PERSPECTIVE

Dec 31, 2007 - These days, New Year's resolutions have faded into sort of a nostalgic form of self-improvement. Does anyone make these commitments anymore, and if so, how long are they sustained? This is a tradition that has carried on for over 4000 years originating with the ancient Babylonians who apparently needed a convenient reminder to return borrowed farm tools. These promises-to-self have evolved into predominantly an antidote, if only temporary, to the health-sapping vices and excesses of modern society— start dieting, begin exercising, stop smoking, quit drinking. This is evidenced in part by the unusually crowded health clubs found each January. In December of 2006, I made three resolutions for 2007, more for experimental purposes than any other. I promised to forego coffee, ice cream, and alcohol. This comes from a guy who cherishes a steaming cup of Colombian dark roast, who has made significant contributions to the Ben and Jerry retirement fund, and a man who finds a cold beer on a hot day to be a legitimate part of the high life. I was pragmatic enough to admit that I wouldn't make it through the year with all three intact. Sure enough, the third vow was the first to fall when early on in my deprived state I found that a glass of red wine did wonders for the pervasive achiness my caffeine withdrawal produced. On the other front, for a while I replaced the slow-churned, creamy goodness of ice cream with a soy product. Given the taste differential, I still don't consider that cheating. I finally caved on the remaining two resolutions in May. That first cup of joe in nearly five months got me thru the Friday New York Times crossword in short order and some Häagen-Dazs provided ample reward for a Herculean training block. Still in all, I imagine that my resolutions bit the dust with perhaps a slightly longer than average lifespan. So what about 2008 you ask? Well, I've got until midnight to finalize that decision. But before I do, you can be sure I'll make visits to Starbucks, Ted Drewes, and the Dierbergs champagne department.

Dec 28, 2007 - Scarcely a day passes without the local TV news airing a report on some aspect of the impending Hwy 40 closure. If your daily commute is on the afflicted list, I feel your pain, well at least to the extent that a bedroom-to-den commuter is capable. Anyway, many commuters will opt to simply grit their collective teeth and endure the logjam like so many pieces of timber floating down the river toward the teeth of a wood-hungry sawmill. I daresay that after a few weeks of that my own brain would likely be reduced to sawdust. Other commuters may settle upon a satisfactory workaround, be it Metro Link, car pooling, flex time, home office, or a green alternative— the bicycle. It's the last option that intrigues me most. The percentage of drivers willing to leave their cars in the garage each day is anyone's guess, but I know the possibility of adding, say an extra thousand miles of free training each month, would be irresistibly appealing to this cycling junkie. Consider the fact that we cyclist would probably be driving quickly home to get a ride before sunset, and bike commuting makes complete sense. Managing bike commuting logistics isn't as complicated as one might think, with a little planning, this is. Backpacks, panniers, light kits, shower facilities, work clothes, bike storage, rain gear, and other such details are thoughtful considerations (and half the fun) when configuring your commute. If you make the commitment to your bike come January 2nd, I suspect you'll experience an unexpected transformation. When I-64 reopens in all of its concrete glory, I'd be willing to wager that you'll be reluctant to part with your two-wheeled ways.

Dec 14, 2007 - The Mitchell Report was released on Thursday and it comes as no real surprise that it lacks any teeth. What a contrast between the almost heavy-handed manner in which pro cycling is trying to clean up their sport versus the coddling approach taken by Major League baseball. With the latter, they essentially have an ineffectual commissioner doing battle against the stonewalling multi-millionaires who have an unwritten locker room code and a staunch union leader providing interference as their media mouthpiece. The much anticipated tome is less a manifesto as it is a gentle encouragement to forget the past and just move forward. Too bad ex-Senator Mitchell isn't still holding office. His report would have delivered more impact if he could have attached some pork bills to it. These have been very tough times for pro cycling, but a tip of the cycling helmet for finally taking firm action against performance enhancing drugs.

Dec 5, 2007 - The 2007 Ironman World Championship aired this past weekend and NBC churned out yet another fine production. Of course even before tuning in, I along with the rest of the triathlon world already knew who had won, having watched the live webcast. But that's besides the point. It didn't deter me from setting aside ninety minutes of my holiday season life to get revved up, inspired, and emotionally affected. Memorable moments for this viewer were many— the mass swim start (as always), Brian Boyle and Cliff Rigsby making the finish, Madonna Buder sadly missing the bike cutoff, Normann Stadler's stomach violently discharging its contents, and a battered but determined Natasha Badmann mounting a borrowed bike after demolishing hers. The drama there was real, not the product of some Hollywood script writer's imagination. For me, the best way to watch this annual emotion-fest isn't with a beer and pizza at some cozy viewing party, although that would be my second choice. Instead, as the broadcast nears its end I purposefully don my running gear and with the closing credits head out the door.

Oct 9, 2007 - Autumn ushers in several century bike rides intended to let distance riders go long in cooler weather and of course enjoy the seasonal change of Missouri foilage. Well at least that's the plan. This past weekend offered a double-header with the Sandy Creek Century on Saturday and the Ride the Rivers Century on Sunday. The weather however was summerlike and the trees weren't quite ready to display their fiery fall colors, but that didn't prevent healthy turnouts at both rides. The Sandy Creek ride drew me and the others to Hillsboro for a two-loop journey though some of the most magnificent Missouri terrain I've ridden in recent memory. Cresting the occasional high hilltop yielded spectacular vistas of the huge, rolling, tree-covered hills, often spread wide across the horizon. The ride took us through the heart of Jefferson County. It was challenging, but in my opinion, the degree of difficulty fell short of the pre-ride hype. I thought it was eminently doable for riders in proper physical condition to pedal a hundred miles. The road quality was generally very good, and for the most part, vehicular traffic along the well-marked route was modest. The rest stops were amply stocked, the lunch fare about average. The ride gets very high marks for mechanical support. James from Maplewood Bicycle went above and beyond the call of duty to assist riders. This Hosteling International-USA Gateway Council event easily receives my vote as top St Louis area century... The following morning found me pedaling to Locust & 22nd St where an immense group of cyclists were amassing for the start of Trailnet's popular Ride the Rivers Century. The character of this 100-miler differed greatly from the previous day's ride which was completely rural. The RRC route meandered west through the city and St Louis County, eventually depositing us at the Veteran's Memorial Bridge bike/ped lane where we crossed into St Charles. From there it headed north until we arrived at the Golden Eagle Ferry, for what would be the first of two river crossings. It must have been surreal indeed for the motorists sitting in their cars on the ferry boat as they were surrounded by hundreds of cyclists who packed the boat. Once we hit the opposite shore, the scene resembled Normandy Beach on D-Day as cyclists poured from the ferry boat. A rather steep incline immediately out from the landing area caught more than a few riders in the wrong gear, and with the expected consequences. After a beautiful, hilly ride through the penninsula-like land mass between the rivers, the second ferry landed us at the feet of Pere Marquette Park. The next forty-something miles would be southward along the mighty Mississippi into a light headwind, but not before stopping for lunch in Grafton. The lunch process sufficiently baffled everyone as a sole waiter took orders, then fetched four lunch plates at a time— this as hundreds of ravenous riders descended upon the outdoor cafe. Fortunately we got out of there relatively quickly and back on the road. We bore through the southerly breeze all the way to a well-provisioned rest stop on the Missouri side of the Chain of Rocks bridge. We easily completed the remaining miles and gravitated with the other early finishers toward the St Louis Brewery to talk cycling and knock back a well-earned Schlafly's or two. Aside from lunch and debris-induced flats along the river road, the ride earns high marks for route variety and great aid stations.

Sept 25, 2007 - Determination. Stage-1: I had committed to a Sunday ride with a couple of buddies, one of whom was bringing along his 13-year old son. On Friday night, I had reservations about the practicality of this plan particularly when the route was out Hwy. T to Labadie. Those rollers are a challenge for even the most seasoned of cyclists let alone an early teen. But 24-hours later, I was singing a much different tune after having churned out 180-miles on Saturday. My legs embraced the notion of a slow-paced ride, though it would be hilly, and for me, on the long-end of things at 80-miles. We rendezvoused at the appointed hour and immediately I made note of his son's running shoes and flat pedals. Hmmm. I wondered if this might turn into an even longer day than I had anticipated. Needless to say the lad ground his way up those hills just like the rest of us, not once complaining, and then led us down the descents. Coasting up beside him, I offered a, "nice work," to which he excitedly replied, "I hit 40 coming down." I inwardly chastised myself for underestimating his grit... Stage-2: The 20-mile ride home would be a nice cool down. Nothing serious mind you, just spin my way east on Clayton Road. That would have been the case if not for the the yellow-jerseyed cyclist on aerobars who flew by me. The competitive inner-me sprung to life in knee-jerk fashion. I jumped and repassed him with authority. I was full gas for a few hundred yards, but a quick peek back surprisingly revealed him locked on my wheel. We sprinted for and made a green light, then he pulled through, determined to drop me. I caught his wheel and we flew down a gentle grade at breakneck speed. Upon reaching the bottom, a red light brought us to a halt at which point I looked forward to learning this fellow's name. But before I could, he nervously performed a couple of quick, tight circles then promptly rolled through the red light, and the next one just beyond it. My first reaction was, "OK, fine, be that way." But when the light eventually turned green, I was on a mission and my system was coursing with adrenaline. If I could just close the gap a bit by the next hill, we'll see what happens. With the hammer down, I reached the base of that roller with him only pedaling perhaps 50 yards ahead. Having ridden this particular stretch of road a hundred times, I knew that with a little momentum I could sail up it in my 54x12. Not more than a quarter of the way up the grade he shifted to his small ring. To me that was the equivalent of surrender. I blew past in unforgiving fashion and hammered until he was out of sight. I had to laugh. The day begun with me underestimating that young man's heart and now had reached full circle with my own tenacity being called out.

Sept 20, 2007- With a few days now passed and fond memories of the Tour of Missouri still reverberating so wonderfully in my head, I thought it time to let loose with a few inner reflections and, forgive me, some overt emotion. First and foremost, I am extremely proud of the state of Missouri for coming through in the over-the-top manner in which they did. The peloton itself was blown away by the level of support it received. I can accept the reality that at the governmental level it's mostly about the tourism dollars rather than for love of the sport, but when Governor Blunt and all of those mayors are in your corner, oh baby how it all comes together! It was just last Sunday when Ivan Dominguez launched himself down Market Street toward the finish line at Union Station to close out six days of racing and already it seems but a dream. Did we really host a world class bicycle race on nearly 600 miles of rolling enclosure and closed roads throughout the state? If I may borrow a now trite expression— I'm still wrapping my mind around that one. Being completely honest about it, I would have guessed Missouri to be one of the least likely states to host an event of this nature. But that is precisely why I am so amped— because they did. Now come the questions. Can we grow the Tour of Missouri sans the Discovery Team swan song that played such a prominent role in the inaugural event? Will the casual spectators and curiosity seekers return as cycling fans? Will CSC, T-Mobile, Predictor-Lotto, and other heavy hitting teams make the trip to Missouri in 2008? The reality is that athletes, sponsors, and even races come and go. My advice is to simply enjoy it now all that you can, get involved in some capacity, and hope for the best.

