What's next?

I'm jealous of my brother.  Not in the normal sense, though.  The freak has known since he was in high school what he wanted to do with his life (and now does it) while I - like any normal person  - wander around aimlessly.  To this day, more years than are reasonable past high school graduation, I have jumped from one disparate job to another.  How disparate?  Try boat shop to space factory.  Whoa! Did that even make any sense? 

I worked for some years on boats, doing all manner of things - engine repair, hull scrapping, teak cleaning, resoration, etc.  Then one day I get a call from a friend who says  "we're doing an experiment,  do you want to participate?  We need to see if we can train some monkeys to do what our engineers are doing."  I grabbed a banana and was off to work for a space shuttle contractor.  Turns out, they can train monkeys to replace engineers.  I'm living proof - and I'll show you as soon as I'm done swinging in this tree.

During most of that tenure, I moonlighted (moonlit?) at a beer joint down on one of the bayous.  What a transition - by day a white collar semi-engineering job to a no-collar (that would be well below the socio-economic level of the blue collar worker) beer thrower/bouncer by night.  But hey, it paid the bills and kept food on the table, at least semi-regularly.

Several years, a college degree, and another contractor later, I left the space factory (and the beer joint) for good.  Which, as it turns out was not a particularly bad move considering the recent retirement of the shuttle fleet.  As I was out and about one day, I chanced upon a man who needed a manager for his newly acquired airport.  Despite not having any experience whatsoever in that field, he went ahead and hired me.  Okay, I am a pilot, and I do admit to hanging out at airports, but I think that might not qualify as actual airport management experience.

Now I'm looking down the road a couple of years and am wondering, what I'm gonna do when this gig runs out?  My qualifications aren't exactly transferable to many other things:  I was a ground controller for NASA  - nope, not many of those jobs.  I scheduled training for astronauts and managed their training facilities - not many of those jobs either.  And now I watch the grass grow and collect hangar rental checks at a small privately owned airport - very few of those jobs available.  And I'm too old too be scraping barnacles off boats.  Frankly, I was too old for that 30 years ago. 

I'm hoping my next gig involves large paychecks, fast cars, a big house with it's own gym (complete with indoor lap pool).  Kind of like the job Magnum P.I. had.  Without the P.I. part.

At It Again...

Lord only knows why I do this to myself.  In my continuing fight against old age, I have once again started up the triathlon training.  Now, since I haven't been doing much of anything for the last year, I've gotten fat and lazy and waaayyy out of shape.  Truth is, I haven't been able to do much because of my hand. 

"Oh.... that old excuse!"  Yep, that's the one I'm stickin' with.  D'Quervein's Tendnoitis.  Amazing to me just how much an injured hand can impede your progress to everything except the refrigerator.  Running shakes and jars it, can't hold on to the bike with it, and swimming is painful.   So the next course of action was - surgery.  So that put me down for a month and it still hurts about the same as before.  That may be considered a successful surgery, I don't know.  At least it's not worse.

Life is full of excuses - I hear a lot of them from Reed.  Mostly "it's the teacher's fault!" 

So here's the end of mine, I guess. I'm back out on the road, ignominiously reduced to the couch to 10K program on my iphone after the glory days of my Olympic distance triathlons.  To make myself accountable, I signed up as a mentor on the BeginnerTriathlete website.  But what help can I give them other than support and empathy?  I'm a shy, old, new(ish) triathlete (I can still call myself a triathlete 'cause I did one within the last year). 

My nutrition practices run counter to accepted wisdom, although they work for me.  Probably give everyone else heartburn.

I'm slow in every event.  I dream of a 12 minute mile in the run and 15-18mph on the bike.  I'm better at the swim than the others, but I take my time cause I like that one the best - always counts against me.  Unfortunately, they don't give extra points for attitude.  But, as long as they have beer at the end (and I don't have to drive) and cheeseburgers near by I'm a happy camper.

This is probably the definition of insanity.

The Age Wars - The End of the Beginning

The swim was great, if a little chilly.  The first transition was somewhat slow, but I'm not too worried about it.  I managed to get everything done and on the bike without falling over (a big deal for me).  Off I go, heading directly into the wind and am thankful.  This means that the wind will be ninety degrees in both of the long leg directions.  This short stretch is the only headwind I’ll have.  I ride and ride, and lots of people pass.  I have pig ears and a curly-que tail attached to my helmet, so this entertains me, and apparently a lot of other people too, judging from their comments.  Almost everybody that passes says something positive: “Good job!”  “Keep it up you’re doing great!”  “Love your ears!”  “I need that helmet!”.

