Love, Sweet Love

I am reading Acts of Faith, by Philip Caputo at the moment. So far, I like it. He writes well, especially in his descriptions of Africa. Two passages come to mind:

"...where a civil war between Muslim Arabs of the north and the Christian and pagan blacks of the south conspires with periodic droughts to create misery on a scale colossal even by African standards."

And later on,

"This entire continent has made friends with the absurd...a war whose beginning no one can remember, whose end no one can see, whose purpose no one knows. Yes, here they are best of friends with the absurd."

...

Earlier, I was reading Dexter Filkins' The Forever War. It was recommended to me by both Joe and Dad, and it turned out being one of the better books I can recall reading. Filkins writes extensively about his time in Iraq and Afghanistan with the power and simplicity that only comes from having lived in war, walked among death.

"They had been fighting for so long, twenty-three years then, that by the time the Americans arrived the Afghans had developed an elaborate set of rules designed to spare as many fighters as they could. So the war could go on forever."

...

On Monday, I was driving to work. At an intersection that I was stopped at, a man was waving a sign. At first I thought it was one of those signs advertising a jewelry sale or apartments for lease -- you know, the ones where they wave and spin at you as you drive by to try and attract your attention to the ridiculous deal that you don't want to miss out on? It wasn't one of those. He had written "GOD HATES FAGS" in big black letters. That's what he was waving to everyone. The light turned green a few seconds later and I drove off. I looked back once in my side mirror and the guy was still there, braving the afternoon Texas heat to wave a sign that somehow managed to wed God and hate in the same sentence. I wanted to honk. But since I drive a big truck, I thought he might mistake that for a sign of support.

Bear with me. I know I jump from Africa to Afghanistan and then to Austin rather hastily, but it is leading somewhere... I hope.

*EXHALE

At a time when teenage girls are being sold into prostitution in places like Cambodia and Thailand, and when thousands of gallons of oil wash aboard America's shores each day, and when according to UNICEF 24,000 children die each day from poverty [the Staples Center -- where game 1 of the NBA Finals was played -- holds 19,000], and when nearly a billion people entered the 21st century unable to read a book or sign their name -- when there is all of that going on [and do I even need to say 'and so much more'?], somehow people still find the time and energy and the desire to hold signs that do nothing except spread hate. People still find time to behead someone because they are Dinka, not Arab. Or blow up a bus full of women and schoolchildren to further a cause they are told needs to be furthered.

I'm not going to lecture. I'm just here to rant, which if you read my blog, you know I'm prone to do. I'll say it again, bear with me.

The world isn't missing more hate, another death or another suicide bomber, another genocide. It isn't missing religious fanaticism. It is not missing racism, corruption, politics, genocide or millionaires. What Jackie DeShannon famously sang in 1965 holds true forty-five years later, "what the world needs now is love, sweet love." Desperately so.

It is missing people who 'protect the sanctity of marriage' by loving their wife, their children, not hating homosexuals. People who have beautiful chubby babies and love every ounce of them. Who don't yell and scream at each other, but who are happy and who are too much in love to stand in the way of others loving each other. Who sing along with green stuffed dogs and laugh when their child throws all their books into the toilet. It is missing people like Ellie, who live for standards instead of a paycheck or some hollow idea of what success is. Who pack everything in a bag and move down to where help is needed and figure the rest out as they go along. It needs more people like Joe, who the more I read his writing and talk with him, am convinced I am going to be reading his biography one day [which unless I receive bribe money, may-or-may-not contain certain stories]. Someone smart enough to understand, someone sharp enough to not be ignored.

And as I look around, whether it's in the pages of the book I'm reading or the streets I drive to work on, hate has the upper hand. This blog won't change it. Hell, president Obama won't change it. Drugs will still fuel 4,000 murders a year along the Mexico/US border. Malaria will still claim close to 1,000,000 lives this year [using insecticide-treated nets would cut this number anywhere from 50-75%]. And it's a frustrating feeling. I want to ask a suicide bomber why he has to die, and why he has to take people with him who just want to live, grow old with the people they love. I want to shake them, tell them that for every passage in the Qur'an [the Bible as well] that preaches hate, there are ten preaching love. That there is far too much to live for, and so little worth dying for. That hate is too great a burden to carry.