July 25, 2007 - According to the annual Gallup Polls, rounding out the bottom of the Most Honest and Ethical Professions have routinely been car salesmen, advertising practitioners, insurance salesman, Congressmen and Senators. It's a depressing day for cycling when professional bike racer makes its way to the list. But with yesterday's stunning Vinokourov doping revelation, that seems now to have been the case. Who are we to trust in the sport anymore when athletes, team doctors, and team directors have at one time or another been complicit. We want to believe in that amazing mountain stage, the incredible comeback, or the lights out individual time trial. Heck, we need to believe. But it seems that each time we buy into it, the indomitable human spirit turns out to a pill, an injection, or a blood transfusion. Even the most deeply rooted cycling fan can only tolerate so much. Pro cycling authorities are taking strong and deliberate steps to weed out the cheaters, but it's improbable that the sport will ever be 100% clean. Science moves too fast, the temptation is too great, and human nature will always be fallible. It would be so welcome to finally turn the last sordid page of this current sad chapter.

June 27, 2007 - When tragedy occurs, it's hard to know where to begin. The immediate grief, horror, shock, and sadness we experience can be overpowering, almost paralyzing emotions as we struggle to find some semblance of sense in things. The St Louis endurance sports community lost one of our own on Saturday and in the the ensuing days an unbearable ache has gnawed steadily at our core. Whether you knew Kevin Hunt or not matters little. If you are an endurance athlete, you are affected in a personal way that only you an he would have understood. You see, we were bound by the brotherhood of sport. The act of pushing oneself in the company of others beyond our own very personal physical, often mental, and at times emotional limits is an act that create bonds. Make no mistake, this is not stamp collecting we're talking about. Triathlon hurts and it leaves an mark, and an indelible one at that, on our very souls. It changes us in remarkable ways. Kevin saw that and wanted it, just as you and I did when we first took up the sport. That's what draws us together in spirit. So now with a dark day in the sport casting a pallor over us, what now? In the course of grappling with the negative experiences this sometimes harsh world throws at us, it's imperative that we balance the scales by finding a corresponding positive. The emotional healing process demands it. Rest assured that a positive will come of what at first seems completely senseless. It's definitely there and it may be somewhat different for each one of us. It's just that sometimes you just have to search a little more closely to find it.

March 11, 2007 - Daylight Saving Time... That last hour really seemed to fly by. I guess that's because it actually did. This morning, I like so many others, arose from bed and moved the clock ahead sixty minutes. Now if that isn't the perfect metaphor for the quickness with which our lives pass, I don't know what is. This seems an ideal day, at least for me, to remind myself to make every hour count. It's not that I don't already strive to live in the moment, but the frenetic pace I find myself trying to maintain often has me taking in life in gulps like so much post-race Gatorade instead of sipping it's nuances as with a fine Pinot Grigio. Just about everyone reading this will at some point be wearing their running or cycling shoes for an hour today. It seems a great opportunity to really savor sixty minutes of life's game time in lieu of the ones that just got away.

Feb 16, 2007 - While reading a Yahoo news story about 438lb Jacob Seilheimer who plans to run the Boston Marathon at 338lbs, I was both curious and skeptical. First It will require an ultra-marathon of diet and light exercise just to transform his present morbidly obese height-weight ratio to that of normal, healthy proportions. Participating in a 26.2 mile event after just three months of training and years of sedentary, artery clogging overeating seems foolish at best. As for running/walking the Boston Marathon, it comes as a surprise that the BAA would be party to it. If Seilheimer is actually an official entrant by way of an exemption, the online data base does not reveal his name. Of course no one wants to stifle the man's new found motivation for better quality of life, well, except maybe for those issuing death wishes for him on his own website (Sharon Nicholls certainly makes St Louis proud with her rude comment). But a health professional should convince Seilheimer to give it a reasonable amount of time before mounting his attempt. The story and his charitable fund-raising effort would probably both find happier endings... More— As if the story wasn't super-sized enough, Yahoo news prefaces their posting of the PRWeb report with their own uneducated hyperbole. "Jacob Seilheimer, a 438 lb. beekeeper from Wisconsin, aims to tackle the world's most grueling marathon." OK, any marathoner knows that Boston is not the toughest marathon in world. I could easily come up with a quick list of ten that make Boston pale in comparison. But it did get me to thinking. What actually is the the most grueling marathon? A quick Google suggests that the Great Tibetan Marathon may hold a serious claim to the title. The race starts at 3800 meters (12,464 feet), then the up and down, rugged course finishes at a point just a mere 1200 feet lower. web.

Dec 18, 2006 - You've got to hand it to the organizers of the new Triathlon One O One Series who are gearing up for a limited launch in 2007. They have the moxie to go up against the M-dot franchise which owns a near monopoly on the long and ultra triathlete's bank account. This is not unlike the old American Football League when it challenged the cartel that was the NFL over four decades ago. The upstart AFL hung around just long enough to effect a merger. Whether One O One has merger hopes in its endgame plan, will seek to remain autonomous, or can simply sustain beyond a few years, remains to be seen. The WTC zealously protects its turf. Whether consciously or not, it has successfully steamrolled a slew of non-IM events. One O One will compete most directly for 70.3 customers. If a race director wants to attract a professional field, that can be accomplished with money. Drawing age-groupers who have Ironman visions dancing in their heads will prove to be a much stiffer challenge. I admire the entrepreneurial and competitive spirit of Triathlon One O One but hope that their efforts don't become just another hard lesson in Business 101.

Dec 14, 2006 - In the course of my daily web surfing, I came across this timely posting by syndicated sports journalist James Raia from Sacramento, CA: "Twenty-six years ago, Terry Fox, after losing his right leg to bone cancer, set out on a 5,300-mile journey to run across Canada. He ran about a marathon a day for 143 straight days. Fox died before completing his journey... With more frequency in the recent times, long-distance runners have seemingly tried to outdo each other by attempting largely ego-driven running quests. It all seems rather silly... That said, this soapbox as serves as a plea to magazines, web sites, corporate sponsors and various media outlets. The next time a runner says he or she is going to attempt some newfangled running ordeal, please take a long look at the person's reasons before giving the effort credence and/or your media influence or financial backing. Do not disrepect the legend of Terry Fox." After reading this we wondered: Who is he alluding to? Hopefully he responds to our e-mail inquiry.

Dec 13, 2006 - A solitary figure ran towards me— steadily, patiently. From a hundred feet his form appeared picture perfect with head up, shoulders back, a relaxed arm swing, and an even stride. At ten feet he looked somewhat smaller in stature than the preconception his photos had created in my mind, but make no mistake, solid as a rock. For sure he wasn't the reed of a man one might expect to see half way through a 4000-mile run. Meet: Dean Karnazes. The list of overwhelmingly positive adjectives one might ascribe to DK would be a lengthy one. A few that stood out in my mind during an hour run with him were: amiable, affable, approachable and simply awesome. I intersected his transcontinental run at a point on old Highway 50 in Flora, Illinois. To suggest that the town's Main Street has never before been graced by such rare fauna would be an understatement. Immediately I find that Dean is given to conversation and he wants to know about me. I on the other hand have 99 questions I'm dying to ask him, yet the tone remains very relaxed. After ten Western States 100's, the Badwater Ultramarathon, 26.2 miles at the South Pole, 50 marathons in 50 days, national television appearances, and countless other exploits, there's not much that can alter his nature which is a rare brew of easy-going yet intensely driven. Despite his extraordinary accomplishments, I sense him to be unpretentious in the extreme, at times exposing a surprisingly self-deprecating sense of humor. His passion for ultra-distance running is fueled in large part by his fascination for pushing the human spirit beyond commonly accepted limits. The 1310 miles he ran in 50 days plus these 3000 in his coast to coast effort are about connecting with people, furthering the fitness cause, and raising money for his foundation— Karno Kids. The lasting impression I took home from the experience was the one he probably would have wanted. In the end, it was just a couple of regular guys running down the road, shooting the breeze— amazing

Dec 4, 2006 - Winter relegates many of us to the great indoors to break a sweat rather than enduring the cold air outside. I love summer as much as anyone, but if you're not taking an occasional jaunt outdoors, I think you're missing out. It does require a certain amount of intestinal fortitude to embrace those nasty wind chills, but under the right circumstances winter running can actually be a lot of fun. Running in just the right snow is not to be missed. A jog through Forest Park yesterday afternoon found me avoiding the icy paths altogether for the grass and its two-inch deep, semi-frozen snow cover. The crunchy, impact-absorbing effect it provided was a joy to my knees. I couldn't help but be reminded of the similarity to another impact-forgiving, albeit much warmer, running environment— the beach in summer.

Aug 30, 2006 - Is it just me or has your running found another gear too? With the temperature suddenly maxing out about 20 more comfortable degrees lower, I've detected a little more glide in my stride. An early Tuesday evening run around Forest Park provided confirmation. I positively lit that final mile kick up Skinker Blvd, relatively speaking of course, but through perception of effort it was clearly one of my best runs of the summer. I want to thank the anonymous woman, who unbeknownst to her, provided pacemaking services. I zeroed in on her bright red shirt far up ahead along the trail, and determined that I would beat her to my exit point. Those last 400m were pretty much full out until I finally made the pass with about 20m remaining. Make no mistake, it wasn't Boston or Ironman, or anything other than a mind game to push me thru a training session. But in its own odd way, it felt very similar. Achieving any challenging goal exudes that same general good vibe regardless of circumstances, surroundings, or if anyone is watching. As they say, it's often the little victories in life that mean so much. Go for yours.

March 8, 2006 - Having finally viewed the movie Super Size Me, I was sickeningly reminded of why I stopped visiting the Golden Arches over twenty years ago. This film by Morgan Spurlock film chronicles his 30-day adventure into gastrointestinal hell. Along the way, we meet an widely varying cast of characters- his vegan wife who is initially supportive of the project until she begins seeing dramatic changes in her husband, the crew of health professionals who monitor his rapid fall from good health, and an assortment of other quirky individuals whose lives are in some way defined by the fast food company(for example: imagine an individual eating more than 20,000 Big Macs since 1972). This award winning documentary will make you think twice about your own diet, your kids health, fast food, corporate America, and popular culture.