I look around and enjoy the scenery, I’ve never been that far down the island before.  I try to remember to thank everybody along the way; the volunteers are tremendous.  At some point I drop my bottle and have to stop and go back to get it.  Penalties can be assigned for dropping stuff.  Despite that, I come across enough spare inner tubes to start a resale shop.  I am tempted to pick them up, but resist the urge.  I look for Tab, knowing that he must be on the other side of the road and eventually find him and wave.  He is easy to spot in his bright yellow Army jersey.    He is happy to see me and yells something that sounds a lot like “EAT!”  So I pull out my sandwich and have my own little bike picnic.  At the first aid station, my bladder and I suddenly decide we need to make a strategic pit stop.  When I come out, I accept the gel thingy that someone is passing out.  It says it’s peach-banana.  Okay, so maybe I’ll try it.  I get about two thirds of it down, and force down more Gatorade.  I actually pass someone! 

Finally I make the turn and am on my way back.  I finish my sandwich, get another gel from the second aide station.  This says something about java – how bad can that be?  I force that one down too, despite it tasting like hundred-year-old hotel coffee.  More water required.

At the seawall, I pick up a tag along.  Some guy out for his beach bike ride decides he needs to ride along and chat.  I finally have to tell him that he will get me disqualified if the judges think he is riding with me.  I idley wonder if that's his M.O. for picking up dates -

Near the transition, I spy Linda Sue and Reed. She’s got a bike horn that she is honking and they are holding up signs.  I’m so happy to see them!

I re-rack my bike, toss my helmet, reach into my cooler for my bag of fruit, stuff it in my now empty back pocket, and head back out.  About two miles into the run, I realize that I’ve forgotten my race number belt.  I can’t do much at this point, but I know I’ll pass it again and maybe I can get it.  I run and walk and run and walk.  The aid stations are wonderful.  They are handing out water and Gatorade, pretzels and de-fizzed coke (yuck).  I grab some water and dump it on my head.  Some of the volunteers dump more on my head.  Luckily this is an aid station I pass twice so they do it again!  Later there are wet sponge stops.  I take those and tuck them into the shoulders of  my jersey, giving them up for fresh ones at the next stop.  Lots of aid stations means lots of water on my head and Gatorade in my mouth. 

I catch up with a girl who has just told someone she lost seven pounds training up for this event.  I have to ask her how.  As she tells me about her coach and nutrition plan, I pull out my bag of food.  I’m hungry.  I offer her some and she takes a few pieces of melon.  After we chat a while, she picks back up to her pace and I stay at mine.  I think that second turnaround is never going to appear, but it does with cheering volunteers all the way.  I’m almost done now.  I feel pretty good and I keep running and walking and running.  I try to time it right so that I can run all the way past the transition to the finish line.  It’s a little further than I thought, but I keep running, and, finally, I hear them announce my name at the finish line.  I’m so excited! I’ve done it!

Age, I’ve decided, is relative. I’m relatively old. But I’m also relatively fit and healthy. The age war will continue, but for now, I have the upper hand.  I also have my first war medal. And, most importantly, braggin’ rights! 

Right now, however, what I'm really focused on is... you guessed it... A Cheeseburger!

The Age Wars - Part 3

After training all winter and spring, we think we might be ready.  Okay, Tab thinks we might be ready.  I think I want to throw up every time someone mentions it.  However, race weekend finally arrives and we barricade ourselves in local hotel.  It might take a SWAT team to get me out.  The weekend-long festival includes a sprint race on Saturday and the quarter and half-irons on Sunday.  How can they possibly call that a festival?  My intent was to watch Saturday’s race to see how it went, but we end up tag-teaming the kids.  I stay with the youngest grandchild while Tab goes to mark bodies for the sprint race.  When her mom comes, I exchange the toddler for the more self-sufficient adolescent boy, and we go out to enjoy the sights.

On what turned out to be a perfect day, we checked out some of Moody Gardens many attractions, in particular the Titanic display, the Rain Forest Pyramid and the Aquarium.  Afterward we attended the mandatory race meeting and check out the swim course.  Because of the proliferation of oysters in the area, it has a deep water entry rather than a beach start.  A small area has been cleared of oysters for pre-race warm ups. 