Just as I wanted to park my car and get out and shake that man standing by the side of the road. Shake him and tell him that while the Bible says [Lev 18:22-23] "You shall not lie with a male as one lies with a female; it is an abomination," it also says in Corinthians, "I may be able to speak the languages of human beings and even of angels, but if I have no love, my speech is no more than a noisy gong or a clanging bell." [ A side-note, if we're taking the Bible literally, why aren't we campaigning for capital punishment for adulterers? Leviticus 20:10,"If a man commits adultery with his neighbor's wife, both the man and the woman who have committed adultery must be put to death." And why aren't we stoning witch-doctors and psychics to death? Leviticus 20:27, "Men and women among you who act as mediums or who consult the spirits of the dead must be put to death by stoning."]

Anyway, that's how I like to think of that man by the side of the road. A noisy gong. I wish that's all they had, were gongs and bells, instead of bombs and guns. Sure they'd be loud. Annoying. But they already are. I'd just let em bang away. Drown them out with a little Jackie DeShannon.

"What the world needs now

Is love, sweet love

It's the only thing

That there's just too little of."

"What the world needs now

Is love, sweet love

No not just for some

But for everyone."

Lost Time

On Monday, another race. Olympic distance, supposedly. In actuality, a half-ironman distance swim, a 40k bike, and 10-11.5k run. If you sense bitterness, you sense correctly. I, stupidly, paced my race assuming that I'd be doing the distances they listed on the race program. How silly of me. I should have known that the people who are PAID to organize this race would make sure that there was honey-milk-protein recovery drinks at the finish, but not that the race itself was the correct distance.

It was a frustrating race -- the first race in the last two years that hasn't been faster than the one before it. The only thing I did well was the ride [averaged 24 mph]. If nothing else, it was a good wake-up call -- a reminder that success in this sport isn't based on reputation or past success, but on what you did today and yesterday and what you're going to do in the coming weeks.

...

Transitions have always garnered a bizarre amount of attention in our family, mostly thanks to Joseph. It all started when he had a slightly-above-average T2 at Ironman CDA. He has since talked about it as much as he talks about headwinds. He has even generously offered to put on 'transition clinics'. Now, it has gotten so bad that even I have succumbed to bragging about my fastest T1 and T2's [*cough, the Rookie, third fastest T2 in the entire race, *cough].

I did not have a fast T1 at this race. In fact, Christina Ortega, who finished 1211th, had a faster T1 than I did. Not even kidding. She did a 4:26. I did a 4:27. At this point you are probably asking, or at least I hope you are, "What happened? I mean, you show such exceptional transition skills at every other race, why the drop-off in this one? You exemplify every single trait that..." [let's not get carried away here guys]. Contrary to what Joe would have you believe, transitions are a simple, insignificant part of the race. Yes, you can make up time, and yes, it is a part of the race, but it never usually impacts a race. Usually.

The first transition is the longest -- and by longest, I mean 2 minutes if you're in a wetsuit, 1:10-1:20 if you're not. [So you see why I call them insignificant, especially in a 10-hour Ironman, or a 5-hour half. That being said, Joe is good at them, yet you wonder if that is something truly worth bragging about.] It starts as soon as you exit the water. From there, you run to where your bike is racked, strip off the wetsuit, throw on your helmet, bike shoes, sunglasses, race number and run off. Sounds like a lot, but it's not really. So, at CapTex, I exited the water, ran to where my bike was racked, stripped off my wetsuit, threw on my helmet, bike shoes, sunglasses and race number and ran off. I ran passed the "bike mount line," mounted my bike and started riding. Normal, right?