Feb 19, 2006 - My intention was to meet up with the Spirit of St. Louis Marathon Training Run on Saturday at 8am in the Forest Park Visitor’s Center. Their agenda coincided with mine, that is, to run 6 to 12 miles at your own pace. Of course, that plan was made well before the wind chill dipped to -10° F. My thoughts clashed— should I go or should I stay? A quick flashback to the noticeably stale air of the packed health club induced me to dig out my lobster claw cycling mittens, don an additional base lining, and head out the door. All in all, It has been a markedly different winter for me. Last year at this time I was the quintessential gym rat. This winter I can still count the number of times I've retreated indoors for training, water aside, on just one hand. Obviously the mild January had a lot to do with that. But now, I perversely fed on the idea the that most people wouldn't venture out, plus I was curious to see how many runners actually would show up in these very challenging conditions. Once out the door, I immediately turned into the wind and was reminded that the weather forecast had made use of the words "bitterly cold." It was amazing how quickly my breathable running shoes covered numbed toes. If I carried any nagging leg aches and pains, I surely couldn't feel them. I had purposefully had left my Neoprene face mask at home. That now seemed a mistake as my nose and cheeks took the brunt of the wind chill. Questions slowly drifted their way through the ice floe of my thinking. Isn't it remarkable that polar bears can swim in the Arctic water? Why would anyone climb Everest? Doesn't cupping my hands around a porcelain mug of steaming cafe mocha sound inviting right now? The twenty-minute run to the Visitor's Center was not long enough to warm my feet, but I did feel a slight sweat growing beneath the third layer around my torso. Upon my arrival, I spied a little more than two dozen undeterred runners milling around inside the visitors center, which was about two dozen more than I expected to find. Shame on me for any smugness I may have harbored about my own degree of tenacity, because for sure we shared the same sense of adventure.

Feb 14, 2006 - Valentine's Day has long relied upon that traditional symbol of love, the heart. We may figuratively win, steal or break hearts, but as endurance athletes, nothing literally embodies what we do more than that same fist-sized, twisting mass of muscle. It functions as an internal tachometer for both human emotion and physical fitness. The imperfect science of love relies upon perceived effort, which can range from the subtle sense that our pulse has quickened in the presence of another person, to a near timpani resonating within our chest cavity. Both phenomena, of course, have their implications. Sometimes during training but especially while racing, emotion can play a huge role in the outcome of an event. But generally, training has evolved into an applied science. We'll strap on sensors, monitor cardiac activity, and scientifically calculate our activity zones. Within limits, the more we stress it, the stronger the heart grows. During an average individual's lifetime, it will beat more than 2.5 billion times. For an endurance athlete, it will be many millions times more. That equates to pumping well over a fifty-million gallons of blood during the athlete's lifetime. Amazingly, in just one day, the blood in a typical endurance athlete's body moves more than 14,000 miles. When simply at rest, the heart works harder than our legs muscles during a 5k run. The human heart reflects our emotion, health, and fitness. On this day of hearts, pay a little extra attention to yours.

Jan 21, 2006 - The present high-tech world of sports has taken on the feel of watching traffic at a particularly dangerous intersection- eventually and all too often there is a nasty crash. So it is with designer drugs and sports. The latest suspension that caught my eye was that of Azwindini (Gladys) Lukhwareni. She is a South African runner, who along with three other members of the Harmony Athletic Club were given 2-year bans after testing positive for 19-Norandrosterone. I was not familiar with Gladys until her newfound infamy, so I decided to Google her and learn what I could. First of all, I discovered that she is a talented and extraordinary athlete. But then again, so are most of the culprits (victims) in these situations. They are often world-class athletes just looking for an edge. The unfortunate mentality they share is that of "everyone else is doing it, so I might as well, at least to even the playing field." In her case, she sought relief for knee pain from people without her best interest at heart- ultimately with tragic consequences. Ms. Lukhwareni gained some notoriety in 2003 when she won the 50km City to City Ultramarathon by running it barefoot, a remarkable feat. It's known that anabolic steroids boost muscle recovery, but it's not clear about their restorative power on skin cells at the soles of one's feet. However, it was most likely a personal record 10k just five months ago that spurred her fall from grace. At her ability-level (sub 33:00 10k), lopping 30-seconds from her PR last September was sure to arouse suspicion. The record came easily, but at what cost? Her livelihood has been taken away, her career has been forever tainted and many of her previous accomplishments have been put in serious question. This drug-use story really isn't any more compelling than all the rest, and it certainly won't be the last one to surface. The unfortunate reality is that the entire sphere of athletic competition faces what on the surface appears to be the virtually insurmountable task of getting clean against increasingly sophisticated drug technology. The only simple option, while not the right one, might be to legalize them. The rest will be hard roads, with more than their share of crashes.

Jan 11, 2006 - As I worked the keyboard, the television droning in the background served its intended white noise function until my ears caught the word "triathlon." Okay, I thought, what's this about? As it turned out, Scrubs was on. Protagonist, Zach, was wading wetsuit-less into the cold Pacific Ocean to commence his triathlon misadventure. That subplot began with Zach planning his birthday fiesta and finding a list of things he wanted to accomplish before he turned 30. When he discovers that he has accomplished none of them, he enters a triathlon (with the expected comic results). Well, this got the mental gears turning. It reminded me of the still-existent misconception held by many outsiders who view triathlon as some impossibly difficult sport to be undertaken for bragging rights or as a perverse badge of courage. Well, the cognoscenti like you and I know better. Anyone can make the finish line if armed with sufficient training. From personal experience, it was once amusing to be held in such high esteem by the neighbors when they asked, "Oh, you're doing a triathlon? When do you leave for Hawaii?" My response was a good-natured laugh and, "Oh no, I'm entered in a small one at the YMCA." Getting back to Zach and his his goal list, the other point it raised was that his goals became like so many carrots before a burro, dangling forever out of reach. His problem was that he never put his dreams into action. Making a goal is the easy part, committing to it is the obvious challenge. Attaining them is most often a process of small, consistent, daily efforts. There is one fundamental question to ask ourselves when we put our head on the pillow at night — did the end-product of our day put us one step closer to our goals? Dream big but think small and achieving those goals is just a matter of time.

Jan 9, 2006 - Hopefully yesterday found you out on the bike taking advantage of a truly spring-like day in early January, I know I did. From SBR basecamp in Clayton, the early afternoon ride out Clayton Road towards the group rendezvous point in Wildwood was met with gusting headwind. Keeping me focused and on task was the vision of that return leg which would be a twenty-mile stretch of stout tail wind. Nothing says cycling like spinning your big gear as you hold twenty-five. One item on my " to do" list was to ride the new asphalt through Rockwood Reservations from the top of the park. Once past the gate, the new overlay kicks in and is simply screaming fast. The day served as a huge base-build boost and reminder. When the Clayton Road and Wildhorse Creek Road resurfacing projects are at last begun and eventually finished, area cyclists will have a smooth rolling east-west corridor and access to arguably the finest riding in the metro area.

Dec 30, 2005 - In yesterday's Perspective, I listed four new year resolutions that centered on negatives. A body can only stand so much brow beating even if it's self-administered, so today the tide turns. Instead of behavior avoidance, we'll accentuate the positive. You may already do most of these things, and if so, I tip my Rudy Project visor to you. If you don't, then let us change your world together.

I Will Applaud Through the Entire Award Ceremony - I've attended, at minimum, a couple of hundred post-event awards ceremonies in the past 15 years and can attest to the fact that the "diminishing applause phenomenon" is very real. The race day accomplishment of a female 55-59 is no less important than that of the male overall winner. She can't help it the audience has lost its enthusiasm while clapping for the 57 people accepting their awards before her. So, for 2006 I will apportion equal applause to every person who accepts his or her hardware, and I encourage you to do likewise.

I Will Bring One New Person Into the Sport - This multisport life we live is special in so many ways, but it's greatly misunderstood by the casual observer. One result of that is many outsiders suffer from the misconception that the sport is beyond their capability. The reality is that the sport is more likely to put a bigger dent in your wallet than in your ego. I had the pleasure of coaching a few beginners the past two years. Watching them blossom athletically was fulfilling, but seeing them develop a passion for the lifestyle was even more gratifying. The good they did for themselves and for the people in their sphere of influence was a joy to witness.

I Will Volunteer For An Event - We've all heard the phrase a million times by now, but it doesn't change the fact that each of us should all try in some way to "give back to the sport." We may not be equipped to race direct or be in a position to sponsor, but everyone of us can hand out a cup of water or help break down a race after all the participants have gone home. Actually I already do this one, so this is merely a reaffirmation for 2006 but hopefully you'll be inspired to pull on a volunteer T-shirt as well.

Dec 29, 2005 - So, here I sit before the keyboard, on the cusp of change, compiling my list of goals for 2006. Over the years I've gotten into the habit of breaking them down into three subheadings: personal, professional, and pastime. For me at least, all three categories have tended to either intersect or blend at times into the general heading of lifestyle. A good example might be a goal I made at this time last year to take part in each of the regularly recurring local bike rides in 2005. On a personal level it got me away from the isolationist setting of my home office and out meeting people. Professionally, it provided an opportunity to promote the website and ultimately the magazine. Lastly, it reinforced what was once just a pastime and which has evolved into a complete manner of living similarly embraced by many individuals reading this. The following list can be labeled many things, though I refuse to use the "R" word when referring to these end of year goals, but here are a few promises, suggestions, hopes, etc. for 2006 that ought to be taken to heart by those sincerely seeking self-improvement.

No Bandit-izing Races - "I just happened to be doing a training run on this road when 800 other runners came along," loses its credibility after we have driven across town to get there. Adding insult to injury would be feasting on the post race food intended for participants. This phenomenon is actually pretty rare. But before I call the kettle "black," I too have been occasionally guilty of these weekend morning misdemeanors, justifying them by my promotion of their events on the website. Of considerable challenge will be a few notable events who take their post-event food seriously with spreads rivaling $8-12 Sunday buffets.

No Public Urination - Now we're getting personal. Those lines at the Porta Potties can get really long. And then there's always that one race which has just two or three cubicles set up for its 500 participants. It may be uncomfortable, but generally, holding it is something we can tolerate until the potty line whittles its way down to our turn. Pre-race butterflies and a healthy dose of fiber in one's diet can add a much greater sense of urgency to this problem. Ideally, we can take care of that business in the comfort of our homes and limit our race venue hygiene to hydration issues. There's nothing that will throw off your pre-race focus more than turning a corner only to behold someone writing their name on the building. And lastly, while I've got to grudgingly admire the showmanship of any guy who has acquired enough bike skillz to pee while riding, I still think it represents better form to wait until the next water stop.

No Public Nudity - Just when we somewhat smugly feel that we've mastered the transition-area towel-wrap technique, that terry cloth "curtain" unwinds itself and falls to the ground. If it hasn't happened to you yet, give it time. The counter-argument is of course that the cozy confines of a Porta Potty don't make for the most appealing changing room, not to mention the potential peril of dropping something into "you know where" when writhing into your shirt or shorts. And as much as it may be tempting to cite the male double-standard rule here, we'll reluctantly concede that this decency issue should apply to both genders. Then there is that gray area of changing in the parking lot in one's car which most of us have done at one time or another. Is that public nudity? But of even greater concern is changing while driving to an event. And you thought cell phones were a menace.

