS unit and trying to determine exactly how many more seconds remain until I arrive at the wonderfully air conditioned lobby of the Mandalay Bay Resort.

And then it appears. It sits in the distance like a mirage on the shimmering horizon, but as I draw nearer I realize that it is, in fact, real. At first, I can’t quite comprehend what I’m seeing, as it makes no sense that something like this would be out here, but before me now sits not just a gas station or minimart, but an entire little town. Not some god forsaken ghost town or decrepit meth lab hideaway, but a modern little town with a hotel, swimming pool, store, and visitor’s center. The sign says Stovepipe Wells Village, but it might as well be called Heaven. As I approach the town, the store and gas station are on my left, and I ease the bike up to one of the pumps (the one in the shade) and jump off. In a sequence that is by now well rehearsed, I remove all my gear and fill up the bike as swiftly as I can. I leave the bike sitting next to the pump (it’s the only shade in sight, and there don’t appear to be any other vehicles around in need of gas) and trot off to the store in search of a cold drink and some momentary relief from the heat. I am not disappointed. Inside I find one of the cleanest, most well-appointed stores I’ve yet come across on this trip. I head straight for the back of the store, where a large bank of refrigerators sits, and I grab a large bottle of water and a bottle of Gatorade. The beer section seems especially well-stocked, and I let out an audible sigh. Instead, I find a Clif bar and head for the cash register. As I’m paying, I offhandedly ask the cashier if he has any recommendations for the fastest route to Las Vegas. I’m not quite sure why I ask this question, as I have not one, but two GPS units on the motorcycle already. The cashier retrieves a photocopied flier with a map of the valley, which shows three routes. Two head off on detours to ghost towns. He advises that the route over Ash Meadows Rd is what he would suggest. Oddly, I’ve not heard of this route and neither GPS unit is indicating this as the route to take, but I trust his local knowledge, so I thank him and take the map as I head out the door. He reminds me that this is a National Park, so I need to stop at the ranger’s station up the road to pay the park entrance fee. I pause for a moment at a picnic bench in the shade of the store’s eaves outside the front door to drink my Gatorade and eat my Clif Bar, and to fill my Camelbak with water, and I head back to the bike. I hastily throw my gear on and ride off in search of the ranger’s station.

     Before the bike is even in third gear the ranger’s station comes into view up ahead. The small cottage stands by itself, away from the rest of the village. Parked in front of it are a few vehicles, including a park ranger’s truck. There is no shade to be found, so I park the bike in the nearest spot, and run for the door. Not expecting to be inside for more than a moment, I don’t bother to remove anything except my gloves as I pull the door open and step inside. Much to my chagrin, there is a line of people waiting to pay. There is an older couple at the front of the line who are looking over maps and asking questions about different attractions. After several minutes they seem satisfied with the information they’ve received and they thank the ranger and leave. Next is a gentleman with an English accent that starts to ask all sorts of complicated questions about annual passes and whether they cover all national parks and whether he can redeem the entrance fee he paid in Yosemite last week towards an annual pass. My patience wears thinner by the minute as I stand there, helmet and jacket still on, quietly sweating profusely. Finally it’s my turn. I quickly hand the ranger a $10. I ask no questions- I just want my sticker so I can move on. I’m handed the sticker, a receipt, a map, and a pamphlet which warns of the extreme dangers of heat and dehydration. I thank the ranger and briskly head for the door. By now, there is nobody else in the office, and as I step outside all the vehicles are gone except for my motorcycle and the ranger’s truck. I fire up the bike and immediately notice that my iPhone, which is mounted on the dash and connected to a charger that runs to the bike’s battery, doesn’t turn on. Besides providing me with music through my helmet’s bluetooth headset, the iPhone also runs my primary GPS nav, so this is an unwelcome surprise. The more robust Garmin GPS unit mounted next to the iPhone appears to still be functioning, and I believe I have a good mental image of the map I got in the minimart, so I ride off without wasting any more time troubleshooting the iPhone. The Garmin taunts me by telling me I still have over two hours of riding ahead of me.