Somehow we time dinner just right and hit the best Italian restaurant on the island just before the rush.    Pleasantly stuffed with pasta and strawberry shortcake, we waddle back to our hotel to organize all of our gear and prepare our race food before falling into bed.   When the alarm goes off at 5am we are wide awake.  I feel sick.  I know it’s just pre-race jitters.  Unfortunately I have several hours to wait.  I work at eating a bagel but my mouth isn’t in the chewing mood.  I swallow some terrible hotel coffee to help it along. 

Tab’s group ("wave" in triathlon lingo) is scheduled to start thirty minutes earlier than mine.  He tries to be encouraging as he heads off to the pier.  I try not to throw up.  I see all the light blue caps hit the water and know that he is in it for better or worse.  I still have a while.  My grandson waits with me for a time, but then goes to meet his race time companion (and my best friend) Linda Sue, whom he will hang out with during the race. 

Now it’s my turn to go jump in the lake.  Bayou actually.  The water is cold but not as cold as the practice lake we’ve been swimming in.  The deep water entry unsettles some, but, having a scuba background prepares me.  I press my goggles to my face and jump.  Almost immediately, I come across someone who is a little unnerved.  She hasn’t trained in cold water, never worn her wetsuit before, and wasn’t expecting a jump.  I spend a few minutes talking to her and then realize that they’ve already blown the starting whistle and I’m not even at the line yet! Once started, I’m much more comfortable, the nerves have gone away and I just swim and look and look and swim.  There are plenty of lifeguards keeping up with us.  The wetsuit is still a little extra work than swimming, but it compensates by adding buoyancy. At the last turn, I’m a little sad that it can’t be more swim and less of everything else.  While I’m not fast at any of it, the swim is my favorite part.

As I get near the end, my hands scrape on the outdoor carpet they have staked to the bottom to protect against oyster shells.  I stand up and immediately get a cramp in my calf that knocks me back down.  I grab the rails and pull myself up and head for the wetsuit wranglers.  These ladies are wonderful!  Wetsuit in hand I head for the transition area, I’m way at the far end, and most of the bikes are already gone, but I’m not worried.  I sit down, grab my shoes and socks, wrestle with my shirt, fasten my helmet on and load up my food supplies. If any real athletes are looking, I'm sure they're horrified. I stuff sandwiches in my back pockets, cheese and crackers in my little bike box, and drinks in my bottle holders.  All I need is a blanket and a bottle of wine. What i need is a picnic basket mounted on my bike. I noticed earlier that some had already loaded their drinks.  I guessed they were planning on not being gone that long.  I wanted mine to still be cold so I’d left them in the cooler.  I figured a few extra seconds weren’t going to put me out of the race.  Maybe if I was competing for first place I’d have thought twice about that strategy.

The Age Wars - Part 2

At the end of the last post, I had just signed up for a quarter iron distance triathlon.  Uh oh...

March 30^th is Triathlon Day, when I take this fight to the enemy – 150 days from registration. 

I am woefully unprepared for this war, as I discover.  In order to help me marshal my defenses, I purchase a heart rate monitor.  It’s on clearance because it’s still in an old fashioned cardboard box package instead of the modern blister pack.  I love new toys.   I feel like a Pentagon general in the middle of a defense contractor convention. But, alas, the rest of my arsenal is not so cutting-edge.  My bike is of the mountain/trail riding variety with fat, knobby tires, and my running shoes have seen more work in the garden than on the pavement. 

The enemy fires a few direct hits and affects some successful sabotage with upper respiratory infections, sick kids, aches and pains.  Scheduling is a logistical nightmare. The winter pool hours are limited.   It rains on all the Kid’s Day Out days. Or so it seems.     The winter weather is uncooperative.  In my down time, I do what I’m really good at: reading and planning.  And spending money. 

Slowly but surely my weapons cache builds.  I buy new running shoes and a few light weight tech shirts.  After a few, incredibly slow, long rides with Tab – he on his road bike and me on my knobby mountain bike – he is convinced of my need for a new road bike.  Later, a pair of aero bars find their way under the Christmas Tree.  In March, Tab again contributes to the war effort with the purchase of my new wetsuit.

