The Tank Painting Story- Part 2

(This is the continuation of Part One. Scroll down the page to find the beginning.

This story has come up in conversation so often that I thought it needed to be recorded. Everything is true. The timeline, facts, and dialogue have not been altered. The names have been changed, mainly because I’m not sure of the statute of limitations for those still in the service.)

A friend taught me a great trick for getting my bunk tight for inspection. Once the covers were pulled up and back to meet the regulation 4-inch fold, I tucked all the excess under the mattress. Then, I leaned over the bunk and began pawing at the covers like a dog digging a hole, pulling and stretching the sheet and blanket to the side. A few rounds of this treatment and you could really bounce a coin off the surface, not that I ever saw anyone do something that ridiculous. It was, however, a bit of work. If I had my way, I would have left the bunk inspection-ready and slept on the floor, but that was against our SOP. I was giving the covers one last pull when a fist hammered my hatch (door) and I jumped, striking my head against the metal bunk frame. I opened the hatch to find my squad leader standing in the passage.

“MasterGuns wants to see you.” He glanced past me at the bunk. “Good start, but it still needs work. He turned to leave. “Try not to embarrass me with the Top,” he called over his shoulder. (“Top” is a less formal term for the senior Sergeant in a unit. Master Gunnery Sergeant was the man’s actual rank. “MasterGuns is a little more specific and formal than “Top,” and, more importantly, it sounds far, far cooler). I checked my uniform in the mirror and gave my blouse one hard pull to straighten the creases. With a quick glance to ensure I could see my reflection in my boots, I trooped downstairs, my mind scrolling through the past week, searching for any indiscretion for which I might have been caught.

I rapped twice on the office door and heard a muffled “Enter” from inside. I walked in and stood centered 6 inches before the Top’s desk.

“Didn’t you get your government driver’s license last month, Balboni?” he asked without looking up at me.

“Yes, si-” I caught myself just in time. “Yes, MasterGuns, I did.” Calling a senior Marine Staff NCO “sir” was a sure-fire method to mess up your afternoon. On the other hand, the MasterGuns wasn’t telling the whole story. I was sent to the weekend driving course as punishment for busting curfew with a fellow Marine. We were happily munching cheese fries several hours past midnight when we realized our Platoon Sergeant was sitting several tables away sipping coffee. Attending the driver’s course gave the MasterGuns another qualified driver and deprived me of weekend liberty without requiring any “corrective” paperwork. Everyone won; except me, that is.

“Well, good,” he continued. “I need a driver for the Guest of Honor for our Ball.” He held a set of keys across the desk. “Go get the vehicle, gas it up, and make sure it’s spotless.” He frowned at my uniform. “Your job for the next 72 hours is to make sure the car is immaculate, you’re immaculate, and you’re ready at the drop of a hat to drive guests for me.”

“Aye,aye, MasterGuns,” I said, taking two steps back, pivoting on my heel, and escaping the office before I did anything stupid. Life is all about the small victories.

The car was a pale yellow Chevy Lumina, which I washed, waxed, vacuumed, and then hid in the far reaches of a large parking lot on base. Before leaving it alone, I moved it twice, judging two of my parking selections as being too close to sap-laden cedar trees which might foul the car’s shine, and thus the MasterGuns temper. I was even more fearful that another Marine would spot me parking the car and guess my assignment. The last thing I needed was for a couple of jarheads to amuse themselves by tossing bird poop or mud on the car while it sat unguarded. Hence, I left it several hundred yards from the barracks and well out of sight. I timed my route back to the barracks and felt comfortable that I could reach the car in less than 3 minutes at a fast, but inconspicuous walk.

Anticipation for the Marine Corps Birthday and the Ball continued to build through the day. All the Marines found it difficult to concentrate upon our jobs. The squad leader inspection looming that evening probably had more to do with keeping us focused than any real issue with the state of the barracks. By 1900, most rooms were spotless; gleaming floors, scrubbed windows, and all surfaces free of dust. I stepped through my hatch and took position against the passageway bulkhead (hallway wall) to wait for my squad leader. There were still a few precious moments to clean and only a couple of Marines were already in the hall.

“Balboni, close your door,” my squad leader said, walking down the passage. “I’m not inspecting you while you’re working for the MasterGuns.”

“My room’s ready, sergeant. It’s your call, but I’m ready for inspection.” I didn’t want him to think I would use my temporary job as a privilege.

The sergeant stopped and shrugged. He stuck his head through the door and looked around the room for a few seconds. “Your room looks fine, Balboni. But your job is to represent the unit for the next few days, so keep the room clean, but make sure your uniform and conduct are perfect.” He nodded once and walked away.

Hearing the sergeant’s words made me paranoid about the state of the car. In my mind, I saw the yellow Lumina covered with mud with “Happy Birthday, Marine!” carved into the filth by someone’s middle finger. I decided to check on the car, and perhaps move it again, but didn’t get to the stairwell before Lance Corporal Kamir stopped me and asked if I still had the keys to the paint locker.

“Yeah, why?”

Kamir smiled. “You know the old Russian tank over by the Army cafeteria? The T-34? We’re going to paint it red tonight.”

That explained why Kamir wanted my help. I had one of the only two keys to the paint locker. The other was kept by the Company Gunnery Sergeant. Kamir also possessed a little-known secret; he knew that I had inventoried the paint locker during the summer. And, he knew that I neglected to count several gallons of paint in order to have a ready supply should we ever desire to decorate something “off the books.”

“Stand-by!” a voice hollered down the passage. The SquadLleaders were arriving for the inspection. Kamir stepped to the side of his room’s hatch.

“What time?” I asked.

“About 0200,” Kamir said, and then realized I wasn’t moving towards my room. “Where you going?”

My shoulders tightened in fast panic. I did not want Kamir to know that I had the car. “Just running an errand for Sergeant Walters.” Kamir tilted his head, sensing that there was more to the story.

“Kamir! Get by your hatch!” his squad lead yelled. Kamir jumped back to his doorway and I dashed into the stairwell, calling over my shoulder, “See you in a couple of hours.”



http://brianbalboni.blogspot.com

The Tank Painting Story- Part 1

(This story has come up in conversation so often that I thought it needed to be recorded. Everything is true. The timeline, facts, and dialogue have not been altered. The names have been changed, mainly because I’m not sure of the statute of limitations for those still in the service.)