No Obscene Gestures At Motorists - Personally, this will be a tough one. The roads are a veritable war zone. Until such time as Clayton Road is graced with signs welcoming us to Italy or France, the number of drivers who don't get it will far outnumber our allies. Coping with them will require a degree of patience that I am struggling to achieve. Actually, I got off to a bit of a head start on this behavioral change earlier in the week. I responded to the last vehicle that nearly mowed me down with an exaggerated look of incredulity The benefits were many. It didn't stoop me to his level, it represented the cycling community with more class than the one-finger salute, it fed my ego by making me feel vastly superior, and it made for good show to the other motorists who witnessed his impudence.

The list could go on and on, but for 2006 I'll just work on those four and see what kind of results I get.

Dec 19, 2005 - It's been a while since we've taken (or is it had) the time to insert some purely subjective content in this otherwise objective information portal. First, I'll admit that it was a spate of television viewing which prompted me to write this little piece. At the time, the talking heads on that screen were happily chatting away about those short-term commitments we've come to know as New Year resolutions. It's just my opinion, but a good launching point might be the redundancy that this year we first resolve to actually stick to our resolutions. Now I am the last person to finger point, as personally, I don't remember ever keeping one of those wintry promises made to self for an entire twelve months. At least for me, behavior modification generally doesn't come very easily. The rite of New Year resolutions for many of us actually ends up being a means of further deepening the very habit we are trying to change. For example, on November 1st, I might convince myself that for New Year I will stop eating heavy calories late at night. In essence, I'm giving myself a free, two-month pass to further inure the behavior to which I'm trying to effect change. For the record, I advocate setting goals with New Year resolutions. But when the going starts getting tough, are we willing to settle for a branch lower than than that lofty apple we first spied. In the end, it's chiefly about desire. An old Don Henley lyric lends some clarity, "...How bad to you want it? Not bad enough."

Oct 25, 2005 -With my "job description" having changed more dramatically than even I could have imagined, so has my "commute" which now can be summed up in the twenty paces from bedroom to desk. When I last drove to work, it was still only a ten-minute motorized trip and one I occasionally made via running shoes or bicycle on Saturdays. The irony was that at the time I was a part of the automotive industry. In those days, the motivation for my motorless transit could be distilled down mostly to the training aspect of it, but also to some ironic, guilt-driven degree of environmental concern. Since then, the financial stakes of driving have risen significantly, and with it, so has the general interest in carpooling, cycling, and mass transit. I've made it a point this summer to ride my bike as much as was practical in lieu of turning the key in my car. It was a function of both experiment and social statement. I can honestly tell you that it was done without a trace of self-righteousness. It just felt proper. The post office, bank, library, and grocery store employees may have been puzzled by my appearance at first, but soon grew accustomed to seeing me dressed in Lycra, a bead of sweat rolling down my temple. Many group rides found me riding out to them and then home from them- on occasion even pedaling as far as St. Peters, Lake St Louis, and Innsbrook from Clayton. The website sponsors and magazine advertisers more readily identified with my attitude when I paid them business visits. Frankly, it was easy, fun, and gratifying to do all of this. But the real challenge lies ahead and goes by the name of winter. I suppose it's then we'll see how deep the passion runs.

Sept 28, 2005 - I've heard it said that some lessons in life are better learned the hard way. On this matter, I subscribe to the reverse point of view- that some life lessons are definitely better not learned the hard way. A grim reminder of this pain-avoidance philosophy smacked me on Monday. A bit more than two weeks earlier, a strained back drastically curtailed my training (as in zero volume), so Sunday found me racing 13.1 miles on the strength of one five-miler, three days before. Needless to say, the post-race massage did little to mitigate the inevitable muscle soreness that hit my legs on Monday morning. Resourceful athlete that I am, I reached for relief via a tube of extra strength Icy Hot. "It's icy to dull the pain, and hot to relax it away," or so the package informed me. This was just the stuff to make the walk between my computer and the coffee pot almost tolerable. After gently massaging generous dollups of Icy Hot onto my painful quads, I pulled my shorts back up, sat back and waited for the magic. I was soon reminded of the classic high school locker room prank in which the culprit applies a bit of sports cream to his buddy's jock strap. In my enthusiasm, I may have included upper quad muscles that were too closely situated to a man's more sensitive area."Icy" it was not. Hot only mildly described the acid-etching being performed in my crotch. I half-limped and stumbled down the hall in a trail of menthol vapor towards the bathroom to seek "relief from the relief." The bottom line? Let's just say that the next time I smell the familiar aroma of menthol, I won't be thinking about my parents rubbing Vicks Vapo Rub on my chest as a child.

Sept 17, 2005 - Who could have known that spending screen time bouncing among Dreamweaver, Photoshop, and Adobe InDesign could be so exciting? Even with eyes riveted to the wide screen before me, my peripheral vision managed to catch a blurred glimpse of motion off to my right and just behind me. I nearly dismissed it, that is, until it flew into the living room. "Wow that's a huge moth," was my first reaction. I pushed my chair back and was in hot pursuit. Wait, that's no insect, it's a friggin bird performing those quick, tight loops of the room. I opened the front door, thinking perhaps I could corral in that direction. Upon closer inspection though, I discovered the intruder was no bird at all, but instead a bat. I shuddered at the thoughts of rabies and midnight blood letting, while trying not to scare the guano out of him. At least with my scalp, there was no chance of his getting enmeshed in my hair. My cardiovascular system shifted into training zone two. The next ten minutes surely could have passed for slapstick comedy as I harmlessly evicted the little fellow. Afterwards, the thought occurred to me that perhaps his buddies could be lurking unseen. I imagined opening a closet door only to have them come pouring out like some New Mexico cave at sunset. Well, once this diversion had ended, I settled back into my familiar position before my notebook and felt the adrenaline buzz slowly dissipate. It was at that point that I decided, "Hey, I'm adding this to my journal as a short block of aerobic cross-training."

Aug 25, 2005 - A glance at the calendar reminds me that we are once again approaching an annual transitional phase. The event-laden, three-month stretch between Memorial Day and Labor Day is nearly behind us. This big, calendar sweet spot that brought us the outdoor swim season, a host of weekly training rides and runs, longer days, trimmer waistlines, and more races than we've got money to enter, is about to bid us adieu. In its place will be indoor pools, marathons, centuries, exquisite autumn days, and evening training sessions spent chasing the setting sun. It's only natural to feel a tinge of depression when we look back in wonderment at how the summer evaporated behind us like so many drops of sweat falling to the hot pavement. Sure, who wouldn't like those days to last forever? But one thing about life that has never changed is the fact that things always change. Accepting that ultimate irony goes a long way towards helping us learn from the past, live in the present, and embrace the future. I suppose it's kind of like doing your favorite race. You remember last year's effort, leave nothing on the course this year, then look to improve again next season. So forgive me if the looming Labor Day weekend makes me wax philosophical, but hey five decades can do that to a guy.

Aug 16, 2005 - The cancellation of National Age Group Championships was clearly another tough chapter in the ongoing saga of USA Triathlon, and the post-nonevent debate seems destined to die a slow death. No one was happy with the gut-wrenching decision to pull the plug on the race, least of all the people straddled with the burden of making it. The cheap, hindsight potshots being taken by some disgruntled athletes at Race Director Mark Livesay, USAT Executive Director Skip Gilbert, and USAT Board President Brad Davison, add nothing positive to an already difficult situation. Any characterization of USAT officials as robber barons is as completely irresponsible as it is patently absurd. Those demanding race entry refunds are at minimum, naive. We'd like to see the details of their last bad investment that was granted a hearty refund. Chest thumpers who claim to have trained in worse storms should probably ensure that their life insurance policies are in good standing, or renew their health club memberships. Granted, this writer didn't throw a thousand or more hard-earned greenbacks at the race, didn't suffer the frustration of an entire season's focus getting washed away with the torrents of rain runoff, or didn't endure double-digit hours behind a steering wheel to arrive in Smithville then suffer through what surely must have seemed an even longer return trip home. By the same token, this writer didn't spend months wrestling with a thousand behind-the-scenes race-related details, wasn't confronted with staging a prestigious national championship in unthinkable conditions, or didn't face making a decision, the result of which was sure to elicit 1250 highly charged emotional reactions. But in a small way I can empathize. I experienced the brunt of that violent storm cell's pass through metro St Louis when I arrived at the site of a small local race Sunday morning only to find a handwritten placard informing me of its cancellation. I can still recall my helpless frustration and disappointment upon seeing it, and in turn, I can only imagine the sheer depth of that hollow feeling in the souls of everyone associated with Age Group Nationals. I won't trivialize the ill-fated Championship with "it could have been worse" allusions to the Tsunami, 9/11, or the Iraq War. Yet, while it's a lifestyle for many, it's just sport for most. Look at the bright side, the chances are that if you were actually there, and if it hadn't stormed, you probably wouldn't have come away with such a totally surreal, completely unbelievable, and utterly compelling story to re-tell for the rest of your life.

Aug 19, 2005 - The much-beleaguered Rutker Beke has been exonerated from charges of taking the banned performance-enhancing substance Erythropoietin (EPO). His 2004 Ironman World Championship 5th place finish has been finalized which at last closes the book on that race. He and his defense team successfully convinced officials that the urine-based EPO test administered following the Knokke Triathlon had produced a false positive due to bacterial contamination, while pointing out the inherent inability of the test to distinguish between the synthetic version of the hormone and Beke’s alleged unusually high level of endogenous EPO (naturally produced). The whole scenario raises a few interesting questions. 1) Anyone who has followed baseball's drug saga of late can't help but be jaded by Raphael Palmerio, who before a Senate subcommittee, passionately and convincingly testified that he never used steroids, only to subsequently test positive. The presence of steroids in his system was undeniable and his defense will ask a dubious public to believe that he unwittingly took them. The relationship to this case is that if a multimillionaire Hall of Fame candidate with everything to lose is willing to accept such huge risk, imagine the throes of temptation facing an Ironman triathlete looking for a career-building and financially successful day in Kona. 2) The validity of Beke's claim of excessive natural production of Erythropoietin may be put in question at some future date. What if the same tests, heretofore, all result in negative readings? Are we to accept the one positive as simply an anomaly? Shouldn't today's test be positive, and tomorrow's, and the day after? 3) And what of the other athletes? Do Norman Stadler, Peter Reid, Faris Al-Sultan, and Alex Taubert all owe their Kona finishes to kidneys that produce abnormally high levels of EPO? It's not bloody likely. 4) The claim of test sample contamination smacks of an all-purpose back-up defense. So which is it, an hyperactive kidney or contamination? Oh, it's both.... On the face of it, one has to admire Nina Kraft for saying, I did it, no excuses, I'm sorry. On the other hand, what if Beke really is an innocent victim of circumstances. One aspect of 21st century living is that nearly anything seems possible these days.