Almost right away [20-30 seconds], something didn't feel right. I looked down at my left ankle, and saw it was bare. No chip strap, which meant no timing chip, which meant no time when I crossed the line. So, in a split second, I debated continuing on and just finishing without a chip, or turning back, seeing if it had fallen off in transition. I did the latter [obviously]. I rode back to transition, swearing at the top of my lungs, dismounted at the "bike mount line", handed my bike to a volunteer, sprinted back to transition in my bike shoes, found the timing chip rolled up in the leg of my wetsuit, strapped it on, and got on with my race in about as foul of a mood as I've ever been in.

Obviously I handled the setback like an adult and tried to make up all the time on the first two laps of the bike. That didn't work, so I just complained a lot, shook my head for an even greater part of it, and resigned myself to the fact that I am going to be ridiculed for this for the foreseeable future. Dad is probably going to get me a timing chip for my birthday. He's already sent me a helpful reminder about not forgetting my timing chip via email. I just hope he avoids making puns about a "chip". Though, much like a boy who has a little league baseball game in an hour stares at a grey/black sky and hears thunder and hopes against hope that it doesn't storm and cancel his game but deep in his heart he knows it will rain and the game will be cancelled and he'll be stuck inside instead of running around a baseball field, I know the puns, the jokes, the e-mails are coming. There is nothing that will stop them.

Bring it. I will respond at Couples.

Knowing

There is a line -- "Life does not put things in front of you which you are unable to handle" -- or something very similar to that. The quote was printed on the front of a card Amelia sent me some years ago, which I still remember to this day [though as you can tell, not exactly word-for-word]. She sent it after I had had surgery to repair my damaged right shoulder. I read the card then, and it gave me a lift. At the time I was down, worried that I wouldn't be able to play football that season, or even worse, ever again. The little piece of paper arrived from America [I was living in Singapore] and as I read the card, I knew things would work out. I knew I could handle the injury. I just knew.

This week, as I wondered about pretty much everything except my shoulder, much more than a piece of paper arrived. Most of my family came to town to celebrate Joe's law school graduation. [Ellie, doing some amazing work in Guatemala, couldn't attend. We missed her. Lilly did, too]. But even with one of us missing, we did what we always do. Ate meals together. Had beer and wine together. Lots of laughter. Lots of jokes. Lots of coffee. Lots of watching Lilly, who has a personality ten times the size of her tiny body.

On one afternoon, we sat in the Erwin Center and watched Joe walk across a stage and have a sunflower pinned on him as he became a graduate of Texas Law. After the ceremony, I couldn't help but think of the times I'd watched him cross a line in Lake Placid or Coeur d'alene, and how similar it felt to watching him walk across the stage. Because everyone is there to stand and applaud and cheer as you walk across a stage or cross a thin white line. But there is no cheering in a library at three in the morning, no support group in your house as you clip in for a two-hour windtrainer session. I stood and I cheered as he walked across the stage, as I have done at those finish lines, because I knew what it took to get there, or at least a great deal of what it took. I talked to him after weekends where he hadn't slept, I ate short dinners with him because he had to get back to writing a forty-page paper. As he has always done, he found a way to finish. To not make weak decisions. I knew he worked for three years to cross that stage. Now, I'm just excited as hell for the next ten, because there's going to be a lot more to stand and cheer about. I just know it.

On a different afternoon, we sat in a room at the Radisson hotel and watched an incredible DVD that Amelia made, which captured all the images and video from Ironman Florida. There was the race, of course, and so much more. The family. The birthday. An even littler Lilly. Joe's drafting penalty. I watched it, got goosebumps as "What A Day" by Greg Laswell came on -- that song will never be the same again. I felt my pulse quicken as I saw the photos of everyone running, hurting, but ultimately finishing. The music, the photos, the memories they stirred -- and I knew I was going to do another one. Only faster. I just knew.

On a different afternoon, which turned into an evening, I sat outside with friends and family at one of my favorite restaurants in Austin, Uncle Billy's, and ate moist barbecue and drank cold beer. Pitcher after pitcher of cold, draft beer. We sat and talked, as we have done so many times before. We laughed at the thought of dad in a white speedo [some gagged], we laughed even harder as Lilly scowled at Joe, yet gave our waitress a hug [even pat-patting her back]. We talked about races to be done, trophies to be made, how childbirth was overrated [Amelia and Mom took that one particularly well]. The only thing missing was my spanish-speaking sister.