It started with a dare. I stood shivering in the ranks in a misty pre-dawn drizzle, waiting for the Master Gunnery Sergeant to march out of the barracks and conduct the morning formation. It was Wednesday, three days before the Marine Corps Birthday Ball. For young Marines, far from home, the Ball takes the place of Christmas. It’s a time of celebration with your surrogate family, a time to laugh, feast, hear outrageous stories, and party with your brother Marines and guests. The festivities stretch through the week, with each fire team and platoon conducting its own small celebration of pranks and stunts, often committed at the expense of other fire teams or platoons.

Despite the cold, it was hard not to smile in the drizzling rain. My own fire team of four marines had spent the previous night harassing the fire team across the hall from our barracks rooms, breaking into rooms, moving furniture around, smearing boot polish, and doing anything else we thought might annoy our comrades. Any thought that our cleverness had been undetected ended at about four-thirty in the morning, when I woke to use the restroom and left my barracks door unlocked. I returned to my room, slipped into my bunk and closed my eyes. Then I realized I wasn’t alone in the room. Opening one eye, I scanned the dark and saw a black mass in the gloom, perched like a gargoyle on my wardrobe. A snicker sounded the alarm and I hurled back my sheets and twisted to the floor, meeting the lunge of the assailant jumping off my furniture. Too slow. An unseen Marine bashed my head from behind and I was down, pummeled under the blows of four friends from another squad. When it ended, I was outside in the rain, lying in the muddy grass below the barracks entrance.
Ninety minutes later, I was showered, dressed and standing in formation, waiting for the Master Guns.

“Feeling okay there, Balboni?” I heard a voice from the rank behind me. “I heard that you took to practicing your low crawl in the mud last night.” Low laughs echoed in the rain. “I swear, it’s motivating to see young Privates practicing their art in the early hours.”
“Go to hell,” I replied over my shoulder.

“Knock it off!” our sergeant shouted from the front. And then, half a second later, “Stand by!” The Master Guns had arrived.

“Atten….tion!” came the order, and a hundred and fifty pairs of boots slammed together as one.

“Gentlemen,” the MasterGuns began by way of greeting. “Three items today.” He raised a finger into the air. “First, the barracks is unsat. Second, because of item one, you’ll spend tonight on field day until every room clears the Squad Leaders inspection.” The formation remained silent in the rain, knowing that the slightest groan of discontent would amplify the punishment.

“Lastly,” the MasterGuns continued, “you’ll knock off the silly shit. Tossing rooms and throwing your fellow Marines out in the dirt doesn’t impress me with your esprit de Corps.” I felt my ears burn and the eyes of the ranks behind me drilling into the back of my head. I almost missed the MasterGuns closing sentence. I almost wish I had missed his final words. Had I failed to hear those words, the next 30 days of my life would have been much, much easier. “You want to impress me, then do something that requires brains as well as brawn…like stealing a guidon from a unit in formation.” A rumble of laughter rippled through the ranks. A guidon is the small flag carried by each military unit of company or larger size. In formation, the guidon is held by a sergeant, the Guide, at the front, right corner of a formation. To reach the guidon, you would have to approach the unit in open view of every person in formation. Even if you succeeded in wrestling the guidon from the unit’s Guide, you would be standing before a hundred or more angry and insulted warriors and be lucky to escape unharmed. And, if you did somehow manage to escape, every member of the offended unit would have clearly seen your identity. Looking back, it seemed that everyone knew the MasterGuns was joking. Everyone but me.

Military Rules

Military Rules

Marine Corps Rules:
1. Be courteous to everyone, friendly to no one.
2. Decide to be aggressive enough, quickly enough.
3. Have a plan.
4. Have a back-up plan, because the first one probably won't work.
5. Be polite. Be professional. But, have a plan to kill everyone you meet.
6. Do not attend a gunfight with a handgun whose caliber does not start with a '4.'
7. Anything worth shooting is worth shooting twice. Ammo is cheap. Life is expensive.
8. Move away from your attacker. Distance is your friend. (lateral & diagonal preferred.)
9. Use cover or concealment as much as possible.
10. Flank your adversary when possible. Protect yours.
11. Always cheat; always win. The only unfair fight is the one you lose.
12. In ten years nobody will remember the details of caliber, stance, or tactics. They will only remember who lived.
13. If you are not shooting, you should be communicating your intention to shoot.

Navy SEALs Rules:
1. Look very cool in sunglasses.
2. Kill every living thing within view.
3. Adjust Speedo.
4. Check hair in mirror.

US Army Rangers Rules:
1. Walk in 50 miles wearing 75 pound rucksack while starving.
2. Locate individuals requiring killing.
3. Request permission via radio from 'Higher' to perform killing.
4. Curse bitterly when mission is aborted.
5. Walk out 50 miles wearing a 75 pound rucksack while starving.

US Army Rules:
1. Curse bitterly when receiving operational order.
2. Make sure there is extra ammo and extra coffee.
3. Curse bitterly.
4. Curse bitterly.
5. Do not listen to 2nd LTs; it can get you killed.
6. Curse bitterly.

US Air Force Rules:
1. Have a cocktail.
2. Adjust temperature on air-conditioner.
3. See what's on HBO.
4. Ask 'What is a gunfight?'
5. Request more funding from Congress with a 'killer' Power Point presentation.
6. Wine & dine ''key' Congressmen, invite DOD & defense industry executives.
7. Receive funding, set up new command and assemble assets.
8. Declare the assets 'strategic' and never deploy them operationally.
9. Hurry to make 13:45 tee-time.
10. Make sure the base is as far as possible from the conflict but close enough to have tax exemption.

US Navy Rules:
1. Entertain the girls and go to Sea.
2. Drink Coffee.
3. Deploy Marines

Thank God they can't spell "gerbil"

Sydney got a computer for her birthday, a small HP notebook which she can use to do her second grade homework, making an unconscious mockery of my own elementary education experience. She can also play some cool National Geographic kids games at http://kids.nationalgeographic.com/kids/.

While browsing the animals games at NatGeo, Sydney decided to show Bella some pictures of baby animals, which led my wife Julie to jump on the keyboard and show them some funny animal videos at YouTube. She almost missed the phone ringing over the peals of little girl laughter. Hopping up from the computer, she dashed from the room and answered the call, which turned out to be an out-of-state friend wanting to catch up for the holidays. Figuring not much could go wrong, Julie swapped stories about children and Christmas shopping while listening with one ear to Sydney and Bella as the girls clicked through videos of chickens, puppies, and kittens. A faint alarm sounded in Julie’s head when she heard Sydney say “snake,” but she her phone call was winding up and she thought the kids would be safe for a moment longer.