July 12, 2005 - Another beautiful day in the park and my routine called for that unique flavor of pain known as sub-threshold work. This effort requires a little higher degree of motivation than my standard workout fare. Taking it to the edge of one's anaerobic threshold is one thing, but staying there for an extended period is quite another. I'm certain that on occasion we've all employed self-talk, positive imagery, motivational sayings, and who knows what other mindgames to manage through a tough session. I don't know about you, but the quaint clichés have lost their efficacy for me. I think that long ago in the midst of a grueling track session, recalling the words, "Pain is weakness leaving the body," may have spurred me on once. These days that phrase has mutated into, "Lactic acid is pain entering the body." Well, on this particular day I seemed to need a swift kick in the back side to keep it going. Five minutes in and my mind was already reeling with an assortment of logical arguments to cease and desist. Then the mental Rolodex started spinning. "That which doth not kill you....", heard it a thousand times. "Effort is a measure of a Man...", yeah when did 1800's theologian William James run anywhere? As I sunk ever closer to the abyss, I spotted the bobbing figure of a runner well off in the distance. I'd found my motivation. Little could he have realized that his red singlet suddenly became a target. Now if I could just run him down before my exit point from the park. It required an immense effort to bridge the gap, but eventually I found myself positioned just behind him for the last uphill mile. Digging deeper than I had in a long while, I made the pass and pushed to the cutoff. The "race" was over, I was sucking major air, but I wore a smile. I had found motivation where I could, and it helped me achieve an attitudinal one-eighty.

July 2, 2005 - Bicycling Magazine, along with other sponsors, have instituted a program entitled Biketown USA. For 2005, the editors of that magazine have selected twenty cities (St Louis not included) across the country in which to give away a total of one thousand bicycles. The purpose of this currently ongoing project is to learn how incorporating a bicycle into an individual's daily life can affect change for themselves, their families and/or their communities. Biketown USA is indeed a generous and noble corporate pursuit. Most participants have reported that they've rediscovered the joy of riding, lost weight, reconnected with nature, or saved money on commuting, etc. While SBR enthusiastically applauds the magazine's effort, our brainstorming R&D department analyzed the program and developed what we feel is a missing yet vital enhancement. Putting a thousand more bikes on the street is a good thing, particularly when those pedals find the feet of people who don't normally ride like you or I do. We'd like to see a corollary program established, and for lack of a better name, we'll call it Autotown USA. The way it would work would be to likewise go into twenty communities throughout America, but once there, rather than give away two-wheelers, they would remove the vehicles from the fifty most intolerant and/or belligerent drivers. Now that would affect some change.

July 26, 2005 - Upon arriving in the town of Marthasville on Saturday afternoon to await the appearance of some early Race Across America riders, it was clear that this small town really embraced their role as an official race timing station. Every effort was made to welcome and accommodate the RAAM racers and their support teams. Several thoughtful placards lined the main road that they would ride down, offering words of encouragement. I noticed one particular sign, painted in huge black letters, that welcomed the RAMM riders. I winced hard when that one came into view.

June 24, 2005 - The World Triathlon Corporation recently made official the announcement of their new 70.3 World Championship and its supporting series. SBR broke the story way back on February 16, but we had sparse details at that time. It appears to me that the WTC hopes to capitalize financially on the increasingly popular half-iron distance, with its potentially broader appeal, in much the same way as they've succeeded with full Ironman. The M-dot franchise has become a veritable printing press for greenbacks. While we have no qualms with capitalism or the series concept, the timing is troublesome. This is clearly a reactionary effort, lobbing a thinly veiled volley at the US Half Triathlon National Championship. Mark Livesay had the vision and initiative to launch a championship race as well as band together a supporting cast of qualifying events to feed it. The WTC, perhaps feeling that this was infringing upon their "territory" and/or realizing the potential of a windfall, simply copied the idea. Of course I have no way of knowing if this was on their drawing board for years or months, but it's timing is suspect. The future of the US Half is unclear, but it's looking more and more like the corner store vs. Walmart all over again.

June 21, 2005 - I was one of those baby-faced guys in high school who had scant need of a razor. While you could set your watch to five o'clock by my buddy's late day stubble, you could probably set your calendar by my Friday shadow. A lesser "man" might have suffered from pangs of inferiority, but being wise beyond my years, I recognized that it also meant I'd be younger looking when it really counted, when I was older. I was reminded of that bit of personal history during a run yesterday. I headed off on a one-mile warm-up before settling into a nice tempo run. The legs felt great, the weather was magnificent, and my spirits were soaring. I intended to knock off 7's for 20-25 minutes, not a spectacular pace but maximal effort was not on the agenda. Now I'm proud of the significant progress I've made with my running this season by virtue of some hard work plus a little luck with keeping my fifty-three year old knees functioning properly. Though still short of my glory years, I keep reaching for them and can honestly say that I feel years younger, and as long as I keep a cap on my head, I can still pass for someone in his forties. So, along the Forest Park Trail I sped with a nice turnover, even breath, and steady heartrate- all was right with the world. Ahead of me was one of those exercise walker-types. I had to give him props though for still moving, I thought, particularly at his age. As I approached, it's entirely possible that in a moment weakness I subconsciously speeded up, just a bit. But the moment I made the pass, he coaxed me on with, "Way to go old guy, keep after it."

June 20, 2005 - The admonition, "and hey...be careful out there," made its way to popular culture years ago on the old TV series, Hill Street Blues. I suppose no one should adhere to this obvious advice more than myself after enduring a nasty three-year string of bike related accidents and resultant mis-aligned bones. Happily, I can say that 2005 finds my skeletal system completely intact (I type this while knocking on anything and everything remotely resembling wood). But this isn't about me. Rather, this piece was spawned from the alarming number of world-class triathletes who have crashed or gotten hit while on a training ride. This year alone has seen: Chris Lieto- fractured wrist, Faris Al-Sultan- stitches and knee injury, Gina Kehr- shattered radius and ulna, Jan Rehula (Olympic bronze medalist)- severely internally damaged perineum, Matt Reed- massive road rash, split head, Spencer Smith- broken ribs and clavicle, numerous stitches, Paul Amey- fractured pelvis... and the list goes depressingly on. The fatalists among us may suggest that when it's your time, there's nothing you can do, but I for one don't adhere to the notion that an unavoidable, preordained date with a car fender awaits anyone. The fatherly advice SBR wishes to dispense here is to become more proactive when dealing with the inherent risks of cycling. Questionable riding habits may be the most easily correctable aspect. Distilled down to one word, smart riding is all about anticipation. We cyclists are nearly completely vulnerable out there on the road, so staying safe is largely a function of being one step ahead of the environment, at least as much as one can hope to be. The hazards take many forms: potholes, grates, fissures, vehicles, debris, dogs, kids, other cyclists, meteorites, etc. Only a swivel-headed, compound-eyed cyclist could take note of every possible menace. Then, factor in one's waning focus, three withering hours into that 80-miler. It's tough, but play the mental game as strongly as you play the physical game and your odds of safe passage rise dramatically. The other issue is equipment. This might be construed as a sponsor plug, but have your machine checked out each year by a bike mechanic. The older your ride is, obviously the more crucial this becomes. Stress cracks, loosened bolts, weakened joints, cut tires, frayed cables, rust, et al, are the enemies. If your bike is five years old, replace your seat and stem bolts. Aerobar bolts corrode quickly from dripping sweat and could be replaced annually. If you hear a persistent groan in your stem or handlebars when climbing, it's time to repair or replace. When it comes to tubes, replace over repair. When it comes to tires, buy the best, most pucture-resistant you can afford. In summation, be smart and control your risks. We want to see you out there training and racing all season long.

June 16, 2005 - I became intrigued with the St. Louis Track Club's Pace Series being staged throughout the summer. Truth be known, convenience was certainly a contributing factor, living two blocks from the venue as I do. The remarkable low cost appealed to my pecuniary side, 50 cent now thankfully connoting much more than some hip hop artist. But most of all, I found the format fascinating. The central concept was to predict one's finish time without benefit of a watch. Now this sort of self-knowledge is a product of experience, of which I've got plenty, but it seemed that one's most recent running experience would provide a better yardstick. Developing an accurate strategy was challenging. My spate of 40-mile weeks have been spent glancing at my heart rate monitor and a finish time, not a GPS device with pacing information, so that didn't offer much insight. My regimen had revolved around road runs approximating either 10k or 13 miles, but these distance were best-guess estimates. On the other hand, a few track sessions reminded me of the effort required to perform measured 800m repeats at a pace I'd definitely not be capable of holding for this 5k run, so that was of limited value. Should I run hard, medium, or a recovery pace? The answer to that question should have jumped at me like an uncoiling Missouri copperhead. Anytime a group of competitive athletes gets together, it's gonna be a race, whether it's official or not. I should have remembered the "influence factor." My good news/bad news finish resulted in a solid run but alas 1:09 too quick. It was odd feeling being disappointed about running too fast, but I'll still smile wryly about it and bring this bit of data next week in hopes of nailing the 2.5 miler in + - 10 seconds. The whole event seemed a throwback to yesteryear- no race numbers were doled out, the honor system was employed for record keeping, and a few simple post-run snacks with water were provided. This series is a breath of fresh air addition to the crowded and often expensive event calendar. Check it out, Wednesdays, 6;15pm at the Forest Park visitor's center, you'll be glad you did.

June 12, 2005 - Runners World magazine came out with a list of the top 25 cities in which to run. St Louis area runners are once again reminded that we have no blue ocean or mountain vistas serving as scenic backdrops to our training jaunts. New York City (#3) seems a curious high-ranking choice. True, they stage one of the most popular marathons in the world each year, but how many times can you run Central Park along with more than 7000 other daily runners before it begins to lose its luster? And evening running there would certainly become anaerobic out of necessity. Glancing over the selections, a few others seem surprising. Until now, I was under the impression that the best running in Washington D.C. (#5) stemmed from reporters chasing down stories of political misdeeds, or members of the House and Congress trying to work off the extra pounds from their diets of pork barrel politics. Phoenix (#22) jumps out at me. Now I've been there in the summertime and while the desert is a cool place to be, it is also a very hot place to be. It's my opinion that as long as you can restrict your outdoor running there to either: 1) the months of September thru April, or 2) before and after sunrise beween May and August; then it can be a lovely place to run. Houston (#21) never struck me as being a running mecca even though it hosts a popular 26-miler each year. I've heard tales of that Texas city breeding mosquitos as large as sparrows and with my aerobic capacity, I need to keep every red blood I've got. In the end it may not be so much about where you run that matters, but the fact that you are running at all that really counts. Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta run.

