dir /on /b /s >list.txt

The /on orders the lists by alphabetical name, the /b makes it only list the filename, and the /s includes subdirectories files in the list.

(Courtesy 0f liveslick.com)

They know that the liberals have nowhere else to go. If they push back against the establishment, and cause their “left-of-center” leader to lose an election or just political clout, they will end up with a flaming idiot cowboy bigot in office like GWB who will fuck up the country.

If this happens on the right – they push their leaders, their leaders lose, and a person from the “left” gets elected (which means a centrist), they know (deep down, yes, they know) that this person will not destroy the country, but actually try to fix the issues, and also kowtow to them. And they can roadblock him all they want, until the dense American public gets fed up and elects a right-leaning con artist again, who can once again reverse any good that the previous politician had done. Which would be mostly centrist shit anyway.

But the Democratic leadership knows the left has nowhere else to go but them, and that the left cares too much about the middle class, the future of our kids, the environment, etc., to give that up to make points and support a long-term strategy of takeover. So they go about their business of trying to placate the right, not their own base. Not enough of an immediate threat there.

We’ve had enough right-wing idiots in power. I could deal with a left-wing idiot. But I guess I’ll just have to settle for the calculating, capitulating centrist.

All that said, a good bout of angst and animus is also healthy. We are not Vulcans.

I’m not a joiner. But I can’t help being a member of the human race. I was born that way. I don’t hold out much hope for us. Whether it will end for us in a holocaust of fire and fallout, or starvation and disease on the heels of overpopulation, I can’t foresee. But though I have fanciful science fiction story ideas about humans thousands and millions of years hence, I don’t see us surviving long enough to even leave our solar system.

But Egypt has given me renewed hope. I never would have believed this could happen, especially in the mideast, where religious zealotry and intolerance is legion.  This organic, social-media-managed uprising had its desired effect through the perserverance of people who had had enough of tyranny. There was no dynamic leader, no cult of personality to inspire the masses to overthrow their despot. The fact that hundreds of thousands of people can come together, essentially leaderless, and agree to protest without violence in the face of violence, and not give in to mob rule when they’re attacked, to stand up Ghandi-like for their future and the future of their children; if that doesn’t rekindle hope for humanity, what can?

I pray (so to speak) that their righteously ousted government doesn’t lead to another manifestation of tyranny.

From: Mark Goldman
Sent: Wednesday, September 24, 2008
To: Brown, Vincent

I think “Hoochie Koochie Lady” and “Never More” will make it onto the Dio mix – I’ve been groovin’ to the other 2 albums, but naught can stand next to the other material. According to Wikipedia, he’s 66! Wha?

From: Brown, Vincent
Sent: Wednesday, September 24, 2008
To: Mark Goldman

Yes, those two songs are the best. Actually, “Never More” has always been my favorite Elf track. It sounds similar to the “jam” part in Floyd’s “Echoes”.

Yeah, a big mystery surrounding Dio’s actual age. I think he is actually 5,293 years old and remained youthful because he long ago entered the Mystifying Wood and found the Enchanted Tree where he slew the Frog Wizard and took his Magical Golden Ring. Or some shit.

From: Mark Goldman
Sent: Wednesday, September 24, 2008
To: Brown, Vincent

He also took a holy dive into the enchanted waters of the invisible Lake, flew the golden dragon over the rainbow at midnight, looked into the evil eyes of the spider-beast, had a gypsy dream in which he danced with the rock ‘n’ roll angel in the land of milk and honey before the gates of babylon, and sped (at night) to the wizard’s tower from which he stole the Elf-Sceptre from the Big black shape and then…

From: Brown, Vincent
Sent: Thursday, September 25, 2008
To: Mark Goldman

..he jumped (from a ladder) onto the back of his trusty warhorse, Murray, and, as he saw a rainbow rising, he galloped through the misty morning, through widing roads and treacherous passes of the Forbidden Forest towards Castle Magica where he was to sample poorly made ale and the juice of grapes (evil or da wine) but even with much haste he arrived tardy and was the last in line. By the time Dio made it to the front, they said it was over.

From: Mark Goldman
Sent: Thursday, September 25, 2008
To: Brown, Vincent

Then at the front he met a snake charmer from the sixteenth century, who had come forward in a time machine. She was a fortune-telling woman who claimed to have run with the wolves (unlocked) and seen the devil cry. She was born on a silver mountain and lived among the night people. He asked if she was a mistress of insanity, and she said, “Listen to the shadow of the wind, boy – we’re all stars.” He grew fearful and flew away breathlessly. After he dropped Murray off at a stable, he walked to a weird freeway where he saw some wrathful robots passing by. He crossed it and came to a lake where another lady lived, and though she was beauteous, her aspect was evil. She said, “You have a sacred heart, strong warrior, but I bid you leave me.” He thought to charm her with guile, and said “But I’m hungry for a little bit of heaven!” She stood up and shouted, “Eat your heart out!” He grew wroth and drew himself up to his full height. Four foot three. He announced petulantly, “I am the King of Rock n’ Roll! Never More shall you taunt me, you Hoochie Koochie Bitch!” Then he slipped away and followed the southern cross, muttering something about “damned country girls.”