“Look,” she heard Sydney’s voice saying, “the snake lives in a cage with a mouse.”

“They’re playmates,” Bella’s voice responded. “Oh no,”Julie thought hanging up the phone. The click was lost in an explosion of high-pitched, girlish screams as Sydney and Bella exploded from the bedroom, running to hide at opposite ends to the couch. Julie walked looked at the computer screen. “Anaconda gets mouse breakfast,” was the title of the youtube video.

By the time I walked in from work, the girls were calmed down and learning about the Circle of Life. I spent the evening learning about parental controls, thankful that Sydney had not yet learned to spell “gerbil.”

New York Marathon- Getting to the Starting Line

The New York Marathon is a tremendous running experience, and since it’s one of the largest marathons in the world, it requires the runner to execute some planning and logistics in order to survive the experience. The race takes anywhere from 3.5 to 5 hours. The trip to the start takes 90 minutes, you’re stuck waiting at the start for 3 hours, and the death march to retrieve your bag is another 20-30 minutes. Tack on 45 minutes for staggering back to your hotel room and the ING NY Marathon becomes about a 9-hour expedition through the boroughs. You’ll spend more time sitting around waiting to run than you’ll spend actually running the marathon, and five hours of shivering can put a severe buzz-kill on your race day unless you plan ahead.
I like to be early, a poor habit for the NY Marathon. By 6am, I was in the starting corral; however, the race didn’t start for 3 hours. There were bagel stands, Dunk ‘in Donuts coffee trucks, and powerbars for breakfast, but sitting in the open for over a hundred minutes is a great way to ruin your marathon by getting cold, stiff, and cramped. Here are some tips for handling the pre-race.
• Use the gear bag. Most marathons provide a clear bag which you can pack some items, like dry clothes and a cell phone. NY is chilly in November, and you have a long walk at the end of the race. In a long, cool race, you’ll start to lose body heat as your move into the third hour of the race. A dry shirt and jacket is a life-saver for an exhausted, chilled runner.
• Wear several warm layers on the journey to the starting line. I had a fleece jacket, which I packed into my race bag at start time so that it would be returned to me at the finish. I also bought a couple of cheap Wal-Mart sweat shirts. As the sun rose and my body warmed to the effort of the first miles, I peeled away the layers.
• Take an early trip to the Port-a-Johns. The line is bound to get longer as the wait to run draws shorter. This will keep you from finding yourself desperate with nowhere to drain yourself while also getting you out of the chill for a few minutes.
• Park your butt on the lee side of one of the coffee trucks. This will keep you out of the wind, and the engine warmth will help. Take care not to be in a position where your breathing fumes, though, or you’ll have a long, nauseated trot to the finish line.
• Wear gloves. Fleece running gloves are a must for this race.
• Pack a couple hand-warmers; and activate them early, before the sun starts to rise. It is always coldest in the moments before dawn. If you can get through this period staying warm, then the sun will rise, raising temperatures as well as your state of mind.
• Eat your breakfast before you leave the hotel room, and don’t skimp on the calories. It’s a long wait before a long run. Smack the peanut button on the bagel and stuff a couple of bananas down your gullet. You don’t want to start running with an empty stomach.
• DO NOT start eating your gels or Sport Beans to stay warm! While this will put sugar in your system and raise your temperature, it will also start your system burning the sugar, and you’ll bonk early in the run as your body tries to adjust to an endurance event while overloaded on fuel.
• Take a book. The minutes will go by far faster if you have something to read. I took a $5 biography of John McCain, and damn near finished it before chunking it in the garbage as the race started.
• At the 15-minute mark before you move to the start line, take a last port-a-john trip. Select the line with the fewest females. It takes them far longer to use the bathroom.
Eventually, the wait ends and you are herded to the starting line, where you stare up the slope of the Verrazano Bridge. The crowd and energy are immense. Nervous laughter bounces across the crowd as runners pretend to laugh at stale jokes they heard with only 10% of their brains. The other 90% was scrolling through the pre-marathon litany of doubts. (Will I bonk at mile 19? Does that tiny cramp mean I’m going to have to pee? How much will I hurt 3 hours from now?) Then, the gun pops. Far ahead, you see a blur of motion as the first runners climb the lower slopes of the bridge. The blur of motion moves closer and focuses into bright dots of orange, green, white, and blue as runners closer to you begin moving forward. Then, heads around you move and your own feet stutter a few steps… stop… stutter… pause…and then you are running. You pass the huge digital starting clock, hear the double-tap “beep” of your timing chip crossing the line, and you are running the New York Marathon.

The Honeybee War, First Assault

A colony of bees took up residence in our backyard about two years ago. I wanted to get rid of the hive, but Julie pleaded the case for the disappearing honey bees, citing everything from our environmental responsibility to the potential for economic devastation should honeybees continue to disappear and thus fail to pollinate American agriculture products, such as corn and soybeans. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colony_collapse_disorder Apparently a lot was riding on the safety of the honeybee nest growing in our orange tree. Until Sydney was stung on her foot last weekend. It wasn’t a big deal to Sydney, who wasn’t even sure what happened. We got the news from my dad, who was babysitting for us while we were in New York (our first trip sans kids in 5 years). Julie and I were standing on 6th Avenue, near Central Park when the Julie’s cell phone buzzed. Julie listened, thanked Dad for the call and put the phone back in her purse. “I want you to kill those f_ck’n insects,” she said, taking a bite of her falafel sandwich. Sucks for the corn crop, but I had my orders.
Once we returned to St. Pete, I pulled on my best bee fighting garb: camouflage gor-tex jacket, gloves, jeans, and combat boots. For my head, I grabbed the kids butterfly trap, kind of a net barrel with wire circles to hold the shape around my pea brain. Julie had determined that a bug bomb would fit perfectly into the hollow tree know which formed the hive’s front door. By her clean logic, the bug bomb would plug the knot and the fumes would waft upwards through the hollow tree, leaving a trail of tiny insect bodies and bringing peace once again to our backyard.
Roark, my faithful weimaraner, decided to accompany me on the hive assault, more from sheer curiosity at my wardrobe than any desire to be of assistance. Together, we carried the ladder around the house and propped it up against the offending tree. I shoved the bug bomb in my left jacket pocket, a can bee killer spray in my right pocket and started climbing. Bees buzzed about my head as I reached the top of the ladder and balanced against the tree. With my head against the tree, I could hear buzzing from what seemed like every bee in Florida. And it was getting louder. It was time to get this show on the road, before something bad happened.
I looked down at Roark for moral support, but he was occupied taking a poop in the garden. Pulling the bug bomb from my pocket, I felt my training take over. A quick burst of bug killer to clear the entrance while I pressed the release on the bug bomb, and then, with one fluid motion, I crammed the bomb into the tree knot. And it didn’t fit. The can was about a centimeter too big and wouldn’t stick in the hole. Bees charged out through the opening. I chucked the bomb back over my shoulder, jammed my finger down on the bug killer, and aimed the spray into the tree. Full auto.
The air grew foggy and foul as I emptied the bug spray into the hive, and I could barely hear over the crescendo of buzzing, which had grown so loud it was vibrating the ladder. Finally, with the can empty I jumped off the ladder and headed for the pool enclosure. Roark covered our retreat by running in circles around the tree with the bug bomb foaming from his jowls. I would have worried about the health of any other mutt, but Roark dresses in at about 190 and I’ve seen him consume an entire tray of brownies quicker than you read this sentence. He would be fine.
Once I reached the screen door, Roark dropped the can and executed his retrograde, running past me into the house and jumping up on his sofa with a loud fart. I closed the door and went into the kitchen, where Roark joined me to help fix dinner. We decided boiled sweet corn would be the appropriate choice. We should enjoy our vegetables while we can.