     10 minutes later the iPhone, apparently cooled enough by the blowing air, comes back to life. I am tucked down low behind the bike’s windscreen seeking refuge from the infernal blast of hot wind as I push the bike as hard as I dare. The temperature gauge reads just below the halfway point, where it has been for the entire trip, so my only concern for the moment is minimizing the amount of oil the bike burns. Thumpers, as single-cylinder motorcycles are affectionately called, are typically not high-revving machines. They are the mules of the motorcycle world, in contrast to the thoroughbred sport bikes which can easily rev to 14,000 RPMs. The KLR will protest being asked to run in excess of 5,000 RPMs for any length of time by burning it’s precious engine oil, so I carry with me an extra quart of oil in my bag and check the oil level at every gas stop. For the last day and a half the bike has happily loped along on windy scenic routes, but the route has now become straight and flat and my interest in photographing has waned so the tachometer’s needle now hovers at the magical 5K mark and my GPS is telling me I’m cutting through the hot wind at over 75 MPH.

Made it at last!!!

     The bike has now been running at it’s threshold pace for 90 minutes as I guide it down Nevada highway 160 over Mountain Springs. By now, Ash Meadow Rd is a distant memory, Pahrump is 30 minutes behind me, and the Las Vegas skyline has just come into view ahead. I pass a few pickup trucks and 18-wheelers, whose drivers invariably glance at me with a look of surprise and the occasional approving head nod. The end of the ride is now in sight, and I briefly allow myself to revel in the thought that I’ve managed to pull off something which, just a few days ago, seemed quite daunting. Despite the heat of the last few hours, the last two days of riding have gone off without a hitch. As highway 160 merges with highway 15 and I suddenly find myself in the southern outskirts of Las Vegas I am filled with a tremendous sense of relief and accomplishment. Up ahead, the shimmering golden figure of the Mandalay Bay Resort is visible from the highway, and as I take the freeway exit I voice-dial Fran from my helmet’s headset. Despite the fact that I’d spoken with her in Pahrump just a short while ago, I can hear a definite sense of surprise, relief and happiness in her voice when I tell her that I’m now just a few moments away. She quickly hustles the kids out of the pool and they head off to the hotel’s lobby to meet me. As I make my way through the giant revolving door into the cool air-conditioned lobby passers-by in shorts and t-shirts gawk at the bizarre sight as I stand in the center of the lobby in my riding gear. Then, out of the corner of my eye I spot them, and before I can fully turn around I’m greeted with three huge hugs and the smiling faces of Fran and the kids. What a wonderful end to two memorable days of riding.

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Epilogue
Wednesday, August 4, 2010

     After spending two and a half wonderful days in Las Vegas enjoying the pools, attractions, shows, and restaurants with the family, it’s time to make the return trip home. This trip will be quite different from the route to Las Vegas. The emphasis today is on getting home in time for dinner. With over 550 miles on the agenda, and a bike that’s allergic to speeds in excess of 75 mph, this will be a day-long game of going fast slowly. After a quick breakfast with the family, I’m on the road by 8:30, and with the exception of one stop at a Circle-K in Wasco for two slices of pepperoni pizza, my day is largely spent on the bike riding through such scenic places as Barstow, Baker, Bakersfield, and Mojave. After riding west for most of the day, I reach Paso Robles in the early afternoon and make the turn onto 101N, and I feel like I’m on ‘home turf’ now as a head northward towards the bay area. As I reach Watsonville the wind has picked up to a steady 40 MPH from the west, and my bike is leaned over to the left just to go in a straight line. A dense cloud cover has settled over the area, and temperatures have dropped to the point that I can no longer hide from the cold behind my windscreen and I’m shivering, so I pull over at a gas station and quickly put on several layers of clothing. I’m back on the road in a few minutes, feeling far more comfortable, however as 101 winds northward and inland and reaches Gilroy the cloud cover is gone and the temperatures are back in the 80’s. I decide to suck it up as I’m now less than 45 minutes from home. As I fly through Morgan Hill, San Jose, and finally make my way south on 17 to Los Gatos I can’t believe I’ve covered as much distance as I have in one day. I’ve dispelled several misconceptions that I had before this ride- chief among them is that my ass is not twice as sore after a nearly 600 mile ride as it was after a 300 mile ride. I’m rather pleased to discover that somewhere around Bakersfield I reach a sort of ass-pain equilibrium. Also, I discover that there is, in fact, such as thing as too much Creedence Clearwater Revival. Lastly, I discover that trying to wipe bugs off a visor is a rookie mistake. Just leave them be- better a small speck than a huge smear. All that notwithstanding, I am convinced that the very definition of paradise is being greeted at the front door, after 10 hours of riding, by your wife with a kiss and an open bottle of beer.