Like most people, I don’t like being pigeonholed. I’m also not a big joiner; I find it difficult to give myself over to something that somebody else invented or defined. Yes, I’m definitely in trouble there as a writer – it’s hard to be original these days.

So, though most of my opinions coincide with the general grouping of opinion usually labeled liberal or progressive, there are marked differences. I get irritated with many liberals’ knee-jerk “poor Palestinians” syndrome. Libraries have been filled with this topic, so I won’t belabor it here. I’m also not big on the righteous anti-death penalty stance. I don’t like it the way it is, but in principle I think a fair society should have the right to remove the threat one of its members poses to the others; however, the evidence would have to be irrefutable. So it’s probably unworkable except in an ideal world (in which I suppose there would be no crimes that would warrant the death penalty). It’s academic, I guess, but that’s why I say “in principle.”

It’s the reverse of what you might think. I approach things not from a defined perspective, but with what logic I can muster. No mere mortal can be truly objective, for in becoming an adult, one presumably learns things, which in turn cause biases in future learning. It’s unavoidable. But when I’m confronted with an issue, I try to ignore my immediate reaction to it. I research it as much as I can before I form an opinion. I massage my opinion. I’m not afraid to admit I’m wrong. Any person with a smidgen of wisdom will grant that strength lies in admitting fallibility and working to better oneself, not in denying mistakes and the displacement of blame.

I don’t approach things from a predetermined perspective, right, left, center, or diagonal, and try to find things that support my already-formed opinion.

The fact that I approach issues this way and many of my beliefs end up falling into the “liberal” camp tells me something. It tells me that those who fall into the liberal camp are more logical in their analyses, more deliberate, less subjective, and more thoughtful. Yes, this is generalizing, because people have their prejudices. I’ve met blockheaded liberals in my time, and I probably have my own little biases here and there I could tweak. The key is, I recognize this.

I’m not saying that people who are considered “left” or even “center-left” are emotionless automatons, critically analyzing issues with Vulcan tenacity. There is obviously also much emotion on the left. It’s just that the emotion comes after the forming of an opinion. Your research, intuition, and observational and interpretational powers inform your opinion, which then inflames your passion, the intensity of which depends upon the issue. With most conservatives, what I see is the opposite. Passion inflames opinion, then bends intuition, distorts interpretation and observation, and limits research.

I long ago attempted to codify my belief system, to define this amorphous mass of morals, ideas, and ideals into something that words can represent. It came to this: a symbol with six points, six basic concepts that surround and combine to beget many others. They are Strength, Honor, Wisdom, Compassion, Imagination, and Judgment.

When I start from as objective a place as my flawed humanity allows, and I follow those tenets, I may end up in many places. But that place is almost never within the bounds of “conservatism.”

So call me a liberal if you like. Just don’t expect my opinions to immediately coincide with those that your personal liberal archetype holds.

Even I, a guy who”s supposed to keep up with these things, am left to rasp in a curmudgeonly way, “Who needs this shit?” Sometimes I”m tempted to side with the luddites who claim that computers have made us “stupider.” I mean, how do you people have the time for all this? I don”t think I even had the time before I had a child!

It”s a good thing no one reads this blog, or they”d be pissed at me for my highly irregular updates. But I can rationalize my inaction by claiming that I just don”t want to add much to the maelstrom of information that we bombard ourselves with every microsecond. I guess I”m a humanitarian after all.

Is Udo Dirkschneider the Lemmy Kilmister of German heavy metal? Not quite, as that title would probably go to SODOM”s Tom Angelripper.

What the hell does that even mean?

But that leads me to this: We shouldn’t need this law. Call it idealism, maybe, but if we had decent, well-designed roads with sidewalks and crosswalks, and drivers who were skilled and gave a shit, we wouldn’t. This brings me back to one of my long-standing peeves: sidewalks and bike paths, or the lack of ‘em. (Another reason I have affection for Rachel Maddow – she loves to get geeky about the unsexy subject of infrastructure.)

If we planned our communities instead of leaving them to the whims of developers concerned only about the almighty dollar, we might have schools and shopping centers and gathering places within walking and biking distances of homes, not this moronic and unsustainable sprawl. We’d have sidewalks and bike paths and playgrounds and all of that, and cut down on traffic, danger from traffic, use of fossil fuels, emissions from using those fuels, and use of energy in general. We’d increase fitness levels, and most important of all, provide the means for a sense of COMMUNITY. Oh shit, there’s that word, with the same root as that dreaded Stalin/Marx/Mao thing… what was it called?