I Fix the Shower without Breaking Anything

Julie decided it was time for me to fix the shower in my bathroom. It had been leaking a bit for about three years, which I hid by keeping the door closed to hide the dripping sound and the window cracked to prevent mold from blossoming. Never cleaning the toilet or sink contributed to the room’s privacy. However, this weekend Julie’s parents are coming to babysit the princesses while Julie and I go to New York, and Julie’s fear of embarrassment overcame her fear of disease. So, she donned some rubber boots and latex gloves and slid the door open with her nostrils pinched shut. Once she cleaned the shower she discovered the constant stream of water drizzling from the showerhead. And she told me to fix it before we left for New York.
Wednesday, I left work at lunch and drove home to tackle my bathroom project. Since I had to start by turning the water off, Julie helped out by starting a load of laundry and firing up the dish washer. That gave me time to munch on a turkey sandwich and ponder my impending handyman failure. Once the spin cycle started, I commenced to fix’in.
The shower in my bathroom is a step-in deal that some idiot dreamed up circa 1959. Whoever the genius was, he had sense of commitment, as evidenced by the complete lack of an access panel to the plumbing fixtures. The only way to reach the pipe fittings and faucet parts is through the small round holes in the tile wall through which the handles emerge. It’s a pain, to say the least. On the good side, the handles have been attached since before I was born, so their good and tight.
Thirty minutes of twisting futilely on the wrench without budging the jammed cold water faucet and I was ready to try a different approach. Long experience and a short attention span have taught me that leverage is everything in these little projects, so I went rummaging around in the garage for something appropriate for freeing the faucet from its aged prison. What I found was my Marine Corps entrenching tool. I opened it to 90 degrees, placed the base against the tile wall and the shovel’s lip under the handles base, and leaned against the handle. POP! The handle shot off and cracked against my ribs. Success! Five minutes later I was on my way to the plumbing store with both faucets on the passenger seat of my truck.
Palmer’s Plumbing is a surreal experience. I traded 12.65 in cash for two freshly re-worked faucets with new gaskets, a 3/4-inch hex wrench, two new faucet seats, and a 20-minute instruction on installation which was given by the old-world Italian gentlemen who owns the store. He’s a class act. He leaned across his counter, held the faucets out to me, and talked me through the installation procedure. “You’re a smart young man,” he said, “not like a guy I tried to explain this to last week. He wouldn’t listen. He was one of those young computer guys who knows everything, not like you at all.” I took the hint, shut my mouth, and paid attention.
Mr. Palmer runs his shop with his wife and daughters, making it the only place I can imagine where grown men obediently listen to women explain how to fix toilets, plumbing, and sundry other household items. It also leads to some unexpected experiences. While waiting for my faucets to be finished, I heard a female voice say, “just look at my cleavage.” Every man in the building looked. A young lady, I’m guessing a granddaughter, had brought in a homecoming dress to show off. I tried to look away but we were all busted and a chorus of feminine laughter echoed through the narrow store. “You don’t expect to hear ‘cleavage’ here,” one of the ladies chuckled. “Maybe ‘ball-cocks’ or ’nipples’ but not ‘cleavage’.” They were still laughing with the other customers when I walked out through the back door.
A short drive home and I climbed back into my shower and re-installed the faucets, amazed that I was able to complete the task without busting any pipes or shattering my own fragile ego. As I put my tools back in the garage, Julie poked her head through the kitchen door. “Are you going back to work?” she asked. I shook my head and smiled, visions of romantic awards for my hard work filling my mind. She smiled slyly. “Good, I need you to help me move some stuff so I can paint.” Shit.

The Wife Shops for Boots

Three nights in a row I’ve watched Julie shop on the internet for boots. She wants a pair of black, dressy leather boots, and I’m certain that she’ll buy the first pair that she showed me. But first she has to show me every other pair of boots on the internet. I’ve long since lost interest and I can’t even tell the difference between the boots when she explains the nuances, which she invariably does to some length. I ought to just log onto her computer and buy the first pair she looked at. The box would arrive on the doorstep in a few nights, no doubt as she leaned across the couch with her computer to show me yet another pair; and hopefully end the madness.
I once bought a gown for the Marine Corps Ball to end a similar aggravating episode. I was a young lieutenant and Julie needed a gown for the USMC ball. We were in Washington, D.C. at the time, so we drove our ’86 Aries wagon with puppy poop brown paint up to the Fair Oaks Mall and commenced walking through every department store. Our first port of call was J.C. Penney’s. Julie tried on a black sheath dress which knocked my eyes out. She looked incredible, and the dress was on clearance for $88. Naturally, she placed it back on the hanger with a shake of her head and continued to flip through the racks. I saw where this was going; a long day of traipsing through stores while she jumped in and out of gowns, never finding exactly what she wanted, always fretting over what might be in the next store, until finally panicking with the realization that the first gown was perfect and a dash back to J.C. Penney to learn that it was purchased three hours earlier by a woman somewhat less manic. So, I bought the gown while she was trying on a different dress and had the salesperson hide it behind the counter.
Countless hours and stores later, my wife suddenly decided that her life would be incomplete unless we were able to buy the black dress back at J.C. Penneys. A last mad dash across the mall ended with me triumphantly pulling the dress bag from behind the cash register and holding it up like a fresh kill and expecting rewards, both immediate and later, for my forethought.
My wife’s reaction was not positive. “You just played along all day when you had already bought the dress!” she accused and expecting rewards, both immediate and later, for my forethought.
My wife’s reaction was not positive. “You just played along all day when you had already bought the dress!” she accused. Umm, yeah, ‘cause I love you? The ride back to our apartment was quiet, but she’s worn the dress for 10 years. It still fits, she still looks sensational, and I’ve never been rewarded for my good conduct.
So, I’m going to order the stupid boots and end this misery.

