Thirteen years ago

We just celebrated my son's 13th birthday tonight.  Teenager.  I was going to write a sentimental treatise on fatherhood and how it's changed my life, but that's rote and not really groundbreaking, out of the ordinary, or a new sensation.

To coin the current overused expression, it is what it is.

And that's what makes these milestone events groundbreaking, extraordinary, and sensational.  They are the milestones of our own experiences within our own lives which are both entirely unique and sometimes mind-numbingly routine.  To despair in the impression that this is all just going through the motions misses the point that everything we do and everyone we know shapes us constantly.

So here's to my boy, who has made me a better man by being who he is and teaching me how to be a better person, just by being who he is.  I know you'll read this sometime.  Happy birthday, pal.

Waaah waaah

Just got back from the Nats game.  Great end to a decent game which our boys almost gave away by WALKING THE TYING RUN IN in the 8th inning:  the walk-off homer in the bottom of the ninth.  Everyone who wasn't a Cubs fan went away happy.  A lot of people there were not happy--so many that at times I thought we were in Chicago.

And that's the most irritating aspect of being a sports fan in a transitory city:  there is no real home field advantage, as the opposing fans are large in number (especially true in hockey, baseball, and basketball--not so much with football Americain and futbol).

The second most irritating aspect of being a sports fan in any city is the Wave.  Enough already.  It's so eighties. The Wave is that ridiculously contrived construct of "fan interaction" that actually detracts from the experience of watching the game and instead is a distraction.  Modern venues already have enough sensations of the aural and visual variety that this particular habit is tired and unnecessary.

I've noticed that this here blog is rapidly becoming a journal of sports spectating and all of the angst that accompanies it.  Tough life.  I guess I could write about other things, as follows:

Work is a pain in the ass these days.  Waaah waaah.

I can't do everything I want to anymore.  Waaah waaah.

The year is already 1/3 over.  Waaah waaah.

"We're sooooo busy."  Waaah waaah.

Exciting stuff.  Tomorrow is that one crazy day in April that everything happens at once:  Maryland Day, soccer, baseball, a school related competition in Baltimore, and a birthday party.  My standard Saturday routine which starts with a few hours on the bike with a bunch of good people takes a back seat.

Waaah waaah.

 

Over and out

The hardest thing about dealing with a game 7 loss (in overtime, no less) is the realization that I won't get to watch my team for a guaranteed 4 more times.  October seems so far away.  Now I switch my allegiance to the Flyers' next opponent.

Go HABS!

Here's a"dad" moment:  I described to my son, in his sadness about the game result, that there is some dad and his kid(s) in Philly, another suburban middle class drone like me, ecstatic in inverse proportion to our disappointment about their Flyers.  The essence of being a sports fan.

I'm still ticked about that goalie interference non-call, though.  Time to do some intervals!

EVEN STEVEN

Game 7 tomorrow night.  Need I say more.  Coming back from 3-1 against, the Caps have the momentum.  Now the Flyers look tentative.  Our boys are on a roll.

My cycling, however, not so much.  Short ride on Saturday followed by a rainout on Sunday (much admiration, though, for those who raced in the torrential monsoons, especially Ray and Harry).  I felt groggy all day, and my family unanimously voted me as the COA (Crabbiest Occupant of the Abode) for this past Sunday.   I had entertained racing the 40+, but no dice.  Given my fragile psyche, reading about the crashes in recent postings confirmed that this decision was the right one for me.  I'm not young and brash anymore.  I like my shoulder non-separated, thank you.  Sticking to the sheets is also a sensation I don't miss.  Ergo racing on the road has less appeal...only 5 months 'til Charm City.

Got 'em right where we want 'em

So contrary to my earth-shattering observations of two ex pro cyclists who now are self-aggrandizing and self-absorbed pitchmen for their various interests, I will now turn my attention to more important matters that occupy the next couple of months.

This is only meant for Kay.  I know you don't like hockey.  Just humor me here.

NHL playoffs.  The Kwest for the Kup.

As I write this the Caps are in the locker room at the Philly venue, feeling the sting of this overtime loss.  It didn't have to be this way--Ovie missed a sure goal as the puck was knuckling away from him, reminiscent of the yawing openness of the net by Essa Tikkanen during the '98 Cup run.  I remember screaming Essa! at the radio (no cable back then for me) and then again at the TV when I saw the replay.  That would surely have turned the Caps' Stanley Cup quest into a 4-1 series loss instead of 4-0.  The Wings were just that good that year.

But as they have entertained us with brilliant hockey under pressure during their last dozen games, when every game was a must-win, they are now in that same position with the Broad Street Bullies.  Three more game sevens, and they move on to the next round.

I've staked my claim.  Contrary to popular belief and wiser prognosticators, the Caps will pull this one out and take the next three from the Flyers.  Just watch.

OK Kay--I'm done with hockey.  For this entry.

I guess we saw this coming...

That's just great. 

