Biffing

Outside the wind is howling and churning up snow that resembles tapioca pearls. Indeed, Friday afternoon was the last vestige of a balmy and sun-soaked Indian summer. I am full of self-satisfaction when I say that I spent that glorious afternoon on my mountain bike lapping up every scrap of it. Sherry and I had made plans to play in the dirt on 2 wheels, but she had to cancel at the last minute for grown up obligations. My plans for play were wedged between 2 grown up engagements as well: a staff meeting (snore!) and an appointment to speak with my billing people. The staff meeting went 20 minutes later than planned (don't they all?)--I almost cancelled the ride for fear of arriving late for my next appointment.

Fear, shmear---I'm riding! I pull into Dryer Road Park and changed into my bike clothes in the car with 9 guys riding around the parking lot unbeknowst of my lack of modesty. I don my Camelback and helmet (all dressed up and ready to party!), clip in, and motor up A-train. 4 years ago when this park opened I remember this and all the trails being more narrow. I'd like to think that my riding skills have improved so much that the trails seem easier to ride, but it's more likely a combination of that and the trails widening and flattening out over time.

I start of with the flat, twisty trails: Ziggy and Treebeard. Without someone in front or behind me, I ride my own speed and carefully pick my way around the turns. It was good to not ride rushed and get comfortable with balancing at slow speeds. Don't get me wrong---I love to ride mtb with others. It pushes me out of my comfort zone. However, riding alone helped me be more confident in that comfort zone.

I rode over the rock gardens on Ziggy without dabbing--a first! Ziggy is the only trail at Dryer with rock gardens and that's a strong word. They're more like rock flower beds. Because the trail is flat with tight turns, the trick for skipping over the rocks is to carry enough moment through the turns and have some speed. The old mtb mantra: Speed is your friend; Brakes are the enemy. Yes, but speed is scary. Brakes feel secure.

Which brings me to biffing. On the Bikespeak forum (I'm growing weary of the Slowtwitch forum and its Iron-douches), a newby mtb rider asked how often people biff per ride. A few experienced sounding riders said about 3-4 every year, spectacular crashes that leave them unable to ride the next day. That's one every 3-4 months! I've only had 2 crashes that have hobbled me in the last 5 years. I must not be riding hard enough.

Then I think: rarely have I had a mtb ride where I am not bruised, scratched, had the wind knocked out of me, or all three--baby biffs. I don't think I crash less than I did when I first started riding. I just don't think about biffing as much as I used to. My first mountain bike was a 1991 Trek Antelope. I remember being so scared of crashing and falling that when I did it hurt ALOT. Now I just assumed I'm gonna biff and check for the flesh wounds in the shower after the ride.

I turn down Owl's Maze, marked with the letter O. O is for Old friend. This trail is the longest in the park, with descents, climbs and tight twists off-camber and around trees. I love this trail and know every leaf and root on it. On Friday, I am alone with all my memories of chickenshit unclipping and baby biffs on this trail. On that day, I finally LISTEN to myself and stay clipped in, weight back and ahhhh...glide over the spots where my left foot would've unclipped for security and caused a spill. The tree where I had caught the left edge of my handlebar and went down hard loomed up the trail. I've been triumphant since that crash in leaning away and clearing that tree. But this time I catch my left handlebar again. The wheel turns almost perpendicular to the top tube. I calmy and quickly turned it back and kept riding, shiny side up. I expected to biff, but corrected in time. A small victory against old fears.

I go on to clean a short, rooty climb with a small ledge that I've always had to unclip halfway up. I rode Owl's Maze again just to do clean that climb twice and convince myself that the first time wasn't a fluke. The ride concludes with a spin down S trail, a lovely, swooping trail through maples and oaks. I fly down an off-camber descent; and my back wheel slides under some wet leaves. I panic and grab my back brake, further locking up my back wheel. DUH. The bike skids out from under me and the top tube slams into my right leg. The daily biff. Brakes really are the enemy. I would've been better off speeding up and unweighting my back wheel. Oh well, next ride.