June 10, 2005 - They say running in the rain can make one feel like a kid again. OK, I didn't exactly revisit those carefree boyhood days via some wormhole, but yesterday's long run was as wild a sensory experience as I've had in a while. The hot, late afternoon thirteen-miler began as an exercise in managing heart rate and core temperature. A controlled pace and water bottle kept my world in check. The western horizon grew progressively darker with an approaching thunder storm, but if my effort was timed properly, I'd watch it blow in from the cozy quarters of my living room. Before long, it was just one more six-mile lap and I'd be home free. It was then that the sky mutated into an eerie combination of bright eastern light with a fast moving black cloud line overhead and a trailing grayness of obvious heavy rain. Portions of the sky swirled with blues, purples, and scary greenish hues. The wind picked up and thunder rumbled loudly. Electrical discharges flashed, causing me to soberly recall a casual analogy I had made only the day before- that having a blowout on a fast bike descent was as rare as getting struck by lightning. The storm front savagely pulled down high-alititude air, and as the cool gusts swept to ground level, it was as if someone had flipped on a switch to some gigantic outdoor air-conditioning unit. I picked up the pace while I savored these meteorological phenomena. I wondered if perhaps I should have grabbed a cycling helmet instead of a cap when I walked out the door as I now I fully expected to be pelted by hail. That didn't materialize, but a light sprinkle began to fall. I ran through warm pockets of steam that rose from the asphalt as the droplets hit and evaporated. Finally the sky opened and the rain fell in earnest. Now only a couple of blocks from my door, I was getting thoroughly drenched but enjoying every minute of it. Who said long runs were boring?

May 31, 2005 - When I was a kid, my excitement could hardly be contained each summer as the Ringling Brothers circus made its annual visit to St Louis and pitched their big-top tents. Now that I'm a bit older but still very much young at heart, that same youthful enthusiasm seems to gush forth when Ultramax Events sets up their tents at Innsbrook. Granted, many triathletes reading this can recount more years of the local racing scene than myself, but a host of newcomers have since been drawn to the sport who didn't experience some of the ancient, grass root days like this semi-oldster. Those events of yesteryear weren't better or worse, just different, and perhaps a little more improvised. Fast forwarding to the present, we can now savor the production skills of Ultramax Events, a modern-day organizational juggernaut that gets it right. Local triathlete veterans who don't support this weekend's Halfmax or the Quartermax in July may not be missing the greatest shows on earth, but they will be missing one of the best traveling road shows to come to town each year.

May 27, 2005 - Triathletes have been known to selectively let loose of some serious coin, all in the name of training and racing. A short list of expenditures might include: entry fees, expensive bikes, wetsuits, GPS devices, airfare, hotels, race expo merchandise...and on and on goes the credit/debit statement. I'm certainly not the most extravagant tri-consumer, but if I had back all the Benjamins from the last decade and a half of tri-spending... well let's just say it would amount to a tidy sum of green. Unless you've somehow managed to successfully parlay one dollar into millions in the lottery, there's a good chance you're operating on a fiscal budget, and a key off the field challenge of we multisporters is allocating resources. Which races? How much for a bike? Do I fly or drive? There is an interesting phenomenon that crops up now and again in tri-families. It may be a distant cousin of the old "penny-wise and pound-foolish" adage. Many a wife has been recently heard to ask the knifing question, "Honey, you mean to tell me that you spent $_____ (fill in the amount) for your bike, but we can't buy popcorn at Star Wars III ?" To the layman, these budgetary decisions make little economic sense, while to the multisport life-stylist they are a matter of proper priorities. Personally, I vacillate between two personas, the free-spender and the nickle-bender. My latest turmoil unfolded at an unnamed grocery store, just suffice it to say that I wasn't about to be "schnookered." My routine finds me first sauntering down the health food aisle which also displays a variety of energy bars. Somewhere along the line and for whatever reason, the "one dollar" price point for bars got implanted in my brain and I'll rarely spend more for one (note to self: you own a bike you paid 1/4 the cost of your last new car purchase). Then, last year there was the Snickers energy bar. If the term pony up means anything to you, you know my course of action, but that extra 69 cents was an investment in my training, I justified. Recently, I ventured down that same-said aisle to sniff out bargain purchases and spied the newest Snicker offering-- their low-calorie bar. Being the human calorie furnace that I am, the product concept didn't appeal to me. But if it had, the price would have steered me clear. They proudly, almost daringly, displayed the $3.99 price adjacent to the 99-cent Balance bars. Wow, never has an opportunity to pay more for less been so glaring. A few mental calculations put things in perspective. At current gasoline prices, the same four bucks gets my Hybrid all the way to Columbia. Alternatively, that bar will fuel me for fifteen-minutes on my bike. Heck, maybe I'll just get a six-pack of Michelob Ultra instead.

May 19, 2005 - I made it a point to take part in the Ride of Silence last night. The event's principle purpose was to honor cyclists killed or injured by motorists. My reasons for being there were many, but chief among them was the fact that I fell into the latter category. So it was with a slight emotional charge that I rolled up to the meeting point in front of the Missouri History Museum only to be dismayed at finding a smallish group of riders, forty in all, gathered for the two-wheeled tribute. In retrospect, I suppose that my expectations were unrealistically high. I had imagined the group, a couple-of-hundred-strong, genteelly but purposefully taking the roads back from cars in a sort of "critical-mass lite" effort. Needless to say that didn't transpire, for reasons I can only surmise. Perhaps it was because of the Wednesday 7pm conflict with American Idol, or that it wasn't a midnight ramble, or an apple pie, ice cream, or pizza ride. Then it occurred to me that this was really a wake and no one looks forward to attending those, so I shouldn't have been so shocked after all. About the ride itself, much of the solemnity evaporated early on for me as many of the riders chattered about various, vastly important topics- so much for the silent aspect. It was difficult to bite my lip and not tell them to shut up. I don't want to convey an impression that I was into some kind of "holier than thou" scene, but my darkly-tinted, introspective mood nearly got the better of me. I was processing the mind-numbing list of everyone I knew who had been hit by a motor vehicle. We rolled on and as the ride progressed, it was only appropriate that there be at least a couple of altercations with the steel boxes and the mindless individuals guiding them- no harm, no foul, just an mild exchange of pleasantries. The ride did succeed in its effort to raise awareness of cyclists if the horn blasts and floored accelerators were accurate indicators. It was nearly with a sense of relief that I finally returned to the start point. What had I accomplished? In the big picture, I'd say disappointedly little. Privately, I came to the conclusion that the relationship between bikes and cars is much like that between native Americans and the settlers. One was here first and the other came along with such a strength of numbers that it nearly rendered the other obsolete in the name of progress. Still, there is much to be encouraged about as great steps have been made forward in the movement for cyclists rights and it was only fitting that we somehow honor those who laid the foundation with their lives.

May 1, 2005 - I arrived in Columbia late Saturday afternoon to get settled in and set up for coverage of Sunday's race. Bolting from town and kicking back at a Motel 6 or some other such swank establishment is usually fun, but home stays are still the best. They alleviate an entire set of petty concerns and create a much more relaxed environment. And it is yet again that SBR buddy Tim has provided me with all the comforts of home. I'm reminded of a habit I have tried to cultivate through years of traveling to out-of-town races. I make it a point to converse with as many of the other athletes as time will allow. The expo, packet pick-up, carbo dinner, transition area, and the award ceremony all provide plenty of opportunity to socialize, network, and swap email addresses. The point is, you never know who you might befriend from San Diego, Australia, or Germany and where that correspondance might lead, but that's a whole different tangent. So, with my trusty power strip lined with plugs leading to an array of electrical devices, dinner at Bambino's was next on the itinerary. The carbohydrates were necessary nourishment for the athletes topping their fuel tanks, but the conversation gave me plenty of food for thought. Our group held the widest possible range of triathletes from first timers, about to get both their literal and figurative feet wet the next morning, to the 2004 national age group champion. Things may take a serious turn in the morning when the competitive juices begin to flow, but for now there was no trace of elitism at the dinner table, just people, breaking bread and sharing laughs.

April 25, 2005 - As we go about training and racing each season, charting our progress has become a straightforward, scientific procedure. A mere glance at the digital watch, cycling computer, or heart rate monitor can reveal quantifiable fitness gains measured in terms of seconds, miles, or beats per minute. Those accouterments have become indispensable tools of the trade, imposing a hard, black and while objectivity to training. My 800m track repeats are faster or they're not. I run the same distance/pace as before, except now at a lower heart rate, or I don't. There are no shades of gray. However, for me, those are by no means the only indications that I'm on the right course with my training. I look for other very personal, nonscientific signs as well. For example, whenever I hear family members and non-tri friends begin to tell me that I am "looking too skinny and need to eat more," I mutter a silent but exuberant, "yes!." For one, if they only knew how much I actually eat, and two, I don't think anorexia nervosa is scourging the general population of fifty-something males. In the end, those words are a testament to those manic, twenty-hour weeks on the elliptical machine. Another subjective measurement of my increasd fitness lies in that image on the other side of the mirror. I don't feel I harbor any narcissistic tendencies, but occasionally I glance at that guy who looks just like me and scan for the telltale signs- a new cut in my calf muscle, that flatter stomach, a quad muscle with a subtle, new shape. These little, physical affirmations succeed in giving me a psychological boost and make me train even harder, looking for other bodily transformations. I suppose for most, the ultimate yardstick of conditioning comes on race day, however I'm a little different in that regard. Trophies are cool, but I pitched fifteen years worth of them not so long ago. They just don't have that much of a hold on me anymore. My reinforcment comes, win or lose, out on the course. It's the feeling I get when I find that extra gear to go a bit quicker for a little longer, or dig a little deeper than I ever could before to push over a hill, or make an authoritative pass on a once-faster rival then confidently not look back. There's no button to push on my Timex to display those improvements.

April 11, 2005 - I felt compelled to itemize a few random impressions the Spirit weekend made on me: 1) The police departments from St Louis, Clayton, and University City did a remarkable combined job of controlling vehicular traffic for the runners to move unimpeded through intersections. And along those lines, the road closures signified that this event has fully returned to its former prominence 2) The marathon course itself offered several interesting diversions as it wound through the brewery, St Louis University, Forest Park, and the Loop. 3) If you failed to sample the wraps at Pfoodman's booth, you missed out. 4) Good to see same day race results posted online by late, race day afternoon. 5) Some of the water stations handed out hard plastic cups that when discarded became primary targets for running shoes to squash. The staccato they created sounded eerily like a Jamaican steel drum band. 6) The number of volunteers was very impressive. Of course an event of this magnitude would be impossible without them 7) Lots of live music was an excellent touch 8) The mile markers went easily unnoticed if you ran on the inside half of the lane. Those running in the conveniently supplied pace groups had no such problem.