Now, on a different afternoon, my family has returned back to their homes. Mom and Dad to Washington. Jim, Amelia and Lilly to Stamford. Things start to return back to the way they were. My truck is still being repaired. I still occasionally feel chills in the places beside my heart. But there is no fear this time. No worry about the uncontrollable future. Instead, the path to greatness is on the horizon once again. I don't know where it leads, where it ends, or how long it's going to take. But it is there. It is.

I just know it.

At The Park

SCENE: The sun shines, uninhibited by clouds or anything for that matter. FRANK, a gray pigeon with not a whole lot going for him, chats with HOWARD. Their day has been a productive one, all things considered, but there is still more to be done.

FRANK (filling the silence): I think I’m gonna go crap on a car.

HOWARD: If you give me five minutes, I’ll join you. Who are we hitting today?

FRANK: I saw some douchebag in a convertible park his car a few blocks south. I hope he left the top down. Guy has the nerve to honk at me as he drives by…

HOWARD: He was honking at you?

FRANK: Who else would he have been honking at?

HOWARD: Another car maybe? A pedestrian?

FRANK: No way. He looked right at me as he did it.

HOWARD: He looked at you?

FRANK: Right at me. Son of a bitch tried to kill me.

HOWARD: Then why’d he honk?

FRANK: To scare me.

HOWARD: Right. But if he wanted to kill you, he would have just sped up and run you over. Not given you a warning by honking.

FRANK: You taking his side now?

The conversation pauses. A friendly park-goer rips up some bread, tosses it in their general direction. Both Howard and Frank waddle over, start pecking at the bread.

After a healthy amount of grain…

FRANK: You ready to do this? I can’t hold this one in much longer…

Howard, not completely excited, nods.

They flap their wings furiously, somehow get off the ground. Like all pigeons, both Howard and Frank share the remarkable gift of making flight seem difficult, dare I say painful.

They hover over their target.

FRANK, (pointing): Down there. The white one.

As they near it…

HOWARD: Woah, hold up. I can’t do this.

FRANK: Why not?!

HOWARD: It’s parked in a handicapped spot. You know my rule.

FRANK: Oh come on!

HOWARD: No way.

FRANK: Just because the guy’s got a disability doesn’t give him the right to be a dick.

HOWARD: Frank, I’m not pooping on his car.

FRANK: Fine… I’ve got enough in the tank for both of us.

HOWARD: Don’t do this man. You’ll regret it.

FRANK: Is that a threat, Howard?

HOWARD, (eyes narrow): If you choose to make it one.

Howard and Frank start circling each other -- sizing the other one up. From the street below, the beginning to “SMOKE ON THE WATER” blares from a car radio…

Just as they’re about to tangle…

WHOOSH!

A rock sails by, missing them both by inches.

They look down…

BRAYDEN, 19, hat backwards, cargo shorts, hurls another one. He yells something at the birds – shooing them away with both projectile and insults…

He then walks over, unlocks the WHITE CONVERTIBLE – daddy’s car – and hops in.

FRANK: See what I meant? Told you the guy’s a dick.

HOWARD: You follow him. I’ll get Terrance, big John, Brian, and Gary. We’ll make that guy’s car look like a dalmatian after we’re done crapping on it.

FRANK, (sarcastic): What happened to your rule?

HOWARD: I guess you could call this an exception.

FRANK, (pushing on with the sarcasm): Are you sure? I mean, he was parked in a handicapped spot…

HOWARD, (not pleased with the joking): Yes. I’m sure. Don’t lose him. I’m going to go drink some prune juice and swallow some gum...

FRANK: Gross.

HOWARD: I know. Imagine what it'll look like on his windshield.

FRANK: I'd rather not...