So it seems that old fears/past pain can be conquered by a combination of accepting them and revisiting them and making new, more positive experiences. Mission to be accomplish with a brave, open heart and shin guards.

Wah! Wah! Wah!

As you may recall, after I signed up for Penticton, I declared to dedicate a generous portion of my time and energy to swimming. My retirement from general surgery has given me the luxury of free time for rest, a predictable schedule to have a consistent basic training week, and more energy to build up strength in my noodle arms to move myself through the water. My plans included Masters twice a week with another 2 swims for "longer sets". I even found the best lane mate and personal swim coach--Janelle!--to further motivate me to swim and fine tune my stroke. I was gonna leave a flaming wake of fire behind me in Lake Okanagan with my Mike Phelps-like swim speed.

Sounds good, huh?

I didn't make it to one Master's class this week. No, my arms didn't fall off. No, I didn't catch rabies and have hydrophobia (remember that from "Old Yeller"?) My basic week has me swimming (in the evenings--that's due to Master's scheduling) on the day of my long ride and on my busiest day at work. Pretty lame excuses. I just didn't want to go to the pool: the water's cold, it's late, I'm pooped, wahwahwah! So I'm gonna drag myself to the pool this afternoon and swim---all by myself. No Janelle. Sniff.

Obviously, the petulant 5 year old Kitima got her way this week without even having to hold her breath during the tantrums. What is so damned horrible about swimming? My immediate answer is that no one truly enjoys doing something they're not good at doing. Yes, but I'm not very good at mountain bike yet I can't wait to get out on the dirt, knowing that I have at least a 90% chance of crashing/falling during each ride. At least swimming doesn't leave me scratched up and bruised.

Then Janelle reminded me: IM drills. GAWD! Do I hate IM drills. I propel myself backwards during the breast stroke; swim in place, bobbing up and down, during butterfly; and feel like I'm drowning during the backstroke. So wonder I suck at the drills---which is all the more reason I should be doing them.

So let me revise my answer to the above question: I don't truly enjoy swimming because I'm not good at it. However, I will and should persist if I feel that I'm improving---which is not just a faster 1000m free time trial, a faster IM swim at Penticton. I want that immeasurable feeling of being able to catch and pull without struggle, to slice through the water like a blue fin tuna, to swim with a rhythm that feels natural. No one was born with any of those things (except Charlie the Tuna). If I learned anything from surgery, it's that it takes alot of patience and practice to make something look effortless.

Back in the water I go--IM drills and all. If I can make laparoscopic gastric bypass look graceful, I can certainly learn to swim 200m IM without making the life guards nervous. The next time that whiny 5 year old who doesn't want to swim throws a tantrum and holds her breath, I'll just have to throw her into the water.

Going Home

I'm back from a 3 day visit with my parents. Just Mom, Dad, and me: my childhood joys of being an only child fulfilled! Mom makes my favorite Thai dishes; and I feel so sated and at home. I helped Dad find some nursery rhymes and Christmas song CD's so he can sing those songs with my nephew. I confirmed with Mom that her cat, Rambo, is indeed utterly blind. With every homecoming, I find out a bit more about myself and my family's history.

After raking leaves from their yard, I find the shed to be tidy and organized just as I would have it. Yeah, that's where the neatnik started. My inability to throw ANYTHING away is mirrored in a cupboard full of old jars (neatly stacked) that have been reused the for the last 30 years for storing spices.

I truly enjoy my parents company. I've always thought that if they weren't my parents I'd still want to get to know and befriend them. The three of us hung out and talk about politics, the stock market, birds, food, and vacation plans for 2009. One of the best things about me finally growing up is getting to know my parents as adults.