Thank you Francine!!!

Until the next ride…
-John

Success follows happiness

“Success is not the key to happiness. Happiness is the key to success. If you love what you are doing, you will be successful.”
-- Albert Schweitzer

Many other people are credited with similar quotes, so if this sentiment is so often repeated, one would presume that it carries more than a grain of truth to it. Why then do so few people choose to do what they love for a living? I will be very candid and say I do not love what I do for a living. I take pride in doing my best at everything I do; I am quite capable and competent at what I do; I derive a certain sense of satisfaction in completing an especially hard task or solving a particularly hard problem- however none of these even remotely begin to approach truly loving what I do. I certainly don’t dream of putting together the best revenue forecast ever known to man, or facilitating the most effective Sales and Operations Planning meeting anyone has ever attended. While I may have aspirations to advancing my career, quite truthfully this is driven largely by two factors, a) a competitive drive to excel at whatever I do, and b) quite simply, greed (for lack of a better term). To some degree, it wouldn’t matter if I were a fish sorter. If, through some ‘Twilight Zone-esque’ mechanism I awoke one day and that were the profession in which I found myself, I’d want to be the best damn fish sorter there ever was. I’d also want to be the fish sorting manager, and eventually the President of the entire fish sorting division. Why? Because it would bother me to admit that someone was a better fish sorter than me. I would also covet the financial rewards associated with being the President of the fish sorting division, and I’d want to provide a better life for my family and fund my expensive hobbies, er… pursuits. But make no mistake, these two character traits (or flaws, depending on your perspective) do not equate to loving what one does. Eventually, I believe that a competitive drive alone is not enough to bring happiness. I’m sure I’m not the only one that has, at some point, come to the realization that just ‘being the best’, in and of itself, is not reward enough for the amount of time we all invest in our careers.

We all hear of people that do truly love what they do. I have no doubts whatsoever that Dave Matthews, Tiger Woods, Oprah, Sting, Valentino Rossi all love what they do, and their passion is evident in their success. It’s easy to dismiss this by saying “of course they love what they do- they’re gazillionaires” but before they were ever successful they were passionate about their chosen field. Before Tiger Woods was an international celebrity and a winner of multiple major tournaments, he was just a kid playing golf at Stanford. But Tiger revolutionized the game of golf through his unprecedented work ethic. Sure, he could hit the ball a ton, but Tiger spent countless hours in the gym and on the range and others, like David Duval, took notice and soon half the PGA was on a quest to lose weight and get stronger so they could be like Tiger. My point is that, before any of these people were the successes they are today, they toiled quietly in anonymity and honed their craft until success was inevitable.

I don’t know Tiger personally- or Oprah, Dave, Sting, or Vale, but I do know one person that chose to pursue their passion instead of opting for corporate America and financial comfort, and is now reaping their just rewards. I know this person quite well, in fact. We’re best friends since childhood, college roommates, and he’s the godfather of one of our children. He’s also the coach of the Salesian High School basketball team, which just won their first CIF state championship, and he also celebrated his 250th win this season. Congratulations coach Bill Mellis on an amazing season, and on everything you’ve accomplished so far. I have no doubts that this is just the beginning of your success as a coach. Your passion and dedication to your players and to the game is truly inspiring to watch. It was evident to me and to everyone that knows you that this was what you were cut out to do even back when you were the manager of the Cal basketball team in college. Heck, this is what you were born to do. We’re all cheering for you!