I’m guilty of it, too. I live in a house far from any real cultural centers. Sure, there are carbon-copy strip malls everywhere, but how does that help in bringing a sense of community? I’ve noticed this since living here in the US: people can be so isolated from one another. I hardly see my neighbors, barely remember their names. I admittedly am far more interested in international news and issues than what happens locally – local issues hold no interest for me because I’m not involved. Sure, it’s partly my fault. But the way we do things is not conducive to people being involved. It’s not encouraging. When it’s dangerous to walk to a friend’s house a couple of streets away because there are no sidewalks, we drive. And no wonder we don’t have a sense of community, we never talk to each other because we’re always in OUR FUCKING CARS! I ride my bike a lot (for fitness, rarely for transportation), and to see the incoherent rage of the imbeciles whom I dare to slow down because of my meager human-powered perambulation is saddening. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been honked at for no good reason, and even run off the road on occasion because some frazzled mom was late getting her kids to soccer or just wasn’t paying attention (or whatever), wrapped up in her own world. Oops, I just used a woman for my example of bad drivers. Guys can be just as bad, usually in a different, more aggressive way.

Back to community. I have to bring up Germany again. Yes, I know it’s a tiny country compared to ours and the logistics just don’t compare. But there are bike and pedestrian paths everywhere, not to mention a stellar public transportation system. Sense of community? I used to see people sweeping the sidewalk in front of their home. The sidewalk – not part of their property.

Besides there not being any real connectedness between us, I guess my sense of community, or rather the lack of it, stems from no sense of history and culture. Rather than grand stone buildings with admirable design, we have cookie-cutter housing developments, the houses built out of wood and drywall I can put my foot through. Rather than well-respected businesses that have been in the same family for a century or more, we have ugly little pre-fab strip malls, whose tenants seem to change yearly. Rather than locally-owned, dedicated, and homey restaurants of all kinds, we have slick, neon fast-food chains that serve up grease-laden hunks of mush. Am I too critical of my own country? It’s all out of love and a wish to improve it, man. Well, most of it. Believe me, I have plenty of critiques of my other favorite country, Germany, besides the obvious thing that happened a few decades ago (unless you ask diminutive middle-east dictators or addle-brained right-wing chumps). That’s for another rant.

How to resolve this lack of a sense of community I see here? A confluence of many things, and that’s for the many people smarter than I. But for a start, let’s build some damned sidewalks and bike paths and some community places we can be proud of – and I ain’t talkin’ any more churches. That’s also for another rant. Oh, if I had the time, volumes I could fill. Humor me – writing about things I like just ain’t as interesting.

Q: Did the government issue new dollar coins without the words “In God We Trust”?
A: Congress ordered the words to be stamped on the edges of the coins, but an unknown number of “Godless dollars” were produced by mistake.

The first thing that popped into my head was: can I get some of them? And then I’d like to drive on over to the Café in this giant church in my neighborhood (yes, a church café, it exists) and proudly pronounce, “I’d like to buy something with my Godless Dollars! Do you have any Pagan Parfait? Or perhaps some Heathen Hushpuppies? No? Blasphemer Barbecue? Heretical Hash browns?” Enough with the agnostic alliteration.

I’ll leave the deeper issues of why we “trust” in a delusional figment of insecure imagination for now and just ask: why do we have to print that shit on our money? And say it in our pledge of allegiance, for Christ’s sake? OK, maybe that’s the wrong swear-phrase to use. (I’d say “for Pete’s sake,” but, to me it sounds noncommittal, and, well, …gay. Who the hell was Pete and why should I care about him?)

These are some of the issues that make me scoff at the “free country” crap. It’s not a free country. Perhaps one of the freest in the history of man’s societal experiments, but fully free? If I can be told what I can or cannot put into my body, that’s not free. If my conversations can be recorded without my knowledge, that’s not free. If I have a terminal disease and am not allowed to die in peace, that”s not only not free, it’s unconscionable. If I can be picked up and held without charge at the whim of the president or whatever asshole thinks he has the right, that’s the opposite of free. But I’m off-track here, which is about as shocking as rain in Seattle or this ungodly Carolina humidity.

Your deity – I guess here I mean the “Christian” deity – is purported to be the father of Jesus Christ, purveyor of peace, preacher of love, right? And usury was sinful? So, in my simplistic analysis, wouldn’t such a god who is above all of man’s machinations be annoyed at being so prominently placed upon our money? Our dirty little pieces of paper and metal that mean nothing intrinsically, and are really just a symbol for barter (unless you’re talkin’ hedge funds and credit default swaps, in which money is essentially just digits on a screen, representing nothing), should be pretty far beneath the divine.

Yeah, the money thing amuses and annoys me slightly – admittedly it probably wouldn’t if I had more of it – but the pledge thing is more bothersome. Not so much for me, because how often do I actually say the Pledge of Allegiance? But I know my son will be saying it a lot. And being an atheist, and knowing, despite all the blathering of the biblestrokers, that this is NOT a Christian nation and was not founded as such, and that the phrase “under god” was inserted into the pledge in 1954, it bothers me. I have no qualms about pledging my allegiance to my country, or my child doing so despite not understanding what it means. But I serve no god, not yours, not anyone’s, and don’t believe that our nation should, either.

Just had an ultrasound/cortico-steroid injection in my achilles tendon. There was this giant keyboard attached to the computer like the photo, but even more complex.

And kid you not I, one of the buttons was “Space-Time.”