I asked Dad about his childhood. He explained how he wound up with 3 different birth certificates and still no exact date of birth. Dad was born in his parents' home in a part of Bangkok where Chinese immigrants lived. Neither he nor his parents made a record of what day, month, or year he was born. He went to Chinese school to learn to read and write Chinese (of course) before he went to public school which made him a bit older than the rest of the kids in his public school class. The teacher asked for a birth certificate. When none could be had, that teacher drew one up estimating Dad's age and arbitrarily setting his birth date at Jan 1. The next year in school another teacher asked for proof of Dad's age (Mom says that's because he was the only kid in 5th grade with a 5 o'clock shadow). That teacher thought his birth certificate was inaccurate and issued another one with her estimation of his age. Couple of years later the Thai government had a census and asked Dad's parents for proof of their kids' ages. My grandparents told the census officer that they were quite sure Dad was born the year of the horse, during some waxing moon and other Chinese date keeping (the Chinese calendar is lunar). The census officer (who was Thai and had limited understanding and patience for Chinese lunar dates) said the birth certificate issued by the teachers was completely wrong and issued another one according to the Thai calendar (which is NOT like the Gregorian calendar that we have). When it came time to determine the birthday, the officer said, "How about Jan 21?" Sure thing, no problem! So we really have no idea exactly when is Dad's birthday or how old he is.

Dad went on to tell me how his family came from China to Thailand. My great grandfather lived in China with his parents and 5 brothers (we have no idea how many sisters as it was tradition to give away infant daughters to the families of their future husbands). During many years of drought and famine (they were rice farmers), my great grandfather and his brothers couldn't afford a water buffalo or ox to plow the fields. So they took turns as the ox, put on the yoke, and tried to push the plow. This plan failed miserably for obvious reasons. They determined that if they stayed in China they would surely die of starvation. They could leave and go to Thailand, face the unknown, possibly fail, and still meet their maker, but at least they'd die trying.

As it turned out, my grandfather came to Thailand (as Dad put it: "with only his sleeping mat and pillow"), worked hard, and became very successful as a merchant. After 30 years, he made enough money to go back to China, buy a home, and retire comfortably.

He packed all his earnings (in the form of gold bars) into an ox-drawn cart and sent his son (my dad's uncle) to Laos to exchange it for Chinese currency--apparently, the exchange rate was better there compared to Thailand. When his son returned with his Chinese cash, Mao Zedong took over China, closed the country off, and started the Communist revolution. My great grandfather's Chinese cash was now worth nothing. (Which really makes our current economic situation not seem so bad)

He and his son were crushed. However, my great grandfather continued with his profitable business, weathered the Japanese occupation of Thailand during World War II, and went on to retire in Thailand with plenty of gold bars to spare. My dad's uncle eventually went on to own most of the Toyota dealerships in Bangkok.

So I guess the moral of the story is:

• Famine and drought can starve you and Communism can take away your life's savings, they still can't take away your tenacity, drive, and ability to be successful.
• Never trust in paper money.
• Knowing the exact day, month, and year of someone's birthday isn't that important as long as you remember to celebrate that person's existence in your life.

The Boobies will have to wait

"You would travel half-way around the world just to see animals?" Kevin has asked me this question many times. My answer is always,"Abso-freaking-lutely!" followed by a gush of stories of amazing bird sightings in Tanzania, the innumerable wildebeest and Thompson's gazelles that surrounded my safari jeep in the Serengeti, clams the size of couches in the Gulf of Siam. So it should be no surprise that the Galapagos Islands are at the top of my Must-Go destinations. I want to see the giant tortoises, Darwin's finches, marine iguanas, and---of course, BOOBIES...the blue-footed ones especially!

There are 3 species of boobies in the Galapagos: blue-footed, red-footed, and masked. Each have their own niche in breeding sites, habitats where they forage. But I digress.