My biggest vulnerability is my body’s sugar management.  Always difficult, this suddenly becomes a real obstacle.  My body lies to me. “I’m not hungry now,” it protests right before it plants itself face down on the pavement.  “I’m starving,” it says thirty minutes after I eat.  I have to think ahead.  Food will be a significant issue in a four or five hour event.  I try bars and gels, but they are not for me. I will need real food. But cheeseburgers and ice cream won’t work either. I need portable food.  

I mount small skirmishes, first against the two-mile run and the nine-mile bike ride.  Then the three and four mile runs and the fifteen-lap swims.  The battle of the “brick” ensues.  After finishing a 28-mile bike ride, Tab and I attempt to run.  This takes our legs by complete surprise and they are reluctant to abandon their wet noodle  responses.  Tab says I’m trying to kill him.  Eventually we declare it a marginal victory, but we know we’ll fight that battle a few more times. 

In sharp contrast to my pool swims, our first open water swims are next to disastrous.  We go to a nearby fresh water lake, and gamely don our wetsuits.  We ease into the water, shivering.  It’s COLD.  I try to swim but I can’t overcome the gasping reflex to get my face in the water.  The wetsuit adds another dimension of difficulty.  I struggle to swim from one buoy to the next.  After an eternity I finally emerge from the water, filled with lake water and more self-doubt than ever. 

Subsequent swims improve both my ability and confidence.  I learn that I can at least float all the way around the course if I have to.  But the water is still in the mid-sixties and I start studying marine buoy temperatures on a daily basis, muttering “warm up, warm UP.”

In the last few weeks before T-day, my battle-hardened buddy and I review our plans for transitions and equipment.  We each have our lists, our assigned tasks.  I’m in charge of food, packing lists, and accommodations.  Tab drives and handles all post race thinking for the both of us.  We’ve determined that my brain quits functioning on a rational level after any extended workout.  It is preoccupied with thoughts of cheeseburgers and ice cream.  Go figure. 

The Age Wars - Part 1

Any sane person would have just killed it.  Anyone in their right mind would have stabbed it with the scissors when it first arrived.  But no, I let it live.  Pretending to be lighthearted and fun, it floated up by the ceiling, playing chase with the dogs and kids. Occasionally it faced me smugly, but I looked the other way.  After a few days it descended to eye level but I continued to ignore it.  Undaunted, it floated and wandered around the house, propelled by air conditioning currents and grandchildren.   After two weeks, it meandered benignly into my bedroom then drifted into the bathroom.  But beneath that façade of playful innocence, was a carefully plotted ambush in the making.  It was an invasion. It maneuvered, waited until I was pinned in, inconveniently indisposed, with no escape route.  It breathed, it twitched. Suddenly, it turned and began the assault.  “The BIG 50!” it shot, its bright, happy letters exploding on black Mylar.  I had no defenses.  I was a casualty of the Age War.

I retreated out of the bathroom as quickly as possible, given the circumstances, and began to assess the damage.  I had to regroup.  I had to plan countermeasures and defenses.  I had to strike back! I had to take a nap. No! No nap.  I can’t let a wimpy half-inflated, helium balloon push me prematurely into the front porch rocking chair.  So I considered the options, mapped out my strategy, planned my first counter-attack.  I would do a triathlon! Sigh. Maybe I’d already reached senility. 

I brought up the idea with Tab, my husband.  He seemed agreeable.  There’s a nice sprint length triathlon at Walt Disney World on Mother’s Day weekend, I told him.  It’s just for women.  We can go, take the grandkids, do a little race, and spend the rest of the weekend playing with Mickey Mouse and Tinkerbell.  Now, a sprint distance triathlon is about a 400 yard swim, a twelve-mile bike race, and a 5K (about 3.1 miles) run.  I thought if I could train all winter I could make it.  Barely.

“Why do a sprint?” Tab asked. “That won’t take any effort at all to train for.  Challenge yourself!”  This he tells to a woman who can’t run to the mailbox.  Okay, maybe the mailbox but not any further.  Maybe I should have shot him instead of the balloon.  However, he agrees to join me in this insanity if I will step up to a quarter-Ironman distance. That’s more than twice what I had originally planned:  just over a half-mile swim, a twenty-eight-mile bike, and a 10K run.  I’d be lucky to get out of the car to start, much less finish that race.