Things are getting more complicated than I thought.

My wife and I went to a Carolina Hurricanes game Sunday (2/22). We met up with the guys and devotees from the Big Boss brewing company, the ones that took over the Wicker Drive place from the Edenton Brewing Company (before that, Chesapeake brewing, I think.) It was fun, actually. Had free beer and free food! If I hadn’t have been driving, I would have had 10 beers rather than just 3. Would’ve made the game more interesting as well. Met a lot of cool people. The game? Eh. My wife yelled her ass off in a most amusing way… not unexpected. What amazed me was the steepness of the seats we were in. Way up, and a devastating fall to the ice. Surprised we don’t hear more about drunken fans falling to their deaths…

There’s a lot about the game that I don’t understand, so I found myself going “Why are they stopping?,” “What the hell’s that mean?,” “What are they doing?,” and “Why…?” a lot. But as the cliché goes, there was a fight, a few minutes after we sat down. The refs let them slug it out for a few minutes, too. It was pretty childish, but, yes, entertaining. It was some sort of Military Support day, so that was good to see, and they had messages from service members (and presumably ”Canes fans) on the giant screen.

The crass commercialism was highly annoying, as I expected. Everything had a sponsor, and a different one, it seemed. My first piss break was sponsored by RBC Bank. The second one was sponsored by Sierra Mist. Or was it “due” to Sierra Mist? And the music pounding, sometimes while the guys were playing… I would be pissed at that if I were a big fan. And all the antics and in between stuff to keep the crowd interested, fickle short attention span Americans that we are. A Canadian friend says they scoff at us up there, the way every second must be filled with some sort of eye-catcher. Well, you know us.

But I don’t want to just complain about it. It was quite fun. The guys from Big Boss were great, the beer was great, the other folks we met were fun and nice. The game was entertaining, if odd. One goal was spectacular, and I’m sure glad the home team Hurricanes won (5-2). Can’t say I’ve become an instant NHL fan, though! I’d go to another game, especially with these folks, but I wouldn’t go out of my way. Then again, I wouldn’t go out of my way to go to an NFL game, either, and I love watching football. Crowds and $10 beer ain’t my thing.

Prosts to Big Boss Brewing! I shall make visiting their esteemed establishment a priority.

Found on my windshield 9/29/08,
ostensibly a reaction to the Obama
bumper sticker.

Sure, I’ve got my opinions. However, I never used to be that concerned which group those opinions put me into, or which label must be put on me because of some key things that I believe. But what is it that drives me more and more to identify with the “liberal” or “progressive” tag? Is it… Torture? Secret prisons? Multi-trillion-dollar debt? Darth Vader diplomacy? Lies to start a foolish war? Thousands of Americans dead unnecessarily? Bizarre religious assertions? Gleeful reveling in hypocrisy? The sanctity of privacy destroyed? Glib kowtowing to the elite moneygrubbers? Lies delivered with a monkey-chuckle? Etc., etc., etc., ad vomitum?

Or is it just the unmitigated and indefatigable moronity….?

• He refuses to accept the truth, no matter how you may frame it to make it easier for him. He will deny reality itself if it makes him more comfortable. (“No, Dinosaurs are still alive!”)
• If a situation develops that he can’t resolve in a few minutes, usually involving sharing limited resources, he turns to violence.
• He loves his mom and dad, but his world is completely focused on himself. For example, if he doesn’t get a new toy nearly every day to add to his already massive collection, pouting and whining ensues.
• If he has done something I told him not to, or not done something I asked him to, he lies about it. With a smile, too. And when I catch him at it, he continues to deny it.
• No matter how much we discourage it, he loves his guns and swords and instruments of bodily damage. They’re all toys, of course. For now.
• As far as he’s concerned, girls shouldn’t have the right to choose. Anything.
• He thinks he has an endless reserve of funds to use for whatever he wants to do. In fact, finances don’t concern him at all. Incurring debt that someone else has to pay (me) for his own enjoyment is of no object to him. Deficits don’t matter!
• I often have to bribe him to get him to help me.
• He can be very frightened of trying new things.
• It sometimes takes the threat of incarceration to force him to clean up his own mess.
• We have to remind him to say “please” and “thank you” and flush the toilet and put his dishes away, and all the other things people should do as a courtesy to others.
• As sweet as he is, compassion and altruism (and along with those, empathy) are only vaguely understood concepts, to be tried intermittently and usually for a concrete gain.
• (Added later) And in response to criticism of this little piece, like conservatives, he just doesn’t quite get irony, let alone satire.

It’s a good thing that I’m confident that, as his mother and I raise him, he’ll develop judgment and learn how to interact with others pleasantly. And that he’ll become not necessarily a liberal or Democrat, but a sensible and productive member of society who bases his decisions on logic, knowing when to listen to his heart and when to overrule its quick urges. It’s a good thing he still prefers “Noggin” to “Faux News.”