I’ll close with another quote- I think it’s fitting that it’s one from the legendary coach:

“Success comes from knowing that you did your best to become the best that you are capable of becoming.”
-- John Wooden

http://www.insidebayarea.com/timesstar/prepsports/ci_11970279

One door closes, and another opens

Being the anal-retentive type-A that I am, I always have to have a plan before I set out to attempt anything. My wife, on the contrary, loves to set out with a goal (of sorts) in mind but absolutely no notion whatsoever of how to get there. We both get tremendous satisfaction from solving problems in our own ways, and can get very frustrated with the opposite approach. Fran relishes the adventure and discovery of making it up as she goes along and being surprised by the outcome. I love formulating a crystal-clear vision of the end result in my mind, often reworking the end product in my head countless times until it's perfect, and then developing the perfect process to get to the goal so I'm not surprised by what I get. We both drive each other absolutely nuts in this regard. This is a typical Saturday morning conversation for us:

Wifey: "Let's do some landscaping in the front yard"
Me: "OK, let me get a pencil and paper and we can sketch some stuff out"
Wifey: "No, let's just go to the nursery and look around"
Me: "But how will we know what we need if we don't have any idea what we're trying to do?
Wifey: "That's the fun of it- let's just go look around and see what we like"
Me: "How will we know if we like it, if we don't know what we're trying to do?"
Wifey: "Let's just see what happens"

That last line, "let's just see what happens" has become an inside joke of sorts between us. Whenever I get to wrapped around the axle on something Fran will say "let's just see what heppens" and that's my cue to mellow out a little bit.

When I decided to make the commitment to return to racing triathlons for the 2009 season, one of the first things I did was lay out a season training plan (complete with Excel spreadsheets, of course). The season was divided into roughly three phases that took me through my "A" race of the year- the Vineman Half Ironman in July.

The first phase, which started right after Thanksgiving, had one very simple goal. Just work out. It didn't matter what I did or how I did it. It was all about just getting my body and mind used to a daily routine that included working out again. All I wanted to see was something, anything, in the training log every day. It was basically about testing the commitment. Phase I concluded at the end of December, and it was a resounding success. I was loving working out again. I wasn't calling it training yet, it was just working out. It was supposed to be fun- and it was a blast.

Phase two started in early January, and ended yesterday. This was the "offseason" portion of my training plan. It was a bit more structured, both in terms of what I did and when I did it. I started adding some speed work to my runs and rides, started introducing some weekly 'long' rides and runs, and started structuring my weekly routine so that it more closely resembled what a weekly training plan would look like. There were some more specific objectives as well:

1) Shed the holiday baggage- I've now managed to lose 15 pounds in the last four months, and I'm at the lowest training weight that I've ever been at. In fact I'm only 3 pounds heavier than my best racing weight. I feel fantastic, and my knees thank me every time I run.

2) Get some serious swim instruction- this is something that I've always told myself I needed to do but always thought of a million reasons why I didn't do it. I've always been a horrible swimmer, and not surprisingly the swim has always been the least enjoyable of the three disciplines for me. I finally bit the bullet and started working with a coach six weeks ago, and the difference is nothing short of astounding. Becoming a more proficient and more confident swimmer has (surprise) allowed me to love swimming for the first time. I find myself waking up at 5:30 to go swim most mornings, and I'm in the water at least five times a week now. I honestly can't believe I'm in the place I am with swimming. I'm still not fast by any stretch of the imagination, but for the first time ever I have an understanding of what I need to do, and I have a coach that will get me there.

3) Continue the commitment- Phase I was about doing something every day, but in order to get to the level I wanted to get to I knew I'd need to eventually be doing double workouts most days. In my last few seasons leading up to Vineman 2004, I had the occasional 12-14 hour training weeks, but most of my weeks were in the 6-8 hour range. Mind you, those were my in-season hours! I always told myself I wasn't a morning person, and I always tried to 'cram' my weekly hours into the weekend with long rides and runs on Sat/Sun. That was admittedly not a recipe for success, but rather a recipe for burnout, injury, and slow and frustrating races. Getting in the water in the morning has allowed me to use my lunchtime to bike or run, which has finally allowed me to crack the 10 hour week on a regular basis- and it's still the offseason! I haven't even started piling on the big bike/run volume yet. Despite doing 40% more volume than before (and being 5 years older) I feel fresher and more healthy than when my big bike bike/run weekends accounted for the majority of my weekly training hours.