Lemond and Trek are severing their relationship.  Doesn't affect my life in the least, but it's emblematic of the dichotomy of the post 1983 U.S. cycling culture.  Pre 1983, cyclists were a rolling freak show.  Lemond enters the scene and suddenly a fringe sport becomes a popular alternative, though never on the level that it strove to be.  World champion in '83, Tour de France podia (plural of podium?) on consecutive and improving years in '84, '85, & '86.  Top dog.  Gets shot before the '87 season, is written off, then makes one of the most legendary comebacks on all of sport two years later.  Sales of tri-bars go through the roof.  I should know.  I installed about half of them in the fall of 1989.

At that time a young upstart from Texas, riding one of the few bikes with tri-bars not installed by me, dabbles in road racing.  We all know the rest of the story.  Now everybody's on a Trek.  Lemond's suffering brand gets a jolt by joining up with Trek.  Match made in heaven, right?  Good ol' fashioned American company with arguably the two most influential cyclists in this country's history under its wings.  

Lemond and Armstrong mutually admire each other for a few years, then the two egos can't seem to find a way to coexist and the fur begins to fly.  Fast forward to this past March, and Lemond privately sues Trek.  So today Trek goes public and ends the relationship.  Look at Trek's presentation here.  It's easy to look convincing when you're preaching to the choir.  Meanwhile, Lemond and Public Relations just don't seem to get along, as he seems to say just the wrong things at the wrong times, even though in essence they are not untruthful (how's THAT for a double negative?)

So as in all conflicts, there are two sides to every story.  Just depends on who you like more.  This story will continue to draw the lines between the pre-Lance crowd and the post Lemond crowd.  Me?  Lemond helped me get hooked on riding and racing, and Armstrong helped me get back into it after a long layoff.  In both cases I got tired of the media hype surrounding their comebacks.  I met Lemond once, and he was friendly, open, talkative, relaxed, and seemed like he had a great sense of humor.  I've never met Armstrong, though my sense from his intensity is that he is inaccessible unless you are one of his boys, or a "dude bro".

Lance is inextricably tied to Trek.  Lemond is no longer affiliated with Trek.  Seems like the split is the right decision for both parties.  

Unless you're a Trek dealer near one of these new Mellow Johnny's bike shops.  Now that'll be interesting.

Wishin'

After reading the post race posts and getting the obligatory ribbing from the boys about the no show, I regret not going out to Tyson's yesterday but at the time it was the right decision.  Looking back I don't think that my head would have been into it as I would've been preoccupied leaving my daughter home by herself.  She's responsible, but still... 

I just got her baseball schedule.  Yikes.  Now that the sucking sound of the spring sports vortex is getting louder, it's even more difficult to coordinate these here races with the various game schedules.  Maybe this is the year to hit Greenbelt more than, say, zero times.  I don't want to wait until 'cross season to pin a number on... 

The afterglow of the Caps vault into 3rd place was still warm through Sunday, during which the lack of racing (or riding) was an unexpected bounty of found time, which I used to straighten out the materialistic side of my cluttered life.   Speaking of found things, the ol' helmet, toe warmers, and un-crocs decided to make an appearance after hiding among the flotsam and jetsam of my abode.  Best hiding place goes to Helmet, who decided that he would reside in a wastebasket for a week and a half, hoping to get thrown out inadvertently, thus forcing his Owner to buy a new lid.  Devious plan failed.  The toe warmers figured they could hide among friends, like Osama in the rugged Pakistani mountains, and if only he could be found as easily as they were.  Sandals were in the closet.  Of course.

What a weekend.  Boy am I pooped.

Punt!

As I sit here, I would have been warming up for the 40+ race at Tysons, hanging in there as long as possible, and then starting the Cat 4 race right afterward.  I love this race; it doesn't love me, as my previous experiences have resulted in disappointment.

As it turns out, the steady patter of rainfall on the roof and through the downspouts has crept into my psyche and as a result I am home, waiting for another day to race.  In my glory days I didn't think twice about racing in cold and wet conditions.  One of my most visceral memories is abandoning a 5 lap 50 mile road race on lap 4 because the downpour of cold rain and lack of feeling in my extremities jarred me enough to realize that this was just stupid.  The cold vinyl of my Toyota Corolla racemobile (with its distinct rusty La Prealpina roof rack) never felt so good.   Now I only accept these conditions for cyclocross based on the fact that speeds are lower and the inherent danger of pack riding is decreased significantly.

And that's what it comes down to:  fear.  Not of the pain of racing, but of the possibility of going down.  Some recent opinions of mine on sketchy group riding are fresh in my memory.  Gone are the days when I didn't think of it--now it's on my mind whenever I'm on a group ride or in a race.  Different age, different responsibilities, different body.  I'm not a Belgian style hard man, quite the opposite.  Pillsbury Doughboy come to mind, actually.  I can only admire those that gut it out in a pack for pride and minor swag.  I've run the risk/reward scenario and today it's much more rewarding to spend time with the fam...

Ironically, the racing is probably safer today than in dry conditions, as people tend to be more careful in the rain.  I won't be there to see it--good luck and safe riding to all who are there to live it.