(1500M/T1/25miles/T2/10k – 31:52/5:29/1:19:59/2:29/1:07:40) Total time – 3:07:26

Drove up to VA Friday afternoon, got there around 1930. Had my wheat pasta & veggies, talked a bit, slept on the couch. Up at 0500 and on the road to Smallwood State Park. Had my tea & PB&Banana Sandwich on the way. It was just getting light slowly when we got there. We were able to casually get our race packets and chat (Dan and Shan knew quite a few people; a lot of Team Z-ers there, I guess). Apparently, they moved the swim just as they had to do the year before, because of seaweed and algae. I had wanted to get the rented wetsuit on and swim a bit in the water before the race began, but trying to time it right was an issue. Thank Crom there was a real bathroom in the building at the park, because my usual pre-race weight loss routine rapidly became a necessity. When I got to where the swim was rumored to be, there was nobody warming up, so, naturally, I didn’t want to get in there first and look the fool. So soon all participants waddled over in their funny rubber suits, and we wished each other good luck. I had forgotten to take off my rings, and so had my friends, so Shan put them all in her bag. Dan was in the first wave, I was 2nd, and Shan was in the 3rd. Missed most of the pre-race talk, so had to ask people what exactly we were doing. Swimming out and around the buoys without coming back in to land after the first lap, apparently.

‘Twas getting mighty hot in that wetsuit – must’ve been over 80 degrees and high humidity (it had rained earlier). We had to jump in; the start was in water about 5 ½-6 feet deep, with horrible, tangly, and slimy stuff underfoot. But, damn, it felt so nice and cool as it slid under the wetsuit. And then it was time to go, not much time to dwell on my nerves and apprehension about a .9-mile swim in a branch of the Potomac. But it wasn’t too bad, except for the carnivorous seaweed, attacking at every turn. It didn’t feel longer than the last sprint tri I did, which was half of the distance. I was able to keep rhythm much better than last time. I guess the wetsuit also helped, and the fact that the water was cooler and cleaner than Lake Crabtree. Not hard to do, I suppose. Suddenly it was time to get out. Guys were helping people out onto a little platform, from which we climbed up the stairs and began the long run to transition. I had felt a cramp threaten in my right calf toward the end of the swim, and it threatened more on the run. I ran gingerly, considering the bare feet on concrete, the burgeoning cramp, and trying to strip off the wetsuit. The worst and most feared part (for me, and for most, I think) was over. Finally got to transition, which must have been at least 300 meters away. Wetsuit came off with little difficulty, but got a little flustered because I kept thinking I was forgetting something. Probably wasted a good minute or even two in T1, with my slow run to get there and my dawdling. But shit, I’m just aiming to finish, I ain’t an elite athlete.

Set out on the bike, immediately consuming a gel, which of course, tasted nauseating. I knew on the way in that nutrition would be my problem, because I’ve yet to work that out. The bike was very pleasant, a nice country route, many trees, little traffic, not difficult at all. I passed quite a few people, but tried not to push it too hard. Finally got to a few going my speed and we swapped off leads. No, we weren’t drafting, I swear. There was a thin girl with long, dark hair who seemed to be laboring profusely, whom I passed, and I said something encouraging to her. Of course, I was embarrassed later when she passed me again and left me in the dust. It was a nice enough ride that I didn’t start wishing it would end until around mile 20 or so, when my lower back started to stiffen, and quads and calves to tighten up. I had been drinking regularly, but still not enough, I suppose. Now I realize that I probably should’ve been taking in a bit of salt here and there, but live and learn. My calf really started to cramp right before transition. Not good, I thought, worried. Haven’t even started the run and my calf’s cramping.

Tried to drink, drink, drink, but after I left an uneventful transition, shirtless because the heat was coming on, I had to pee like a madman. But I couldn’t find a decent place to stop, then somehow I forgot about it as the pain increased. Long hill out of transition, and I couldn’t even get up it without walking. The gels were starting to make me sick again – I think I’ll be staying away from those. Legs cramping. 6.2 miles of this? Crom’s stone balls, I can’t do that, I thought. But I didn’t want a DNF in my first Olympic tri, so I would walk or crawl the damned thing if I had to. When I got off the bike, I had more than an hour to spare before the 3-hour mark, which was my goal, and I thought, ah, excellent. If my fastest 10k is around 48 minutes, no problem. Yeah, right. I watched that goal fade as I jogged-hobbled-jogged-limped. I thought for sure the friends I came with would re-pass me (I saw both of them in the out-and-back parts), but it turned out they were hurting and slowing, too. The last mile was the longest of my life so far, even longer than the last mile of the Shamrock Marathon I ran in 2004… fucker just wouldn’t end!

Walk. Jog. Stumble. Hot. Walk, job, stumble. Finally to the slight incline and I could see the finishing area. And my mom and dad ready with the camera. It just wouldn’t do to have pictures with me walking with my jaw scraping the ground, agonizing and exhausted. So I had to pick it up a bit, no matter how much it hurt. And smile. And so I did. They didn’t come out half bad.