So here I am, on day one of my 18 week training season, and I'm utterly ecstatic over what I've accomplished over the past 15 weeks. I've dropped ALL the weight I wanted to lose (and then some), I'm happy, injury-free, and utterly enjoying biking, running, AND swimming. I'm knocking out 10 mile long runs and 65 mile long rides at paces I never dreamed of. But perhaps most importantly, as I wrote about several months ago, I've made enormous strides in making triathlon a foundational part of my life again. Training isn't a daily struggle, as it sometimes was before. It's usually one of the highlights of my day, along with dinner time with the family.

So as my offseason comes to an end and my season starts in earnest, one door closes and another opens. I can look back on the past four months with a tremendous sense of accomplishment and I look forward to the next 18 weeks with anticipation and excitement, knowing I've done everything I've set out to do so far and I've positioned myself for a great season. Now all that's missing is to win the Kona lottery and get that spot in the Hawaii Ironman I've been dreaming of.

And now for something completely different...

As my shutdown week sadly wound down to it's end, the torrential rain we've been experiencing for the past several days finally let up and we got a couple of gorgeous days of sunshine and warm weather. I got in a nice long swim and bike ride on Thursday, and by Friday I was ready to take a break from my triathlon obsession and go diving. Both Andy and Kreso were able to go, so this was something we definitely needed to take advantage of, as we haven't dove together as a team in a long time.

I woke up early on Friday and got my Masters swim in the morning, and then ran home to pack up the dive gear, which has been sitting neglected collecting dust in the garage. Andy and Kreso came by around 10:00, and we quickly packed up Andy's truck and headed off to Pt Lobos. We arrived at the Whaler's Cove parking lot to find gorgeous sunny sky and a pretty calm-looking cove. Despite the wave models and swell predictions of mediocre diving, this looked like it was going to be pretty nice. Well, everything except low tide at the boat ramp. I hate trying to get in the water at low tide. It turns what should be a simple task into a circus act. Right where the water line is in the photo there's a algae-covered drop-off, so rather than being able to don fins on the ramp in waist-deep water and kick out you need to jump in with no fins and about 150 pounds of gear on, and then writhe around like an eel as you try to put your fins on while your gear tries to flip you onto your back. Despite this, however, we were giddy as we surveyed the scene and planned the dive.


Despite the fact that the three of us still need to do a LOT of skills work in order to pass our tech checkout and move on the tech 1, we had agreed on the car ride down that today would simply be a fun dive. It had been way too long since we'd all dove together, and it was too nice a day to be stuck in the cove doing valve drills and deployments. After finalizing our plan we quickly geared up, ran through pre-dive checks, and hit the water.
We decided that since Kreso had never led a dive out to Beto's reef, and could barely use his compass, we'd make him lead the dive, and I would be the deco captain. We'd keep the drills to a minimum- maybe a valve drill and bag shoot at the end of the dive, depending on how cold we were and how bad the vis was in the cove. Once in the water we did bubble checks and descended to find some moderate surge, but better than expected visibility in the cove. As we made our way out of the cove, past the familiar landmarks at 'hole in the wall' and 'sea mount' the visibility opened up to a very descent 30' and the swell died down quite a bit below 60'. As we made out way out to Beto's reef, the nice sunny day and lack of kelp really provided some descent ambient light, even at a depth of 110'. It seemed like out time at Beto's reef flew by, and soon it was time to make our way back to the cove.

All in all, it was an awesome dive with great teammates. It's dives like this that leave you wanting more! I can't wait to get out there again. Soon.