Dyslexic intervals

In my previous post I mentioned how much I dread intervals.  Maybe this is why:

Earlier this week, on Wednesday, to be exact (after soccer practice), I looked at my program (that which I have cobbled together from many different sources) and hopped on the bike.  Without getting into specific power geek speak, I was to do two 6 minute intervals (high intensity) with 1 minute rest in between, spin for 10 minutes, and then do 6 1:00 on/1:00 off, spin for 5 minutes, and then 6 :30 on/:30 off, all intensities increasing in inverse proportion to length of interval.  Got that?  In other words, self flagellation.

After my dual 6 minute ridiculosities (I just made up that word) with the ample 1 minute rest in between, I looked at my program again and saw the error in my interpretation.  I was to do SIX two minute intervals with 1:00 off in between intervals.  I finished the middle set and called it a night after an hour.  I didn't care at that point, and I was pretty tired anyway.  

The rest of the week was supposed to be easy spinning, but I ended up picking up my parents at National Airport Thursday night, didn't get home until midnight, and tossed Friday night on the "day off the bike" heap as well.  An easy spin outdoors today with a couple of jumps and I'm ready for tomorrow.  In looking at my training log from last year I had about 30 hours in before the Tyson's Circuit Race--this year I've more than tripled that time on the bike in the same time period and it's been quality training in the time I have, if I don't say so myself.  Proof will be in the pudding.

Two other notables:  I am happy to be wrong that the Caps would miss the playoffs by a point.  That honor belongs to the Hurricanes, who get the door slammed shut on their season after CHOKING LIKE DOGS at home last night against their Florida rivals, who rolled over after putting up a decent fight against our playoff-bound Caps in the second period tonight.

Number 2:  Three years ago this weekend we went to Belgium for a week.  I chose this week because its significance in the pantheon of pro cycling's spring classic schedule:  Tour of Flanders on Sunday; Ghent Wevelgem on Wednesday; Paris-Roubaix next Sunday.  More on this trip in a future post--I'm digging up what I wrote after coming back and despite its cycling-centric nature it was quite a trip for me and my family.  Great memories.

Soccer practice

Wednesday afternoons in the spring and fall the past few years have included a ritualistic pastime that marks the seasons as vibrantly as the changing colors:  soccer practice.  Having coached my son's team for one season and then my daughter's team for the past 3.5 years, I have come to dread and then pleasantly enjoy the actual practice midweek event.

It goes like this:  at about 4:05 on Wednesdays everyone who has a question or complaint calls me at work, with need for Urgent Answers as the Unending March of Construction requires constant input from architects who do nothing all day until 4PM the day of soccer practice, at which point every question must be answered lest we be called out via the dreaded cc on the email that alerts everyone on a mailing list just how lame we are and calls into question why we have to be a part of the process anyway.

I'm not TOO bitter.

Anyway, mix in the burden of getting myself and my daughter to the soccer field to meet a buzzing hive of 11 year olds who need to run and run and run.  Negotiating the traffic as we make our way to one of the many greenspaces in Silver Spring just adds to the joy, as does the insecurity of knowing that I'm not really coaching these kids, just babysitting them for an hour while they blow off some steam.  I don't ever do drills as real coaches do, since a) I'm a volunteer; b) I just can't take this too seriously; and c) when I tried doing drills I realized that it's a perfect setup for disappointment as it is akin to herding cats.  When I finally get everyone's attention we split into teams and just play, no goalies and just run, pass, and kick.  Maybe I'll stop play to explain why they should spread the field or not to clump up around the ball or look for the open spaces, but usually it's 45 minutes of running.  And if another adult is willing or there's a big brother available, we play too.

Suddenly I'm enjoying myself.  I hate distance running, but love running for the purpose of chasing a soccer ball, or stealing a base, or running a post pattern, or hopping barriers and running up steep grades in a 'cross race, or anything in which the action of running is complimentary to the activity.  An hour flies by, we're having a great time, the weather is great (spring and fall around here can't be beat) and there are moments where the natural instincts that are so integral to the Beautiful Game reveal themselves in little developments of passing and shooting by kids who are just having fun.  It's no longer childcare.  It's soccer.

Three days later, on Saturdays, we play a real game against another team in different colored t-shirts.  Now they compete, and it all comes together.  Fun practice=fun games.  Win some, lose some, no worries.

Soccer practice is kind of like doing intervals.  I dread them.  I do them.  I actually enjoy them, and we start all over again.

I hope I'm wrong

Despite an impressive victory over their divisional rivals from Carolina as they continue this incredible string of solid play, I'm afraid the Caps will miss the playoffs by a shade of 1 or 2 points.  That would be a major bummer, especially given their recent, shall we say, artful play.  Just preparing myself for the potential disappointment, as the Caps are the original Choking Dogs, a term so aptly coined by a Mr. T. Kornheiser.

On a side note, even those who do not like the sport of hockey owe it to themselves to observe, just once, the incredible talent of Alex Ovechkin.  He's the type of athlete that appears once a generation, and we're lucky to have him here.  His gift of making others around him better is a trait that I admire and is a quality that I can only hope to emulate as it applies to my own vastly different life.