I sat in the grass, conversing with my folks between labored breaths, and waited for my friends to finish. I tried to get up several times and found the world spinning and nausea encroaching. I hadn’t experienced that yet after a race. This went on for 20 or 30 minutes before I finally had it under control, with the help of four or five bottles of Gatorade, pizza, and salt tablets from my friend (thanks Shan). We hung out at the Team Z tent for a while. Nice group of people, if I lived in the area, I’d definitely join.

An adventure? You bet. Masochistic and a bit crazy? Of course. Would I do it again? Absolutely. But not until I figure out my damned nutrition issues! More salt, more salt, no Gu, more liquid, and piss when I have to, no matter what the situation.

The lunch my parents bought me was sorely needed, but the 4-hour drive home was NOT. I was surprised I made it home without passing out, but it was one of those “body tired but zoned-out” drives. Back to home and the routine.

My first true sprint tri. The day had arrived, after weeks of inconsistent training. I was really only worried about the 750-Meter swim. I had never swum that long without a pause, except for the Friday before the race – just to reassure myself that I could. Sure, I’ve swum over a mile in the pool, but that’s with many breaks.

Did my anal checks and re-checks the night before, got up at 5 AM. My wife had the consideration to take my son and stay at her mom’s to allow me to get some rest, but I didn’t get much anyway – nerves, I guess. Scarfed my traditional PB & banana on wheat and drank my Earl Grey. Somewhere along the way, or the day before, I made a digestive mistake. But more on that later.

Arrived without incident, rode the ½ mile there. Walked into transition, thinking I’d set up my stuff and go look for somebody who had handlebar end-caps (which the race instructions demanded), but they were actually checking for it as you enter transition. That’s good, I suppose. Thankfully one of the volunteers walked right up, offering them. So I put ‘em in and taped ‘em with the handy electrical tape that always goes in the T-bag. Helped another guy out with some, too. My good deed for the day.

How do you get used to this with Tris? My stuff was ready after a check and six re-checks, and I had an hour until my wave started. I wanted to do a quick warm-up swim, but I didn’t want to walk around for an hour in just my tri-shorts and bare feet. But what else was there to do, sit there? Of course the urge to – shall we say – unload struck me with half an hour left. Not wanting to use the port-a-potties for my mission (I cringe at having to use even clean public restrooms for this uncomfortable but necessary craptivity), I thought I’d see if the nearest park restroom was open. No dice. Some smart soul had locked it and put a sign on it saying “closed until after the race.” Oh well. It would have to wait.

Waited in line twice to use the port-a-potties for the longer-distance activity of peeing, and, man, the lines were long. Should’ve just used the trees, I guess. Saw Bobby, friend and ex-colleague of mine, which was cool. He was volunteering for the race – I guess a sprint tri is far too short for an Iron Man of his ability. There’s more respect than snark in that comment, really.

Swam out to the first buoy and back as a warm-up. The water was a bit mucky and unnaturally warm, I thought, but it wasn’t as bad as I had feared. Someone had told me that the lake was uniformly shallow and you could touch bottom in most places, so I tried. But they also said that you probably wouldn’t want to stick your feet in the slimy muck down there. So I did. Slimy, indeed. I downed a Gu gel 15 mins before my swim start, which I think was my first mistake. Don’t do anything new on race day, right? Well, I’d tried Gu before – once or twice – and didn’t feel any ill effects. Didn’t feel any effects at all, really. So it couldn’t hurt, right? Well, it didn’t – for a while. As I was standing in the water with the other Clydesdales, blabbing nervously, mostly about the condition of the water, whose first tri it was, etc., etc., the standard stuff, just as I was saying that I had done a warm-up swim and the water wasn’t nearly as bad as its reputation, a blackened, half-disintegrated Styrofoam coffee cup floated by us. “Well, maybe not,” I muttered, or something equally as futile and idiotic.

And we were off. As always, my rhythm was the first thing out the window. I’d been training to do the alternate-side breathing, i.e., once every three strokes. I tried, but mostly I fell back on the every-other-stroke-breathe-on-the-left-side sort of thing. I started at the back and avoided most of the others, making it to the turnaround without much trouble. Then it got harder. Swim. Breathe. Sight. Correction. Swim. Breathe. Sight. Correction. I could not keep myself going in a straight line for any reward. It went on this way for what seemed hours, with the shore getting no closer. Other people with different-color caps would pass me or I would pass them, but I didn’t know if they were from the wave in front of me or behind me. More likely behind me, for I could have sworn the swim was taking me half an hour. (Turned out to be a bad but not THAT bad 17 minutes or so.)

T1, no issues, out to the mounting line, no issues. But here I made a mistake – concentrated too hard on trying to get my feet in the clips and my gloves on my hands. I should have sped up to a decent speed first and done it as opportunities arose. We learn. Several folks passed me here. Then over the little causeway and a slight hill, and all the breath went out of me. Shit! A short ride like this and I’m gonna have trouble with it? I thought. That’s just sad. But I recovered shortly.