Details:

Dive time: 70 minutes
Max depth: 110 feet
Avg depth: 67 feet
Water temp: 52.2 degrees (thank God for drysuits)

Returning to “the ride that ended it all”

“Whether you think you can or think you can't - you are right.” ~Henry Ford

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here I am again, at the corner of Oak Glen Ave and Sycamore Dr. There are no hawks circling overhead today, no wild turkeys roaming in the open fields. The late fall afternoon sunshine has been replaced with a cold wintry dampness that follows a hard rain, and the morning sun still struggles to break through and make it’s presence felt. I can’t believe it’s taken so long to come back here.

It was two years, two months, and two days ago that I last rode here. Ever since I started my long road back to being a triathlete, this is the ride I’ve been looking forward to with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. This is the ride that ended it all. I knew that sooner or later I’d have to face my demons, and today it was finally time to ride the Uvas loop again.

What I needed for this little adventure was moral support but, being unable to convince either Bob or Yvonne to join me today, it appeared that I’d be on my own until I asked Nikolas if he had any ideas for someone I could bring with me to help. He dutifully ran out of the room and came back a minute later with Blizzard, his toy lizard. “Here baba, he’ll help you” Nikolas assured me. I thanked him profusely, and promised I’d take good care of Blizzard, and out the door I went.


Down in the garage now, I needed to find a good perch for Blizzard. Somewhere where he could keep an eye on the action from a safe vantage point, and provide the occasional moral support and tongue-lashing, if necessary. I quickly found the perfect spot, and with the help of a few tie wraps Blizzard had a secure perch and I was off into the cold wet morning.

The beginning of every ride, for me, is this odd ritual where I assess what my goals and objectives are for the ride, and then begin this strange negotiation with myself.

“OK, the goal for today’s ride is to just ride easy and enjoy it” I say to myself. “The roads are wet and full of leaves and trash, so take it easy on the downhills”, I continue. “There’s no power goal for the ride- just ride easy and don’t look at the power meter.”

“What?!”

“You heard me- no power goals. That’s a recipe for disaster today. Just ride easy. You’re still recovering from a cold. There’ll be plenty of other opportunities to hammer it another day.”

“You’re kidding, right?

“You’re an idiot. Do I need to remind you what we call this ride?”

“I’ll agree to ride the first hour easy, and we’ll talk again later.”

“Hmmph. Fine.”

And with that I settle into a nice easy effortless pace as I make my way up over Kennedy Rd out of Los Gatos and into Almaden valley. Along the way I pass several groups of riders, and am actually a little surprised how many cyclists are out this morning, given how wet and cloudy it is. The forecast for the day calls for a mixture of clouds and sunshine, but it rained last night and the dampness still hangs in the air like a wet towel. The roads are very wet and full of debris and puddles, and all the gutters are still flowing a steady stream of muddy runoff, so I am constantly watching out for a clear track to ride in. I’m reminded several times of the consequences of not paying attention, as I pass at least 5 or 6 riders with flat tires in the first 10 miles. Not a good omen.

As I make the turn from Santa Teresa Blvd onto Bailey Rd I know that the first bit of “real” riding lies ahead. The climb up Bailey road to McKean Rd is a short but steep climb that catches unsuspecting riders off guard. This climb is part of the San Jose International Triathlon course, and it would always amuse me to see riders who obviously didn’t know the course jump out of the saddle and start hammering the lower portion of the climb thinking it was just another little roller. They would invariably blow up about half way up the climb and struggle to get to the top. Before I know it though, I am putting the hammer down myself.

“What are you doing?”

“Passing people ;-) You should try it, its fun.”

“Smart ass”

Oh, c’mon- this power is totally doable for this climb. Let’s see what happens. Worst case, we back it off and cruise the upper half.”

“Let’s see what happens?! What happens is you’ll suffer like a dog in the last hour of this ride because you’re dumb and you cooked your legs, and then you wonder why you had another bad ride on this course.”

“Oy, just ride dude.”