April 7, 2005 - Ironman makes its debut in the Big Apple in 2006? WTC copyrights the word "man?" Register for IM slots 25 years in advance? We read these April 1st announcements and others with a healthy dose of skepticism, given our own proclivity for practical jokes. It seems some very creative types did a bang up job of replicating the IM North America website with a dead-on parody site. That very credible effort succeed in spawning rumors all over the internet by unwary surfers. Meanwhile, SBR was busy on the homefront spoofing itself with our own April Fools Day extravaganza. Astonishingly, that day brought us a record one-day number of site visitors, still, we were green-tinged with envy at the sheer magnitude of the IM gag. OK, the bar's been raised, and of course there's always next year.

Feb 26, 2005 - Decades ago there was a young man named John. Life in those days was simple, if it can ever really be called so. While not performing his daily duties in the US Navy, John liked to run and swim. Other such men existed, men who shared a similar passion for fitness and fun. They were Gordon, John, Dave, Ian, Sterling, Tom, Henry, Frank, Archie, Dan, and Harold, if you must know their names. One day, John and his cohorts embarked upon a journey defined by equal measures of self-discovery and dare. They wanted to swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, and run 26.2 miles in succession. No one had done that before, but these gutsy individuals were willing to try, just for the heck of it. That era was missing many of the 21st century elements we enjoy today. No squabbling governing bodies sanctioned their efforts, they didn't require any official blessing. Their "event" lacked a qualifying process to determine who could and could not participate. If you showed up, you were in, done deal. These men waded into the warm Pacific waters unseen by corporate America which was busy issuing checks to mainstream athletes peddling aftershave. No $100,000 prize awaited the first to finish, only a hole in the head mock trophy and the self-satisfaction of completing the race. Television networks were beaming broadcasts into the homes of a viewing public with an appetite largely for the big three sports of the time. Some slick television production wouldn't document the physical, mental, and emotional dues left in their wake. Rather, they'd eventually have to settle for fading memories, a few photos, and folklore to recreate their tale. While American society was battling the scourge of rampant recreational drug use, this event was clean of nefarious performance enhancers, unless of course you wish to include coffee, donuts, burgers, and beer. Fast forward to 2005. Progress has left it's indelible stamp on just about everything, for better or for worse, triathlon included. The sport in general can never return to the purity of those early, pioneering days. Science, law, politics, and economics would never allow it. Is the sport condemned to a future of conglomerates and cheaters, dissension and dollars? Let's hope it's not that bleak. Is there a way to corral these specters back into the box from whence they came? Well, could Pandora? If each of us searches hard enough, deep down within, we may find a hidden glimmer of what this sport used be about. For the time being, that may just have to do.

Feb 23, 2005 - With KATY Trail and mountain bikes swirling in my mind lately, it occurred to me that the MTB community (on a national level) has a rare golden apple just waiting to be plucked. Stationed behind that big desk in the Oval Office is one of the most excitable mountain bikers you'll ever meet. Even if you didn't vote for the man, and I'm not tipping my political leaning here, you've got to admire his infatuation with the sport. Expanding on that theme, the next four years will provide a window of opportunity not only for MTB'rs, but all two-wheeled enthusiasts to push for legislation favorable to cycling. Between the president's personal off road saddle time and his Lance connection, we couldn't have a better man at the country's helm to support and advance pro-cycling bills. The League of American Bicyclists, the US Cycling Federation, the National Off Road Bicycle Association, and every other human powered constituency needs to act upon this politically favorable situation before George W. takes a serious header and is forced to abandon his trail shredding exploits. Seattle Times Article

Feb 22, 2005 - It's been said that when you follow the money, you never know where it might lead. It seems to be leading the USAT down a precipitous path while becoming its issue du jour. The debate is on and indeed a USAT board vote will be cast in March to determine if the USAT should separate from the USOC, principally because of, you guessed it, money. The vast majority of we triathletes yearn for a return to the simple life when we could pay our annual membership dues, then train and race in peace, without all the politicizing. However, with the advent of the sport's meteoric rise in popularity and increasingly larger sums of associated cash flow, a nonstop power struggle over the sport has emerged both inner- and intra- organizationally. The situation will remain muddled and our national sanctioning body will continue to flounder until, in our opinion, a Pete Rozelle-type czar steps in with charismatic leadership, grand vision, and clear direction. For more insight on the specific issues, refer to the articles published in both Inside Tri and Slow Twitch

Jan 30, 2005 - The divergence of thought between the established medical and natural health communities has fostered a longtime and occasionally contentious difference of opinion. After viewing an infomercial tout the benefits of monitoring body pH and controlling it as a means to prevent and actually cure some diseases naturally, by the foods we ingest, it snapped me to attention. Some of the claims by the popular author touting his book appeared downright outlandish while the general theory seemed to make intuitive sense. The body does have a natural pH level, and like just about every system in it, if an appreciable chemical change occurs, bad things can follow. The thrust of this body pH approach is to minimize and control excess acidity in the body, which purportedly creates an ideal host environment for diseases, infections, and chronic illness. By choosing mostly alkaline foods over their acidic counterparts, one can naturally control this chemical balance and ultimately one's health. It seems clear to me, and most sound thinking people would probably agree, except perhaps Krispy Kreme stockholders, that alfalfa sprouts are significantly better for you than a donut. But conventional thinking looks at the fat gram content of that oven-fresh, melt in your mouth temptation, and doesn't consider its acidic property. So, after Googling the whole pH debate for a couple of hours, I came away intrigued enough to order a set of pH test strips. I'll give it a month or two and let you know how my hydrogen ion balance is doing as well as my general health.

Jan 20, 2005 - Multisport athletes are outdoor creatures, of that to be sure. While I suppose the truly, truly hard-core among us could bike and run nearly completely outdoors year-round in St Louis, the practicality of such a plan is limited. In other words, Michelin ain't making studded snow tires for road bikes just yet. Finding myself in mid-January and severely struck by cabin fever, I eagerly anticipated a window of moderate weather. When TV's talking weather heads forecasted a 50-ish day, my heart leapt. Now I'm a reasonably tolerant individual, but I will eventually reach my threshold for indoor training. Maybe it's a mild case of cardio claustrophobia flaring up. Maybe it's one too many mouth-breathers on the adjacent elliptical machine who power-lunched on a Chinese buffet. Most likely it's the cumulative effect of several factors. Regardless, Thursday provided an escape hatch. The agenda was a familiar 100k round-trip bike ride to my PO box in Wildwood, and with it, plenty of fresh air. The expedition was marked by an auspicious start though. An ill-advised short cut across the thaw-softened yard left me with a stylish, MTB look, as 15 seconds into my ride, I went down in the mucky muck. Undeterred but acutely awakened and a little red-faced, I pressed on. The upside would far outweigh this minor annoyance, and indeed it did. Liberating, exhilarating, rehabilitating... my outdoor fix was all of that and more. Later that night, awash in post-ride afterglow, the weather gal caught my eye in more than the usual way when she announced that another oddly temperate January day was not far ahead. Guess I better throw that muddy gear in the washer right now.

Jan 11, 2005 - Maybe it's just a function of me putting on my "happy face" or possibly it's the "acceleration of time as you get older" phenomenon, but for whatever reason, it seems like springtime is right around the corner. All of its accompanying sensations have been faithfully imprinted on this heart and soul over the years: the initial two-wheeled awkwardness as bike handling skills reawaken from hibernation... the love/hate relationship of my burning quads and those warm, southerly headwinds... the numbed extremities and wind burn provided courtesy of cold, Canadian air from the north... riding past bright yellow forsythia branches swaying heavily along the roadside... the weekly anticipation for Saturday and Sunday, wondering if it will lean more towards winter or summer weather... those confounding decisions about what to wear, trying to avoid overdressing yet wanting to avert cold discomfort... racing ominous dark clouds and hair-raising lighting flashes all the way back to the shelter of my car. These springtime impressions float effortlessly in and out of my mind lately, that is, until they are halted by the beep of the Life Cycle telling me my hour is up.

Dec 28, 2004 -  After four weeks, my grand training experiment still lives.  With 80 hours of aerobic training under my belt during that span, it still remains an evolving work-in-progress as I try to settle-in on just the right balance of stress and rest.  Oddly, the seven-day regimen leaves me fresher than a six days on/one day off schedule.  One thing I won't be doing anytime again soon is a five-day week.  Even with two days rest it was a tough nut.While most triathletes perish at the thought of so much indoor training, let me offer that having a clear purpose helps the cause.  A defined goal can carry your effort beyond what you may have thought endurable.  Perspective is the other x-factor.  We all find inspiration in personal places.  I tend fall back on the three successive seasons when I had to look up at my orthopedic surgeon's masked face before I slipped into unconsciousness.  Being physically healthy is such a prime motivator.  Jeez, I'd gladly train exclusively indoors if I had no alternative. There have been a couple of moments along the way that stand apart from the rest.  For example, a Christmas Day fifty-mile bike ride in virtually traffic-free urban roads was wondrous, though it did have a Stephen King-like overtone.  Another zenith was hearing the unsolicited comments at a family function regarding my newly slimmed self.  Vanity isn't my strong suit, but it was reassuring to hear such things in light of my hard work bringing me six pounds shy of my high school weight. Before anyone reads the least bit of braggadocio into these passages, let me clear the air by saying that it is not my style to boast.  I would have remained perfectly content with the self-knowledge alone.  If in some way this serves to inspire someone to take upon him or herself a great new multisport challenge, then mission accomplished.  It's kinda like a t-shirt I saw in the gym that succinctly stated, "If you shoot for the moon and miss, you just might land on a star."

Nov 26, 2004 - As this webmaster tries to embrace the prospects of winter training, I've noticed that my middle-aged years are playing a steadily increasing role in my approach to it. I'm still a hardy soul at the core and most days the cold weather doesn't deter me, but there's the odd occasion when the blood refuses to flow. I've attributed this state mostly to advancing years, though we all may experience a similar feeling from time to time. Fortunately, this past Wednesday wasn't an old geezer moment for me. The winter weather that blew into town became quite literally a cold slap in my face when I became determined to run in it. I almost delighted in the cold, snow and 40 mph wind gusts, knowing that most sensible people would be indoors. So out I went into the teeth of a wind that was remarkably like running on a treadmill, or so it seemed. The two differences were that I did actually get somewhere, albeit very slowly, and the biting wind chill brought about a very personal and uniquely male phenomenon, which in turn had me considering half-seriously some of the natural male enhancement spam in my email. The weather also succeeded in making the Forest Park trail virtually all mine. I did eventually encounter just one other zany and we exchanged knowing smiles plus the requisite sarcasm. "Nice day for a run, isn't it?", she offered. "Oh yes, charming," my clever retort. I managed to finish the circuit drenched in sweat through the miracle of Gortex, despite the harsh elements. Funny how that works. And my face got a little ruddier which gave me, at least temporarily, a cherubic look that women spend billions of dollars at makeup counters trying to achieve. I'm not sure the experience turned my disposition any tougher, but it sure made me appreciate a hot shower and a warm bowl of soup a little more.