However, having retreated from the balloon battle in ignominy, I began to think the quarter distance might be the better overall campaign strategy.  I map out a battle plan, laying out attack strategies for running, swimming, biking, and strength training.  I determine what intelligence needs to be gathered.  I analyze, study, and read up on progression and pitfalls, recording troop movements, trying to anticipate the enemy’s next attack – creaky knees, achy shoulders, flat tires, or chilly lakes.

First, I have to determine the right time and place for my first counter-attack.  Surfing the net, I find several possible events.  The one that makes the most sense is the Lone Star Triathlon at Moody Gardens in Galveston.  It’s close to home with a nice beach, pretty grounds, and lots for the kids to do too. There’s a hotel conveniently located in case we’re too tired to drive home.  I’m usually too tired to drive after I vacuum.  The timing looks good – five months away.  I’ll need all that time for basic and advanced training.  I’m excited. I’m psyched.  I’m pumped. I click the register button.  Yeah!

You would think that when you register for a race they’d use some mechanism for checking your sanity level.  When you click the “Register” button, it should ask you “Are you out of your ever-loving mind?”   But no, there isn’t even an “Are you sure?” message.  Of course, if there were, there would probably be considerably fewer racers.   So, eighty-five dollars poorer, I am committed to a Quarter Iron distance triathlon.  I probably ought to be committed.  To an institution.  But we’re in (I registered Tab too – heh, heh), so here we go!

Stay tuned for Part 2 - Battle Planning

Indispensable or Legacy

I find it curious that people want to be indispensable; that they would want to be so important, so key to any organization that, should they leave, that organization’s survival would be in jeopardy.  Not only is it short sighted, it runs contrary to how our nation itself developed, both politically and industrially.

Imagine, if you will, the difference in direction our country might have taken based on the choices of two men:

First, in the political realm, let us consider George Washington.  He was in the unique position to help define forever more the direction our country would grow and evolve and he recognized this.  To his friend James Madison he wrote “To the first of everything, in our situation will serve to establish a Precedent.  It is devoutly wished on my part that these precedents be fixed on true principles.”   He knew that every step he made, every decision, every act would be looked at hence as the baseline and foundation for every future step, decision, and act.  Imagine, if you will, if President Washington, or any of the other founding fathers felt like he needed to be indispensible.  I think it unlikely that the new democracy would have flourished.  In that day and age, our representatives in congress felt a duty and a desire to serve the greater good.  It was not about serving their own good.  It was not about being the lynchpin, that once removed, caused the system to collapse like a house of cards.  Their intent was to forge a lasting government that would survive the test of time, long after they were dead and gone.  That was their legacy. 

Now that we have the country well and truly built on sound principles, let’s look at another man. He was not a politician, but along with his contemporaries, he gave us the foundations for industry and several inventions that dramatically changed lives.  Thomas Edison spent a good bit of his time building companies around his inventions.  His research and development complex in West Orange New Jersey became a vast industrial complex manufacturing and working in tandem with Edison’s laboratory.   At its peak, the facility employed as many as 10,000 people. As time went on, he left more and more of the day to day work of running the businesses to others as he pursued other interests, including other inventions.  He had built a company that could run without him babysitting it every step of the way.  He had built a legacy.

It was in George Washington’s nature to lead.  It was in Thomas Edison’s nature to invent.   When I look around now at industry leaders, I don’t see any similarities.  I see a need to be indispensible, whether as a football player, CEO, or political servant.  I see a hunger for money, power, and notoriety at the expense of everyone else.

I see politicians, wrapping themselves in the flag while spending ungodly sums of money, insulting those of us who put them there (and are supplying the funds they’re spending),  collecting salaries and retirement that only the privileged few can come close, and telling us that without them, we will descend into anarchy.

 I see iron-fisted CEOs, company owners, managers, team “leaders” ( a term which I use quite loosely here) who micromanage every decision, every step, every aspect of their companies.  These hard-driving individuals are driving their organizations right into the ground at an astonishing rate.

In recent times, I’ve seen very few, most notably Richard Branson and Herb Kelleher, who seemed to defy this trend.  They, I believe, understand the fundamental basics: create a sound business model, hire the best people you can find to run it, pay them a fair wage, and then get the hell out of their way and watch success happen.

I grow increasingly weary of political and corporate claims about how we would all be lost without them leading the way out of the darkness, all while they are hoarding the matches.  Maybe they could just light a candle and pass it on – like so many strong and successful leaders before them.