Before I know it the Bailey road climb is behind me and I find myself making the left turn onto McKean Rd. In my mind, this intersection has always signified the start of the real riding. Twenty miles in to the ride now, and the warm-up and the Bailey climb are behind me, as are all the stop signs, traffic lights, and houses for a good long while. This intersection marks the transition from “in town” to “in the boonies”, so its time to quit messing around and get to the real riding. I settle into a not-easy but not-hard pace as I cruise past Cinnabar golf course, and I briefly wish I could be off playing a round of golf instead of riding, but that thought is quickly pushed to the back of my mind. Those sorts of thoughts won’t be tolerated today. The surroundings continue to get more rural as I pass Calero reservoir, and as I see the sign indicating that McKean Rd had ended and Uvas Rd begins an uneasy feeling settles over me and I can’t help but feel as though I’ve crossed into Mordor. Dark grey clouds still hang in the sky, and I wonder when or if the sun will finally come out. I push on.

I soon find myself at the intersection of Uvas Rd and Oak Glen Rd. I take the left turn carefully and I am now officially on the “Uvas loop”, the 15 mile loop that is the course for the Uvas triathlon. This is the part of the ride that the subversive part of me secretly wants to hammer, just to see what will happen. The only sounds now are those of my bike and my steady rhythmic breathing. Without realizing it at first, I am now working steadily at an even higher pace, and as I glance down at Blizzard he nods approvingly at the power and heart rate indicated on my bike computer. We push on.

And then I am here- the corner of Oak Glen Ave and Sycamore Dr.- the very spot where I had stopped to admire the scenery on that fateful ride some 26 months ago. I had no intention of stopping here, but for some unknown reason I do. The sun has started to peek through the clouds now, and I take a moment to quickly eat a Clif bar, take in the gorgeous view, and take a few pictures before heading back on my way once again. Before I’ve really had a chance to process what just happened I’m back on the bike and pedaling again. My clothing is damp from sweat and water from the roadway that’s spraying everywhere, and even a few minutes’ stop has chilled me. Now, as I work to get back up to speed, I can feel the wind chill me, and my muscles momentarily protest having to get back to work. I come into a clearing and the sun feels good on my back. I slow for a moment to soak in the warmth, and for the first time today I feel a sense of relief and calm wash over me. I know that this time is different. There is no longer doubt in my mind, as there was on that afternoon 825 days ago.


Unlike the last time I rode this course, the ride home is a collage of vivid thoughts. I ride with unrestrained abandon, pushing the pedals as hard as I can. Every roller is a competition to see if I can ride just a little harder. The wicked side of me has quieted the logical side for the moment, and I relish the exquisite pain that every climb and small rolling hill dishes out, slowing only long enough to catch my breath and push on again. The milestones roll by- Calero reservoir, Almaden Lake Park…. before I know it I find myself back in the familiar territory of Kennedy Rd, and I’m attacking the Kennedy climb at a suicide pace. I reach the top completely out of breath, exhausted, every muscle screaming, and ecstatic.


As I roll into the driveway some three and half hours after I left, I glance down at my power meter and I flip through screens of data- altitude, average heart rate, average power, distance, intensity factor, numbers that normally mean everything on
a training ride- they’re good numbers. Blizzard looks at the data approvingly and we trade knowing glances- this ride wasn’t about the numbers, and we both know it.



(Please feel free to post your comments here)

There’s a time and a place for HTFU

The internet seems to be full of “HTFU” nowadays. It’s casually tossed about as the solution to all that ails mankind. Hate your job? HTFU. Feeling depressed?... constipated?... chapped lips?... HTFU! Yes, those four little letters, short for “Harden the Fuck Up”, seem to have the same magical properties as weight loss pills and the ShamWow in making all our problems instantly go away.

The origins of the term are unclear, though some credit an Aussie comedy show for its creation. I first heard the phrase a few years ago, when Team CSC adopted it as its mantra, complete with black wristbands made up by Stuart O’Grady for the team, for the 2007 Tour de France. The peeps at Slowtwitch.com, being the friendly bunch of type A personalities that they are, quickly adopted it as the un-official forum slogan, and now anything remotely resembling a whine, complaint or the faintest hint of weakness by a forum poster becomes a contest to see who can post “HTFU” the fastest. It’s quite amusing actually, of not altogether predictable.