The pigeons go their separate ways. The sun still shines. Nobody in the nearby city streets realize that a war has begun. One that the birds cannot lose, and the boy cannot win.

Irony, Irony everywhere...

We are nearing the halfway point of 2010 [yes, already], and the year shows no sign of slowing down. The weeks move like days, especially now that it is hot and enjoyable outside, and entire weekends can be spent riding and running on the edges of roads. If anything, the pace of the year picks up during this time, as it moves from one race to the next at the same blazing pace as my T2 time [check the Rookie results...I had the third fastest T2 overall].

In one of the many ironies to be found in life, as the year is gaining momentum, I feel as though I'm losing mine. Greatness seemed to be on the horizon only months ago. I like to think it still is. But I have graduated and little has changed. And I don't know why, but I expected everything would. I expected a job, or at least some tangible measure of success. Because after working so hard for four years [in my case, four and a half -- insert own punchline here], you expect something at the end of it all... but I'm still a waiter. I still can't pay my own rent. I still am among the throng of aspiring writers. So much has remained the same, painfully so.

Don't worry. This isn't a sob story. I'm not blaming the slow economy [though it certainly doesn't help]. I'm not aiming for your pity. In fact, I'm one of the more fortunate people I know. I don't have to dive into a job just to pay the bills because I've got parents who support me [literally] and my dream. I've got a badass tri-bike and all the gear I could ever want to go along with it. I live in a great apartment, in a great city, get to train and hang out with my brother. I drive a diesel truck I love, read what I want, hang out with good people, drink cold beer, skype with the cutest 13 month old alive, write and train as much as I allow myself to, I don't have $45,000 in college loans -- the point being, my life isn't something out of a Sylvia Plath novel. Far from it. It is difficult right now, confusing, but life is supposed to be these things [so I've read and been told].

[...And of course, as I'm writing this, Coldplay's song "Lost!" comes on... of course -- another unfunny irony].

The comparisons don't help either. But I make them anyway. By my age:

F. Scott Fitzgerald had published This Side of Paradise. LeBron James had scored around 9,000 points in the NBA. Mark Spitz had won seven olympic gold medals. John Keats had written "Ode on a Grecian Urn," which ends with one of the best lines of poetry in english: "beauty is truth, truth beauty - that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." Capote had written Other Rooms, Other Voices...

After all this rambling and throat clearing, I guess we've arrived at what I've had to say all along, which is that I have never felt more mediocre, yet so desperately wanted to be great.

....

Just as I'm about to click the "publish post" button, the song changes on my iTunes, and Elvis' "If I Can Dream", starts blaring through the speakers... I'll let him take us out.

"Deep in my heart there's a tremblin' question

Still I am sure that the answer, answer's gonna come somehow

Out there in the dark, there's a beckoning candle, yeah

And while I can think, while I can talk

While I can stand, while I can walk

While I can dream, please let my dream

Come true...right now"

The Rookie: A recap, plus a few thoughts.

The Rookie is an entire triathlon that takes less time to finish than the swim portion of an Ironman. 300 meter swim. 11 mile bike. 2 mile run. All anaerobic. All as hard as you can go. Not a recipe for fun, exactly. No chance to settle into a groove. No chance to "warm-up". You sprint the swim. You hammer the bike. You attack the run. Not a whole lot of strategy involved here. No concerns about nutrition [except perhaps, vomiting]. Just pedal to the metal until you finish.

Joe and I raced it yesterday.

The race started at 8:02 am. By 8:07:21, Joe and I were out of the water, running into T1 together; I had maybe a one or two-step advantage. Joe, with a faster first transition, was the first out on the bike. [Perhaps the funniest moment of the race: As he's leaving for the bike and I'm still trying to put on my helmet, Joe yells "T1!, T1!"]