IronKids Triathlon in St. Pete

My oldest daughter ran the IronKids Triathlon in St. Pete this year. She had a great time, but I'm not entirely sure that she realized that she was in a race. She was strong in the swim, partly because she spends entire afternoons splashing around in our pool, but mostly because she was excited to use her new pink goggles, which we purchased the day before. She probably passed 5-6 other kids during the one-lap swim portion of the triathlon.

Her transition to the bike leg of the race was less smooth. Being a concerned dad, I jogged over to her bike to make sure she didn't need help. Sydney was less than concerned about getting on her bike, but greatly concerned that her ponytail wasn't straight. After 5 minutes (and I'm not kidding; it was 5 minutes), she was finally satisfied with her appearance and pedaled out onto the bike course.

Ten mintues later, I was still waiting for her to return from the bike route. Most of the other kids in her group were already running, and children from the next group were starting to trickle into the transition area. Just as I began to worry that my little girl had crashed into a tree, or, more likely, ran across a dog she wanted to pet, I saw her cruise into the parking lot with a smile on her face. She wasn't in a great hurry, judging from her casual waves to the crowd.

While racking her bike, she noticed the finisher's snack table, and my spindly-legged daughter can move when treats are involved. She dashed through the run course, pausing only once to see how much distance she had put between herself and some boys she knew. Spotting the finish line, she dashed the final 100 yards and ran through a little, white winner's banner that a pair of volunteers held up before each child.

IronKids is a quality event; safe for kids and manned by kid-friendly volunteers. I would recommend it for any child who enjoys swimming, biking, and running around the neighborhood. The volunteers literally carried the day when things didn't go as planned. The picture above shows a set of volunteers holding up the transition banner when it deflated. They could have easily moved the banner to the side, but they chose to hold it until every child had passed beneath.

My only caution revolves around the parents. Whoever these people are who bound up and down the swimming pool bleachers and run amok through the transition area screaming for their child to "go faster" are; they need to relax or shut up. Frankly, I'd be fine if they would just shut up. It's hard to imagine that the joy their children are experiencing isn't being compromised by the corrections and "encouragement" that their parents are hurling at them. My guess is that the parents are more concerned with their own priorities of success and failure; or else they wouldn't be so excited about the performance of a 8-year old child.

My little girl is already talking about her next race, and my youngest needed the training wheels removed from her bike so that she could start training for next year. I can't wait to see them splash, pedal, and dash through the next IronKids Triathlon.

Saturday Afternoon on the Couch

“I could really go for some salty nuts right now,” my wife blurted as we sat on the couch watching football this afternoon. That’s typical of the kind of crap she spews with a straight face.
“I can probably help you with that,” I responded, to which she smiled and handed me a scrap of paper with a list of groceries.
“Cool. Can you get this other stuff, too? I don’t have my hair brushed and I don’t feel like spending 30 minutes getting ready, just for the neighborhood geezers.” I grabbed my shoes and started for the door. “Oh,” she added, “get me a box of tampons, too. My period started today.”
Amazing. In four sentences, my weekend afternoon went from okay to promising, back to okay, and then plummeted to discouraging. On the positive side, there’s no real reason to expend the effort impressing her with a bunch of housework if we’re just going straight to sleep tonight.

My Wife Krazy-Glue's her Hand

My wife is amazing. She is a wonderful, patient mother, a caring wife, an involved volunteer at for the kids’ schools; and, most importantly, she looks awesome in her tight, low-cut jeans. Graceful she is not. Twice in the last month she has poked me in the eye while sleeping. Or; at least she claims she was sleeping.
There are advantages to this lack of grace. For example, I always know her whereabouts in the house. The rattles and clangs produced by her normal routine serve as a kind of constant foghorn, alerting me to watch for a swinging laundry door or avoid the kitchen area. And I never, ever, venture into the garden when she’s slinging the hoe or rake around.
The latest adventurous mishap started yesterday afternoon. I was sitting in my office with a couple of coworkers, struggling with a problem of logic and importance, when Bel Biv Devoe’s “Poison” blared from my IPhone, announcing a call from my wife. “Yes, babe,” I answered.
“What’s your timeline for coming home?” Ugh. That is never, ever a good question to hear.
“That depends upon what you need, babe.” Translation: Tell me what you’ve done and I’ll decide whether I have to come fix it now or if it will wait until after work.
“I cut my hand... a little.”
“How ’little’?”
“Well, it’s been bleeding a while.”
“How long is ‘a while’?” This is a normal game, whereby my betrothed offers snippets of info and I guess what she’s talking about until either the truth is revealed or she decides that I’m not a good listener. It’s a blast.
“Maybe an hour…maybe a little longer.”
“How much longer,” I ask, masking my growing frustration.
“I don’t know…90 minutes or so.”
Huh? “You’ve been bleeding for a f**** hour and a half and haven’t done anything about it?”
“I’m calling you now.” I didn’t hear “dumbass” on the end of her sentence, but she left no doubt as to her meaning.
I finally surrendered, realizing that this call wasn’t going to result in progress. “I’m on my way.”
I home and ran in the door to find my wife walking around the house with toilet paper wrapped around her hand and the phone in her ear. Assuming she was talking to a doctor, I tried to get close enough to hear both sides of the conversation. My wife shook her head at me and walked a few steps away. “Well, yes,” she said into the phone, “when we re-did the kitchen, we had the tile floor done first so the cabinets could be put in on a new floor.” I waved my arms to get her attention, but she just shrugged me off. For ten minutes, I sat impotently on a stool, watching my wife walk around the house with the phone squeezed into the crook of her neck, debating the virtues of granite versus marble as a kitchen counter top, while wrestling with her blood-sodden hand wrap. She went through two bandages before hanging up and turning to me with a shrug.
“That was Jenny in Tennessee,” my wife said. Seeing the look on my face, she added, “She had questions about kitchen remodeling.” I continued to stare at her. “Well, she called me. I couldn’t just hang up.”
“How’s your hand?” I asked.
“Oh, that.” I’ve got an idea. I think I can superglue it.
“What the hell?” I thought as she dragged me to the kitchen sink. She stuck her hand under the cold water and I got my first glimpse of the crevasse she had sliced through her palm. “How did you do that?” I asked as she rinse away at the blood oozing from the gash.
“Can of peas,” she responded, pinching the gap together and handing me the tube of glue. “Now, put a thick bead of glue on it.”
“The glue will seal it. Now, quit yapping and glue my hand.” I was tempted to glue her palm to her mouth.
She was still bleeding enough that she had to hold a towel while I pinch the skin together and glued the seam. Naturally, I glued our hands together, which resulting in re-opening her wound as I pulled our appendages apart to her running commentary on my lack of home-surgery competence. The second attempt seemed to work, leaving her with a gummy, reddish streak across her hand. “You think I can run tonight,” she asked with a straight face. I walked to the bedroom to change.
I later learned that this medical technique had been emparted to my dearest by a doctor friend. Since he doesn’t like to read, I’m not sure how much faith to put into his advice. You would think that the medical annals would have something to say about advising a patient to avoid the emergency room by use of Krazy Glue. However, if a doctor doesn’t read, as this one states, then I suppose the threat of learning is considerably diminished.
The hand seems to be healing, with no sign of infection. Apparently, Krazy Glue is the money-saving miracle cure parents needs around the house. Julie can’t wait until our next mishap to test her skills. As long as the accident isn’t in the region of my crotch, I’ll let her give it a shot.