I realize I could maybe have kicked it into a faster gear, but I held back a bit, feeling those gut rumblings, overtiredness from only a few hours of sleep, etc. So I rode at maybe 80-85% of effort. I thought a couple of the hills would hurt, but they really weren’t that bad (I spun in a low gear). I passed one guy who had no helmet and earphones, wondering if he had been dq’d and just didn’t care, or what. Every once in a while a hardcore cyclist would whiz by on a whirring tribike, which was disconcerting, but what can you do? I ate a Gu gel about a mile or two before the end, as planned, and that was a mistake. Disgusting. One more note about the bike: I’ve read in many places that it’s not actually 15 miles, and by my computer, they’re right, it was about 13.8. That’s a long way to be off, and apparently it’s been that way for years. Do the organizers even know? I mean, it doesn’t matter, but either correct the course or SAY that it’s 13.8 miles. Hmm.

T2 was no big deal. Since I have clips or cages on my pedals, I use my running shoes to ride in, and don’t have to change them. Maybe the only benefit to not having clipless pedals (yet). Decided to run without a shirt (which I almost never do because of fear of sunburn) because of the oncoming heat. 5 mins or so into the run my stomach started to rebel against the insanely sweet Gu, and I had to slow down and pace myself more evenly. The course was easy, and I saw Bobby 2x more, but I was hurting towards the end and had no gear left to kick it in. Damn, I was happy to see that finish line. My first true sprint tri complete, and really only nutrition mistakes to mention. Could have been much worse! I had wanted a finish in under 1:30, but the official 1:32:09 would have to do.

All in all, the race was well-done, decent course, well-organized. The tons of fruit and bagels and donuts and drinks were great. Complaints? There’ve always gotta be some. Having the pre-race meeting the day before is definitely NOT convenient, but I can understand it with a big race. Not enough port-a-potties, bike course too short, water disgusting. That last one is not the organizer’s fault, of course. Will I do it again next year? Perhaps, but the prospect of swimming in lake Crabtree again is not a nice thought. Next on the agenda: an Olympic or International Tri.

A great race, well-executed despite its size, and fundraising goals were exceeded, I understand. Kudos to all involved, especially to the survivors. And double credit to the survivors who raced, many of whom were much faster than I!

As the bumper stickers on the cars of my wife, mother-in-law, and sister-in-law proclaim proudly, “Save the Ta-Tas!” Maybe I’ll get one for my car that just says, “Hooray for Boobies.”

Finish Strong Challenge/Banks D. Kerr YMCA Triathlon 4-15-07 A first-time tri, the first for its organizers, and my first road tri. How appropriate. They did a good job, despite the threat of large storms. But someone (Tom Robbins?) said it – the weather is to be celebrated or ignored.

This was all new to me, but the nerves weren’t overwhelming because of that debacle of an Xterra I did 10 months ago – after that one, I knew a road tri would be child’s play. But I’m really not a great swimmer, and even the tiny 200-yard swim had me a little worried. Mostly if I would get passed by three people in the staggered pool swim. But as worries usually are, these were unwarranted. I didn’t do great, lost all rhythm after the third length, but I passed one guy instead of getting passed. I could have cut off 10-20 seconds if my damned watch hadn’t kept coming off! Excuses. Can’t do flip-turns, so didn’t even try. Passing under ropes was hard to get used to. The pool was very warm, almost too warm. We were staggered according to projected swim times, so it worked out fine. I suppose that’s how they always organize pool swims. It was a long run to T1, all wet parking lot on bare feet, so slow I went. No big problems, except for everything being wet, even though I had covered stuff with trash bags. Drying feet and lacing up shoes took the longest. Had to be reminded to fasten helmet strap before leaving.

Wasn’t looking forward to being drenched on the bike. Had only had my road bike for a couple of months, so I wasn’t too used to it. But it held off, luckily. The wet roads made me a bit more cautious, but I passed many, many folks. Pretty nice 10.5-mile course, through some posh suburbs (ex-urbs?) of multi-million $ homes. Got passed twice about a mile from T2, although I was going hard. Didn’t have much trouble with the hated pedal clips, which don’t like my running shoes much, but it does allow for a quick T2.

Off on the run. One of the two guys who had passed me on the bike said “You’ll be passing me in about four minutes.” I thought, nah. Couldn’t feel my legs for a few minutes, and for a second, felt like a fist was squeezing my chest, trying to force my heart out through my throat. Thankfully, that went away. I passed the guy, who said, “You’re ahead of schedule.” Tried to respond with encouragement, but no breath. Passed the other guy later, so that felt good. Felt like the course was 75% uphill, but it also felt too short. I bested my stand-alone 5k time by a minute! That makes me think that the course was maybe 2.7-2.8 miles or so, rather than a full 5k. Who knows?

I went to breakfast with my wife and son and didn’t stay for awards, never expected anything. Don’t think there were awards for it, but it turns out I was 2nd in the Clydesdales (only 6 or 7 of us), and if I had gone with age group (35-39), I would’ve been 2nd, too! Argh!

I expected a road tri to be much easier than the Xterra Sport, and it was, by far. But only relatively.

Official results:
Swim 200 Y 4:11/T1 4:11/Bike 10.5 Miles 36:27/T2 0:49/Run 5k 21:56
Overall 38/93, Clydesdale 2/7 (Age group 35-39 2/?)