For the first few minutes, I rode behind Joe, trying to let my heart rate settle. Then, as we crested a hill, I decided that I was going to go for it. I felt pretty good and I knew if we got off the bike at the same time, Joe would most likely drop me on the run. So I clicked into a low gear, and rode hard the rest of the way -- really grinding it out. At times I would have normally let my legs recover, like downhills, I pedaled. Even if it only added up to five or ten seconds, it was worth it. Every second counts. Especially in a fifty-minute race. So I rode like someone was chasing me, because someone was chasing me -- an 8-time Ironman, a 4:30 half-ironman finisher, and my older brother.

I came into T2 not knowing how much time I had, but knowing that I had time, because I couldn't see Joe behind me. I moved through T2 and was out on the run, groaning with each step, because my legs were filling with lactic acid, and my head was filling with thoughts of Joe running with fresh legs and catching me. I kept running, kept groaning, and hit the turnaround without being caught. On the way back, I saw Joe -- we slapped high fives, said all the encouragement you can when you are running as hard as you can -- and knew that I was going to be able to hold on and win. And I did. And a minute or two later, as I was catching my breath, I watched Joe finish, and we had another high-five, talked about the race a little bit, then got a free cup of Fat Tire beer. And the rookie was over. We drove back to Austin, showered [not together], and ate moist brisket and pulled pork and mashed potatoes at Uncle Billy's and washed it all down with some of their incredible organic amber ale. And another race was done.

SWIM - T1 - BIKE - T2 -RUN - TOTAL

JOE: 5:23, 1:16, 31:11, 0:50, 13:06, 51:47

ED : 5:21, 1:25, 29:27, 0:48, 12:30, 49:33

Now it's Monday, I have to be at work in two hours. Joe has to study for his final set of Law School exams. We'll probably swim a few times this week, maybe go for a long ride on the weekend. We've both got little faux-license plates to commemorate our accomplishments in our respective age-groups sitting somewhere in our houses...

As I look at the splits, I think of all the races we've done. From the very first, where we won our age group in Couples [with Joe doing most of the work], to this most recent one -- it's been a hell of good time. We've done long swims, long rides and long runs together. We've lifted. We've hurt. We've felt good while the other has felt bad and vice versa. We've watched the other finish. We've had breakthrough races. We've got an Ironman finisher's photo together. We've gone to Marble Falls, New Braunfels, Galveston, Shiner and Panama City Beach. We've got new bikes. We've helped the other change flat tires. We've watched college football with tired legs and sunburned faces...

And as I remembered all of that, how far this race has made me realize I've come, I wanted to give a quick tip of the cap to the guy who showed me the ropes. Who took me on my first ride in Austin [20 miles, because I couldn't go any further], who kept me going on rides I've wanted to quit, who's stayed with me on rides when I've bonked, who's counseled me when I've been frustrated. Who beat me, but never humiliated me. Who's done the fastest Ironman and half-ironman in the family. Who was there at my first race, just as he was at the last one.... Thanks for yesterday. I couldn't have done it without you.

Shiner

Last Saturday I rode from the capitol of Texas to Shiner, one of the state's smaller cities, which as far as I can tell, is noteworthy only because of the damn fine beer that it produces. The ride itself was a little over 100 miles, with some slight rolling hills, mixtures of head and tailwinds. But most of all, it was enjoyable. We rode past cows, goats, donkeys, horses, and roadkill. I stopped for water twice and a passing train once.

The ride ended at the Shiner brewery, and for the next few hours, hundreds of people with tired legs and nice bikes walked around, drank fresh beer, ate bratwursts, and enjoyed Texas summer weather. I didn't have any Shiner, because I had to drive back, and after a ride of that length one cold beer has the effect of five -- but tastes so good that you actually want five more. So I ate bratwursts and sat out in the sun in Shiner, thinking of rides and races done, and of the ones to come.

All that's really left of the ride now is some grit on my bike and a cotton shirt that I haven't worn yet [look above]. And that's about it. I didn't win. I didn't crash. I didn't do much other than ride a bike all morning, and eat some good Texas barbecue that night [at Uncle Billy's -- where else?]. I went to bed and slept for eleven hours with beer [from dinner] and barbecue on my breath, a little sun on my shoulders, and thoughts of riding to Shiner on my mind.