Brutal Triathlon in Clermont

The Florida Challenge Triathlon was far tougher than I expected. I was better prepared for this race than any event in my life, but the hills and heat tore the heart out of my performance. By the time I reached T2, I was badly dehydrated and in semi-shock from an encounter with a small alligator.
The swim was in the 88-degree, tea-colored water of Lake Minneola. No wind, no waves, complete boredom. The nightmare started exited T1, when I had to mount my bike and climb an immediate slope up to right turn to exit Clermont.
Within 10 miles, I was surfing up and down hills for which I don’t even own gears. I also have little experience shifting my front derailleur, leading to an unfortunate incident whereby I over-shifted, dropped the chain off the big ring, rolled onto the soft shoulder, and flipped over the aerobars and into the ditch. I found myself under a tree, so I relaxed for a few moments, enjoying the only shade I would experience all day.
Two hours later, I was finally nearing the end of the bike leg. I was celebrating a rare piece of level asphalt by stretching across my aerobars. I swerved to barely miss a piece of tire rubber and almost crapped myself when the “tire rubber” whirled around and hissed at me. I was 50 feet past the animal before I realized that I almost clipped a gator. A dull shriek cut the air as I crested the next hill. Hopefully, the rider behind me didn’t actually hit the little critter.
The Florida Challenge bike course is not for time trial bikes. Unique among Sunshine State triathlons, this course is nearly vertical. My Garmin GPS later told me that I rode over 5000 feet of elevation, and I felt every inch.
The heat was taking a toll by mile 50. I was able to fill my aerobottle four times, thanks to the great volunteers manning the aid stations. One result of the heat was swollen feet. The sharp pain finally overwhelmed me and I stopped and peeled off my socks in a driveway, laying them across a mailbox while I got readjusted on my bike. Just as I was ready to roll, I dropped my bike bottle, and had to start all over. I was a mile down the road, entering Clermont, when I realized that my nasty socks were still drying on the mailbox.
Things seemed to be going reasonably well as I entered T2, except when I racked my bike the rear wheel slipped off and clattered to the ground. I suppose the good news is that it didn’t slip off when I was careening down a hill at 50+ mph.
The heat struck as I launched into the half marathon. The course is a 6-mile, 2-loop jaunt with no shade. I felt fine for the first two miles, right up to the point, 30 feet shy of the Clermont cheerleaders aid station, when all the fluid in my stomach decided to revisit the outside world. “Ewwwww!” sang out a chorus of young voices. Staring down, I learned that Orange and Lime Gatorade mix to create a brown swirl. This epiphany motivated my stomach to hurl the rest of it’s contents onto the ground, to another chorus of young, feminine squeals.
The next ten miles passed in a haze of heat and misery, but I was able to cross the finish line and muster enough energy to pack my gear and point my truck back towards distant Tampa. My only real complaint was that after all the miles of discomfort, the race organizers ran out of large t-shirts, forcing me to accept a finisher’s shirt which is more of a mini-dress than a shirt. When I finally arrived home, my girls begged to go on a bike ride.

Intervals aren't Funny

Interval Training
Intervals are painful. Your legs muscles will strain until they turn to rubber. Your lungs will whistle as you pull air into your chest. After the first two sprints, your legs will weaken and threaten to rebel during each acceleration, requiring you to force yourself forward with your mind as much as your calves. And that’s all before the nausea settles into your guts and tries to evict whatever tenants arrived during your last meal.

Intervals are also the most powerful weapon in your arsenal for improving performance. A six week interval rotation will measurably lower your average pace by several seconds. It will also put a powerful kick into your weaponry, allowing you to accelerate through the last quarter-mile of your next race, leaving your competition in a puddle of shame and tears.

I have a weekly interval group run which starts and finishes at my house on Wednesday evenings. Eight of us bound out of the neighborhood like a New Kids reunion video, trotting down to the bay to kick into our interval patterns. I’m proud to say that we no longer run until someone vomits, but I’ve spent more than one late night in the bathroom with a good book and a garbage can.

Intervals build speed by training your mind and body to run harder. In a nutshell…you have to run faster in order to run faster.

Here is my three phase plan for interval training.
Definitions:
Speed percentages (%) - all speeds/paces are given as a percentage of your own maximum speed; the maximum speed that you can maintain for a half mile interval.

Phase One: Interval Base (6 Weeks x 1 workout/week)
Find a half-mile of uninterrupted pavement. Your goal is to train your body to conduct intervals, concentrating upon your form and cadence. This basing phase is critical to avoiding injury as you progress towards the more difficult phases of interval training.
· Jog 1 half-mile to warm up.
· Stretch your legs and relax your mind. Take a few deep breaths, and…
· Run 1 interval at about 70% of your maximum speed.
· Rest for 2 minutes
· Run your second interval at 80%
· Rest and repeat for 3 more intervals
· Run your last interval with everything you have in the tank, but maintaining proper form.
· Jog one interval and cool down with light stretching.