This log at www.beginnertriathlete.com

I just got the news 10 minutes ago. 10 minutes, and this truth-forsaken war has affected me more than ever before. I was against it since before it began, and now I scream silently at its designers and implementers, STOP! Spare the wives and husbands and children and mothers and fathers those empty gaps in their lives forever! You senseless beasts, you murderers by proxy! Pull our men and women out of harm’s way in that miserable hell of a desert, before more die for nothing! Call it what you will, cut and run, admit defeat, I care not for your lies and pandering, but save lives, you blithering barbarians! I deliver here a sigh of confused sorrow and impotent rage.

My father called me to tell me that David Taylor, Jr., along with two others, had just been killed by an IED while driving in a Humvee somewhere in Iraq. David was a Major in the Army Rangers, a great guy with an irreverently sarcastic sense of humor. We were not best friends, we were not close friends, but I called him a friend, and was honored to do so.

Some of the criticism of this moronic misadventure goes as follows, and it’s justified: This war, unlike most others America has been involved in, affects so little of the American public directly, that most are apathetic to it (less and less so now, thank the fates). I remember hearing that only 1% of Americans knew somebody who had served or was serving in Iraq. No wonder. It was only because I had grown up as an Army brat – many of my high school classmates joined the Armed Forces, following their fathers – that I had the good fortune of knowing two of them. They had both been there before, and were both there again. My father and I had discussed them just the other day. My other friend was a Quartermaster, and thus was as unlikely as any to encounter any trouble, although we all know that no one is truly safe. David told me that, although he was an Army Ranger, he had been assigned to mostly administrative duties (“pushin’ paper”) and understood that that was what he would be doing in Iraq. For all I know, that’s what he was doing, and it was just ugly happenstance that exploded the coward’s device of death under the vehicle that he just happened to be in.

I don’t know how to feel about this. I don’t know if I even have the right to feel sad, hurt, diminished, and betrayed by our inept and uncaring government yet again. I say this because I know his parents well, incredible people if there ever were any, and then there’s his wife of but a few years, and his infant son who will never know him. My fleeting sorrow pales into the infinitesimally subatomic next to their life-numbing sadness and the black hole of despair out of which they must now climb. They are the ones I mourn for, more than for David himself, because he was a Ranger. He knew the risks, and I’m sure he didn’t flinch from them. He loved Army and country, and was loyal and dedicated. He never confided in me his true feelings about this whole fiasco (we weren’t close enough for that), and it really doesn’t matter. Even if he had hated the whole idea, he wouldn’t have complained, because his life was his duty to his nation and its people, the ideals it represents, and to the soldiers under his command. That is more than I can say about any of the miscreants in power.

I remember him sending a photo around to friends, proud and smiling, wife by his side and new child in his hand. “Michelle recovered, I just hung around and tried to look useful,” he wrote. And he’s gone, just like that. And for what? But I don’t want this to be about the issues. It’s about a good man who was taken away from those who love him.

I can’t really say, “We grew up together,” but we did spend our elementary school years in close proximity, in the Mark Twain Village (MTV) American Military housing area in Heidelberg, Germany. From around 1979 to 1982 or so, we played and fought with and alongside each other between Kirschgartenstrasse and Römerstrasse. David was older than I, so often he and a friend picked on me. I often brought out a matzo to the playground to snack on, a favorite in those days, with butter and cream cheese and American cheese. They thought it remarkable, the bullies, and once or twice took it from me, to the point where my dad had to intervene. Joking about this later, he gave me the immortal description of the matzos as “those big motherfuckin’ crackers you used to eat and we would take from you.” I didn’t hold it against him for long. He and his friend gained respect for me as I grew in stature and musculature through wrestling, weights, and football. I think at some point he actually apologized for it! After my dad retired from active duty and we moved to Reilingen, our families stayed fairly close through Boy Scouts; his father was the Scoutmaster of our dear old Troop 29 for a few adventurous years, and a great one, I believe.

I didn’t associate with him much through high school; we were in different classes and with different crowds. But he was smart, well-liked, and well-known enough to be elected president of his Senior class. I continued to see him through scouts; unfortunately, those memories have yet to resurface in any detail, but I remember having an easy kind of respect for him. That was only to increase when I learned that he had joined the Army Rangers.

Much later came his other immortal – to me – statement. We were talking about the ancient bullying and how I eventually got to be much larger. I said, “You’re a Ranger now, you could probably kick my ass.” To which he replied with a smirk, “Nah, I couldn’t kick your ass. I could probably kill you, but I couldn’t kick your ass.” He told his wife, “Yeah, I used to bully him, then he got huge and started to wrestle, and that’s when I started calling him ‘Sir.’”

Well, David, Sir, I salute you and your life. You will help me – and all who knew you, I think – in fighting the more mundane but constant battle to never take love and life for granted.

And when I think of you, I will smile, I will raise a glass in Prost, and I will fight my tiny wars with strength renewed.

May you find your heaven,

Mark Goldman

October 23-25, 2006