Nov 10, 2004 - If the alleged, sordid involvement of 2004 Ironman winner, Nina Kraft, with the performance enhancer, EPO, is proven true, it will bring to light the dark side of modern sports yet again. Baseball has only recently begun cleaning its house while the Tour de France has been waging laboratory warfare with coy users for years. With the extent to which Lance has dominated le tour for six straight years, it's little wonder French cycling officials have doubted his undeniable will to win, focused training effort, and handpicked team. Now just when we thought that the Ironman World Championship was a title earned through physical discomfort and spiritual cleansing, we find our high moral ground landsliding away. Though hefty, the payday for a win on the Big Island isn't nearly as important as the permanent career enhancing effect that title delivers. Coupled the "advancements" of new, harder to detect illegal supplements and more powerful masking agents, the lure inevitably finds the psychologically weak and/or financially strained. The saddest aspect of all is that the field is annually composed of 98% age-groupers saddled with families, jobs, and a host of other time-sapping responsibilities who earn their results through the purest of ethics. They have been and will remain the backbone of the sport. It seems a personal affront to them for any athlete, professional or amateur for that matter, to toil in the same lava fields with artificial boosters in their veins. For the sake of the sport, hopefully this is an isolated incident and not the first lapping of a tidal wave of discovery. A two-year suspension and title stripping should be an adequately rude wake-up call for any Iron athletes currently involved with or on the periphery contemplating drug use.

Oct 29, 2004 - Like most inhabitants of this fair town, I got caught up lately in World Series fever when the Cardinals advanced to baseball's ultimate stage. Sadly for hometown loyalists the outcome wasn't as planned, but the event did succeed in reinforcing a couple of notions for me. First of all, It would be all too easy for the shortsighted fan or disappointed player to categorize the whole season as a write-off because the team lost its last four games in succession. We multisporters sometimes fall into a similar mindset when we underachieve in an important race. I can vividly recall my feeling of frustration one year when I focused my entire season on nationals and subsequently managed a very subpar performance. My first reaction was that the previous 365 days were wasted effort. Now I'll be the first to admit that it's difficult if not nearly impossible to remain philosophical when falling well short of an intended A-race goal. Ibuprofen provides no relief for a bruised ego. However, the passing of time enabled me to see that day for what it was, just one day. I had forgotten about the journey by overfocusing on the destination. There were many positives to come out of that "wasted" season and I had lost sight of them. Another obvious observation stood out for me after watching the Sox dispel the jinx. It quickly became apparent that Boston simply refused to be denied. They had a higher emotional stake invested than did the Cardinals. In our multisport world, logic and reasoning may carry us through a properly designed training program, but more often than not, race day will see us drawing from our personal well of emotion. Emotions are powerful forces and can often be an enabling part of our psychological make-up. True, they can paralyze, but they can also propel. They can generate adrenaline, endorphins, and other chemical reactions in the body. If they can enable a 100lb woman to lift a car from her child, a little well-placed emotion can get us to the finish line. I don't advocate carrying a tissue dispenser on one's fuel belt, but dredging up the bitter taste of a previous frustration often times provides us with the impetus to pick up the pace. I think Yogi Berra once said something like, "It's all in the mind, and the other 90% is mental." Nothing could be truer

Oct 10, 2004 - What is it about this multisport lifestyle we embrace that steadily nudges us towards bigger and more challenging adventures? Why do we forever reach for the higher apple? This question bubbled up from my inner cauldron as I looked around in mild desperation for a last, epic event to bookmark the backside of my season. Maybe it was just indigestion from the previous night's dinner spices instead my inner fire in need of stoking, but whatever the reason, it got me to wondering. It's clear that since the moment our prehistoric ancestors hit the ground from the safety of those now petrified trees, the competition began. It was the survival of the fittest. While this Darwinian principle is still genetically hardwired, the way it's manifested has evolved over the eons from the slaying of saber toothed tigers to more contemporary concerns like beating your buddy in a 10k. This incessant stretching of mind and body has markedly distinguished mankind from the other lifeforms inhabiting the blue planet. The twist is that once our particular mission is accomplished we are seldom satisfied for long. Bigger game nearly always beckons. "Uggg...what if me kill brontosaurus," also read as, "Hmm...what if I tried a half-marathon next?" Race applications should clearly display a user warning, not unlike one engaged by the anti-drug campaign. Caution: Participation in this sprint triathlon may lead to the use of stronger events like Ironman. -or- Caution: Continued entry in 5k runs has been clinically linked to the Boston Marathon. While these caveats may deter the type B through Z's from self-inflicting temporary discomfort, the Type A's would still be drawn by those words like addicts to a methadone clinic. That analogy may seem over the top to some but it illustrates the powerful, positive power of negativity. Historic examples of this motivational concept are abundant. Two of the more famous ones are: 1) "No way you can do the Hawaiian 2.4 mile Rough Water swim, the bicycle race around Oahu, and the Honolulu marathon back to back to back. It's just not realistic." 2) "You can not possibly include the Pyrenees in the Tour de France, you will kill the riders." We endurance athletes are classic barrier-breakers. It's an intrinsic part of the sport that both gives it meaning and defines us. Sometimes it's about winning, but most often the envelopes are personal ones, pushed by "normal" individuals like you and me who are constantly probing within at the bounds of our physical and mental abilities. It matters little whether we are surrounded by 2000 triathletes in an IM swim start or riding solo on a 200 mile training ride. Meeting the challenge we've set becomes a unique journey for each of us. Upon successful completion, we momentarily savor its sweet taste, take stock of lessons learned, then inevitably dare to dream bigger. I've come to the straightforward conclusion that we do this for the awards, but the trophy case is simply the mind and the shiny prizes contained therein are all of those fond memories,

Sept 22, 2004 - Forest Park, The MiniSeries - (Part 1) Running regularly in Forest Park is a new experience for SBR. I confess that I suffered from some less than ideal preconceptions. For me, the thought of moving from the cycling and running paradise of my beloved Wildwood hills to the city became acceptable in the name of convenience for a certain offspring's college education. I brought my St Louis County biases to this environment, prepared to wage war with autos, thugs, and other yet undiscovered urban threats. I grant you that eastern Clayton isn't exactly the hood, but my radar was still scanning for signs of incoming bogies of all ilk. The two block warm-up jog to Forest Park's running path is perfect in terms of distance but sends me through a manic intersection at Skinker and Clayton, the first battlefront. In a dizzying dance, the cars rush from all angles, but one thing remains crystal clear to me: when the pedestrian light is white, it's my turn. Of course, that crossing indicator envelopes no one in a protective cocoon. Extreme caution must still be exercised or you might find yourself doing crossword puzzles from a hospital bed, or worse yet, doing quarter mile track repeats in the sky with Steve Prefontaine. On this particular day, my streak of confrontational-less crossings came to an abrupt end. As I neared the far side of the intersection, an idling motorist decided he couldn't wait the additional four seconds for me to completely cross. He rashly accelerated to make his right hand turn, cutting just in front of me. My defense mechanisms were immediate and instinctive. First making certain that my toes were safe from the 2000 lb crushing force of his tires, I immediately jumped back a step. Since this website is rated G for all audiences, the expletive I screamed won't be repeated, but let me say, at minimum I was hot. Those who know me, are aware of my militant stance against motorists who threaten runners and cyclists. In the past I've done things to certain offenders that don't reflect my finer achievements in life and this became yet another moment of weakness. As his left rear quarter panel went by, with a loud bang the back side of my right fist put a good sized dent in it. No brake lights, no horn, no slowing down. It was almost as if he accepted that indentation as the toll and that he was saying, welcome to the city, big boy. There were a few stunned looks from the other drivers who witnessed the mini-ordeal and I felt a little shell-shocked myself, but I think I may have catered them a little food for thought. Then I had this vague sense that I was in some futuristic wild west, carving out my territory through herds of metallic migrators. Nah, actually I was just trying to get in a 10k.

(Part 2) When last we left you, SBR had just narrowly averted changing running shoe sizes from a 9 1/2 C to an 11 extra flat, compliments of some impudent driver's car tires. It appeared that I'd have to survive the mean streets of St Loo before I could begin to enjoy my commune with Forest Park. Once I hit the trail though, the unpleasantness of the intersection episode vanished. Running outdoors has a special way of transporting one's being away from the burdens of modern living. The extraneous issues in my life quickly faded as my existence boiled down to the basics- air, sun, trail, and me. This can become a near-hypnotic state if you totally let go. Unfortunately, my chosen Forest Park Trail connection point and counter-clockwise route initially ran me along its southern portion paralleling Hwy 40. The constant roar of this commuter artery didn't lend itself to the ethereal nature of my effort, but onward I plodded, seeking deferred oneness with my inner self. — A brief history lesson may be in order here. The trail was at one time a shared ribbon of asphalt. That meant runners, walkers, baby-joggers, cyclists, roller skaters, and inline bladers had to jockey for position in the hierarchy. This defaulted runners to a position near the top of the food chain just above their wheeled trail rivals due primarily to superior stopping power and of course beneath the omnivorous automobiles who intersected the path at various points. My limited experience with the trail in those pre-Forest Park Forever days was a study in survival technique as each sect pressed for dominance. Recognizing the need for order and spurred by funds flowing from the FP restoration initiative, an separate gravel running trail was constructed in parts of the park. It seemed the perfect solution, wheels on one, feet on the other. But the single, immutable constant these visionaries failed to factor into their equation was human nature and its reluctance to change. — So I found myself shuffling along the dual-use, paved portion of the trail, in other words, wheels and heels. Now I don't expect the world to conform to my standards and practices, but after witnessing several clueless, unhelmeted riders pedal for all they were worth while weaving dangerously in and out of runners, the seeds of my discontent were sown. After about a mile of this togetherness, the trail diverged into two clearly marked and distinctly separated branches, the graveled one on the left for running shoes and the glassy asphalt to the right for wheels, and it must have been true because the sign in the middle said so. Trail life seemed good at that fork with no shades of gray, or so it seemed. While most runners welcomed escape from the impact of the pavement, a contingent of runners seemed either reticent to make the change or blind to its existence, choosing instead to continue running on the asphalt. I had actually noticed this phenomenon for weeks, and perhaps it's waning a bit, but there still existed a hard core who obstinately held to their old ways. Segragating the 20mph cyclists from the walkers who often marched three abreast seemed a sound idea. Its implementation though was another matter. This was not something I stressed over, but it did baffle me. That, combined with the fact that among the simple pleasures in life I enjoy, like a a nice run, a cold beer, or a good book, few things offer the payoff of a thoughtfully designed and well-aimed prank, and thus I was inspired. All I needed was to create a credible Park Ranger persona and print a pad of realistic summonses. Oh, the possibilities.

Sept 7, 2004 - SBR's KATY Adventure- For several years, I've harbored the desire to tackle the KATY trail and see what it was about, but for one reason or another, the trip kept getting back-burnered. Tour packages