Phase Two: Interval Training (6 Weeks x 1-2 workouts/week)
· Jog 1-2 miles at a comfortable pace
· Interval Sequence (start with 6 and continue until you can run 10)
o 1 Minute at 80%
o 1 Minute rest interval
· Cool down jog
· Last 500 meters- accelerate and finish at 80% of maximum speed

Phase Three: Interval Training (10 Weeks x 1 workout/week)
· Jog 1-2 miles at a comfortable pace
· Interval sequence (start with 3 and continue until you can reach your goal. My goal is 4 sets)
o 3 Minutes at 80%
o 2 Minutes jogging for rest interval
· Cool down jog
· Last mile- accelerate to 80% of your maximum pace and leave everything on the road.

As your next race approaches, drop intervals from your training so that you can taper. I eliminate intervals from my schedule for the two weeks before any event.

Interval Tips:
1. Don’t sprint through your first fast interval. Odds are, you’ll bonk out before you finish your workout. Run your intervals consistently at 80% of your maximum speed. If you have extra gas in the tank, then burn it off in your cool-down leg and plan for faster intervals on your next workout.
2. Concentrate on a quick running cadence. This will keep your foot strike under your center of gravity. If you lengthen your stride, then you are using your fast-twitch, power muscles, which will burn out in minutes, not hours. A quick cadence trains your body to maintain a high heart rate and improves your aerobic capacity. That’s the key result of interval training and will translate into faster pacing for your next 10K or marathon.
3. Evening and nighttime interval workouts can interfere with your sleep pattern. It takes considerably longer to “come down” from the intensity of interval training. The good news is that your legs and body will have a wonderful, warm and relaxed feeling.
4. Monitor for injuries- Interval training is tough on the body. Watch for soreness in the soles of your feet. This will occur due to the increased strain that you put on your arches in the sprinting. If the soreness doesn’t dissipate, then take a couple of ibuprophen and a week off. Your heels are the other trouble spot. Be careful with your form and monitor your heels for bruising. If you experience tenderness that doesn’t fade after a day, then take a week off.
5. Concentrate upon your rest intervals. It is not only the sprint intervals that control the quality of your training. You will gain more by focusing upon your rest intervals, ensuring that you run your sprints with enough discipline that you are able to (barely) manage to hold a 60% pace on your rest cycles. This is where you make your money in interval training.
6. How do you know you’re ready to move to the next phase? When you can complete the sequence and comfortably maintain your rest pace at 50-60 percent of your maximum.Measure success by the gradual increase in distance covered through the intervals. As the weeks go by, you’ll notice that you run farther through your sequence; until you move to the next phase and start again.

I Buy a Bike Trainer

I bought a Kurt Kinetic trainer for my bike last week and set it up in the back room. (www.kurtkinetic.com) The instructions were easy and it took less than 15 minutes to mount my Specialized Allez road bike, setting it up facing the windows with a nice view of the pool. I’ve debated this investment for a long time. In the end, the reasons were overwhelming (translation: my wife wanted the trainer)
· Weather- I don’t like running my bike on wet roads because the dirt and grime wear on the expensive moving parts. In Florida, this causes me more than a little grief, due to all the freak’in geezers who have their sprinklers pointed at the road.
· Safety- There’s an obvious geezer reference here, but it’s really the newspaper guy that is the most dangerous foe on my morning workout. He almost took my life. About two years ago, I found myself head to head with a 10-year old Mitsubishi, reenacting the scene from Top Gun where Goose and Maverick go nose-to-nose with Viper over the desert floor, swerving at the last minute to avoid imminent death and maneuver for a missile shot and dinner with Kelly McGillis. My experience was the same, except the Mitsubishi driver had his dome light on and was driving from the passenger seat. Also, when I “broke right,” I crashed through two azalea bushes and a metal garbage can. It sounded like Animal, from the Muppets, beating his head on his cymbals. The newspaper guy never noticed, so he most likely has no clue why I scream at him and throw loose change whenever our paths cross.
· My wife can train- Actually, I don’t’ care about this, but it helped justify the cost of the trainer, thus preventing another expensive item from landing on the “toys for daddy” list which seems to count against me. Having a training tool for both my wife and I has proven more of a hindrance than a help. I’m forever adjusting the seat to her size and changing the pedals. Apparently, she can’t do these things. Apparently she isn’t sure how high to put the seat, and the pedals screw in the wrong way, and she’s suddenly afraid that she’ll scratch my bike, and…and…and she’s weak and math is hard. Whatever.
· I don’t need long, straight roads- I bike so that I can run triathlons. Therefore, I need long, uninterrupted stretches to work on my time trial strength. With the trainer I can put my head down, turn up some music on the Iphone, and rip out some miles without worrying about traffic, stop lights, or intersections.
To this point, the only bad thing about the indoor trainer is the lack of scenery. However, I can offset this by watching movies on my computer and listening to music. Judging from my heart monitor’s readings, an hour on the trainer is equal to about eighty minutes on the road. Of course that 20 minute advantage costs a couple of hundred dollars, but who can put a price on good health; or on getting to watch my wife spinning in her tight cycling shorts while I eat a turkey sandwich and drink a beer at the kitchen counter. Nice.