Well, I’m here to tell you that HTFU may not be the universal fix-all, after all. Heresy, you say! I hope Slowtitchia doesn’t get wind of this, as I will surely be excommunicated, or at the very least forced to race my next triathlon in a pink wetsuit and skirt. But let me tell you, my most recent attempt to employ the sage HTFU advice ended up a complete disaster. Fran and Angelina had been sick for the better part of the last week, and by last Friday I was starting to feel a cold coming on also. If their suffering was any indication, this was going to be a whopper of a cold once it kicked in. By Saturday there was no denying I was coming down with something, and I woke up on Sunday completely congested and feeling generally yucky. What to do? Why… go for a long bike ride, of course! HTFU. So, after shaking off the initial misery and loading up on Dayquil, off I rolled for a nice long ride. Well, after three hours of that foolishness I packed it in and retired to watch the Superbowl. Unfortunately, by halftime it was already becoming evident that this little experiment would not end well. By Monday things had deteriorated to the point that I couldn’t even muster the willpower for an easy spin in the gym (if you know how manic I’ve been about not missing a workout lately, you’ll know that that’s saying a lot), and by yesterday I was laid out in bed… down for the count. HTFU, indeed.

So, I’m willing to go on record and say that this little experiment in HTFU has failed miserably and that, despite what the good folks over at Active.com say about exercising with a cold (yes, I should have known better, as this came from more triathletes), the best remedy for that scratchy throat and runny nose is lots of beer and a totally sedentary lifestyle. The more potato chips, the better. In fact, I’ll bet you $10 that a plate of taquitos and some Fat Tire Ale will surely speed recovery much faster than any aerobic workout.

Of course, never being one to learn from my own mistakes, I woke up this morning and took the fact that I didn’t have a splitting migraine as a sure sign that I needed to run 7 miles at lunch. We’ll see how that works out for me.

Der Kaiser has arrived

I'm not talking about Jan Ullrich, though if the UPS guy were to drop off 'big Jan' on my doorstep that would be pretty damn cool too. I've always been a Jan fan, and secretly hold out hope that he'll make a comeback to cycling. Heck, if Lance, Tyler, Floyd, and Ivan can come back, why not Jan?

No, I'm talking about the Renn Kaiser. If there's one thing triathletes love, it's toys. Coffee and toys- but mostly toys. And if the toys actually make you go faster, so much the better. What better way to go faster on the bike than with a disc wheel. Disc wheels have many virtues, not the least of which is the awesome 'whump, whump, whump' sound they make as you're riding so other athletes can hear you coming and fear you as you pass them. (that presumes that I can actually manage to pass someone, but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it). Disc wheels also look cool in transition and during warm-ups. This wheel, however, is extra special 'cause it's silver. Let's all say it together. Aaaahhhhh! Ooooohhhhh! Thank you. Yes, it's not your ordinary black disc wheel- it's silver. Why? I dunno. I'm sure there's a good explanation for why Renn chose to make this wheel silver, but what I DO know is that it stands out, even among a sea of disc wheels. Slap that baby on a silver bike and you've got yourself some serious bling, and everyone knows that bike bling is worth at least 5 minutes off the bike split in a half IM.
Then you add the name- the Kaiser. The name evokes images of Jan Ullrich making his poor TT bike cry under the extreme power he put out. Knowing I've got "Der Kaiser" on my side will be a huge confidence boost come race day. Other athletes will fear me and cower in the presence of my mighty silver wheel. Some will even pack up and go home before the race starts because their soul will be defeated.
The best part is that Renn doesn't even make the Kaiser any more, so all those poseurs that will invariably rush out to copy me will be SOL. Yes, that's right- this is one rare bird. The mightly silver Kaiser wheel that can only be found in the darkest corners of that fabled Triathlon forum, Slowtwitch. (OK, yes, I bought it used off some guy for a great price through the Slowtwitch classifieds). So, as I continue my training and preparation for my return to triathlon, I now carry the quiet reassurance and secret confidence of having Der Kaiser on my side.