Stay Cool tips for Summer Running

Summer in St Pete is hot. Each morning brings a delicate, balanced race from the front door to my truck for the ride to work, with the precious goal of crossing the driveway, climbing into my Tacoma, and getting the air conditioning fired up before I sweat through my shirt. It’s a tougher race than you think. Not an Ironman by any stretch, but it still requires a delicate strategy; move too fast and I break a sweat, too slow and the heat and humidity starts pulling my bodily fluids through my pores, transforming my crisp ironed shirt into a limp, wrinkled rag. Once in the frigid a.c. blasts through the vents, bringing a shiver from my sweat-clammy skin, I grit my teeth and slide my sunglasses onto my nose, hoping that the plastic doesn’t sear to my face.
Running in the summer is tough. Each degree above 80 degrees takes about 5 seconds off my pace in a 10-mile run. Years of struggling to get good workouts in the summer heat has led me to create this list of hot weather tips.
Hydration is the key, and you can’t do it two hours before you run. You only absorb about a quart an hour; the rest just turns your pee clear and waters someone’s yard on your route. Sip water the night before you run, and during the day after you run. It’s easier to stay hydrated than to get hydrated.
Drink early and often. I carry a Nathan belt (http://www.nathansports.com/) I find that it is more secure than the Fuelbelt models, which tend to bounce around on my waist. I drink a few ounces each mile. It’s better to be hydrated early, even if I run out of water in the last mile or two. If I try to stretch my water, then I dehydrate, bonk, and all that’s left is a long walk back to the house.
Stage water: on long runs, I hide a water bottle, or two, on a small bridge in the Bay. I drop off the bottles on the way out, and retrieve them on the return leg, replenishing my supply while avoiding carrying the weight.
If I’m in a race, and they hand out wet towels, then I run with the towel on my head or on the back of my neck. The body loses a great deal of heat in these areas, making them the prime cooling zones.
Dump the heart-rate monitoring strap unless you need it. On long summer runs, I leave the strap for my heart-rate monitor at home unless I am on a specific workout that requires the monitor. The strap’s plastic body holds a lot of heat. If you don’t believe me, take it off while running on a hot day. It’ll feel like a cold breeze shot up your shirt.
I also have some cool down tricks that I use to get my body back to normal temperatures. I discovered these techniques after years of showering, cooling down, and then feeling my body warm up during the post-run hour, resulting in another soaked, wrinkled shirt and several miserable, uncomfortable hours at work.
Ice: I use sandwich bags of ice under my armpits when I have to cool down in a hurry. Not pleasant, but extremely effective.
Frozen grapes: I keep sandwich bags of frozen grapes in the freezer. Pop a few in your mouth and they serve as a cooling, healthy snack.
It’s tough to get a solid workout in the heat. Hopefully, these tips help you. I’ll be using these and more in 17 days, when I run a half-Ironman in the blistering misery of central Florida. Should be fun, at least until I vomit the first time.

Ran 13-miles today, stopping at the St Pete pier while the sun rose over the mirror-smooth water. As I filled my water bottles, feeling a peculiar one-ness with mankind, a large guy passed me, heading into the ladies room. "That's the women's room, dude," I said, whereby the big dude turned around and I discovered that "he" was a she. I jogged away, head hung low, leaving my sense of community lying in the droplets of seagull poop.

29 Days until the Florida Challenge Triathlon.
Time to experiment with my nutrition. This always makes me nervous but I have no choice. Maybe it’s the result of the aging process, but I can no longer “gut” out 2.5 hours on the bike and still have gas in the tank to launch into my half marathon run. With less than a month left until the Florida Challenge, I realize that my usual race diet of Sport Beans and caffeinated gels isn’t enough. As I cross into the last 30 minutes of my bike rides, I can’t keep enough fast-fuel glucose in my system without overshooting, which pushes a jittery rush of sugar into my blood vessels and leads to a coma-like bonk within minutes. More than once, I’ve had to pull up from my run and walk back to the house, holding my head low with humility while clenching my jaw with rage. I do not want to bonk in the race. It’ll be a long enough day without spending half of it surfing the blood-sugar wave crests and crashing through troughs of suicidal depression. I’ll save that for when Julie watches “Dances with the Stars.”
I’ve bonked enough before to know that nutrition on race day makes as much of a difference as your training. Or, more accurately, your training enables you to perform; your nutrition plan will determine whether you do perform. When I ran Ironman Florida back in ’02, I carried a bottle of flat Coca-cola in my belt for the marathon leg. At mile 22, I drank every drop and felt like superman right up until mile 24, at which point the wheels came off and I managed to crawl to the finish at about the pace of a migrating glacier. I rallied for the last 20 yards and ran to look good for the cameras.
The longer the race, the more impact your nutrition plan will have upon ultimate success or failure. You can gut out some hunger pangs in a 10K, but when you cross the threshold into Olympic-distance Tri’s and marathons your margin of error diminishes. My theory is that I’m not getting enough protein or fat. The problem is that my stomach gets pretty sensitive after 90 minutes of exercise in the heat. Orange flavored Sport Beans have been my staple for years. After I hit mile 11, I start putting a sport bean or two in my mouth and letting them dissolve. Until now, that’s always worked pretty well. Now I have to find something more substantial that I can get into my stomach. I figure I’ll try a smoothie Powerbar tomorrow and see how that works. I’ll eat it half-way through my 12 mile run, when I’m convenient located near the Vinoy and St Pete Pier bathrooms. If it sticks, then I’ll give it a try on my long brick next Friday. Hopefully, it will provide balance to my diet plan and let me keep ingesting Sport Beans through the run. Otherwise, I’ll be sitting in a public crapper ejecting everything else in my stomach. At least there’s a coffee shop at the Vinoy.

Dave wins the Old Northeast neighborhood Super Jock Trophy!!!

A new cold war has heated up in St. Pete, firing the simmering coals of competitive intensity between my triathlon training partner and I. Until this Sunday morning, we were neighbors with a shared interest in remaining healthy and providing solid examples for our respective children. Until Sunday morning. Until Dave made our competition real by choosing to unveil a shiny trophy he ordered, adorned with a plaque that proclaimed the holder to be the Old Northeast Neighborhood Super Jock. Six inches of gleaming, polished plastic perched on a base of faux marble. I mean, really, think about it. Providing an example of healthy living to our kids is sort of noble, but this is a trophy; something to be proud of!

Dave and I ran the Top Gun Triathlon as the inaugural event in the Super Jock competition. Actually, Dave ran the triathlon; I hobbled along as fast as my “butter tart-fuel buttocks could jiggle through the swim, bike, and run. (more on butter tarts soon) Dave ran a phenomenal triathlon and placed 7th. I placed a respectable 29th, which would have made me quite happy had I not spent the entire hour and eleven minutes aware that Dave was beating me like the family mule. Dave managed to beat me by 2 minutes on the swim alone, a remarkable achievement as the swim only took me ten minutes. Overall, he bested me by 8 minutes. But I’m not concerned. There’s a trophy involved now. Pride has been awakened. Things will change. Meals skipped, runs longer, sleep ignored, swim form perfected, cycling technique strengthened. My waist will be smaller, my diet more fibrous, my waste more loose.

We celebrated Dave’s win with our first trophy ceremony after the race. I handed the trophy over to a conciliatory, smiling Dave with a handshake as a nearby spectator snapped a couple of pictures. I tried to be sincere, but my smile masked the turning gears of a formulating, redemptive plan. By 3pm, I had Dave talked into the Longleaf Olympic distance triathlon. While I completed the on-line registration for the race, I browsed some prices on new triathlon wheels for my bike. I think this trophy could become expensive, but that’s okay. The kids can take their chances in public school. That will save me some time reviewing homework so I can train harder.