A few of my adventure pals are in the throes of planning a trip to the Galapagos in April 2009. The trip involves sailing around the islands (no human inhabitants on the Galapagos!) on a small ship with snorkeling, kayaking (what better way to see marine iguanas?), and hiking with a naturalist (fellow biology nut). I want to go so badly my guts ache. I justified to myself that those 2 weeks would be a great "mid-season break" from Ironman training, that I could take the money I was saving up for a cyclocross bike and go to Ecuador. Well, it turns out that this trip is gonna cost about 4 cyclocross bikes and a Cervelo P4.

Before I started cursing my decision to retire from general surgery with its resulting tremendous cut in income, I asked myself: If I could only chose between Penticton and the Galapagos, which one would it be? A tough decision but the winner is Penticton. Of course, a chance to do THE Ironman I've always wanted to do.

Tough decision...to a great question! If the worse thing I have to face today is deciding how to spend a vacation, well then my life is pretty darned awesome. Sure, I could whine about not having it all: Penticton, a cyclocross bike, and the Galapagos. But then what will I have to look forward to? Next week I shall start my Penticton training in earnest. I've wanted to be part of that race for long time and many things need to happen before I can get there. The Boobies will just have to wait.

A Well-deserved Victory

2 years ago, somewhere between mile 12-13 of my Ironman Lake Placid run, I blew up spectacularly into a million pieces. My nutrition was okay (probably too much). I had no GI issues, no orthopadic problems (every joint in my body aching doesn't count), no dehydration or hyponatremia. Physically I was in pain, but fine to keep running the rest of the way. However, my head and my heart were a mess. I saw Kevin around mile 11 and had to choke back tears. I still don't completely understand the emotions I was having at that moment, but it was a swirl of "Holy crap, this hurts. I want to stop. I want my mommy!" that spiraled into "Boon, you big pussy. Stop blubbering. You CHOSE to do this. No one forced you to sign, up, train, and come this far in this Ironman." How about that? I made myself feel bad about feeling bad. How incredibly crazy and unhealthy.
What I shall never forget was how my dear friend, Sherry, was there. She ran (more like walk/shuffled) with me from mile 11 to 15. She could see I was having my darkest moment and stayed with me. First, she tried to distract me with our usual chatter (except she was the only one talking) that we'd have on our long runs. When I was out of sight of Kevin, I started to sob.
"I don't want to run another fucking 13 miles!" I cried.
Her arms were around my shoulders, holding me up as the tears and sobs shook me.
I finally wiped my face and hiccupped, "There's no crying in Ironman!" and started running again.
Sherry would have run the rest of the way with me, but she was recovering from an injury resulting from training for her first marathon.
Last Sunday, I took an opportunity to pay back a small part of her kindness and friendship. Sherry had taken 2 years to recover from that injury and was running her 2nd marathon at Niagra Falls. Her sister (and my swim pal), Janelle and I happily played support crew for her on race day.
The race started in Buffalo, NY at the Knox Art Museum. We got our race girl to the start line with plenty of time for the pre-race emptying of nervous bowel and bladder. The morning sun and blue skies warmed the chilly start. After she was on her way, Janelle and I raced across the Peace Bridge and were pleasantly surprised by a quick border crossing. We saw Sherry at mile 6 as she came off the Peace Bridge and headed into the one mile of headwind on this blessed course. At mile 8, Janelle took her wind breaker then we were off again, speeding down the QEW to see her at mile 12, 17, and 20. What an ideal marathon course this is! About 1000 marathon runners: enough people to keep you company, but not too many to get in your way. The first 4 miles of the course wound through Buffalo. A run across the Niagra River, over the Peace Bridge (how cool is that?!), and into Cananda for a run along the Niagra River with the finish line at Niagra Falls. The course is flat (except the bridge); and on Sherry's race day the winds were strong and at her back for all but one mile. For support crew, the course was so easy to access via the QEW and country roads leading the water's edge.
Sherry was nervous about this race and rightfully so: She had been so patient and consistent with her recovery and training. She didn't keep her race goals a secret: She wanted to qualify for the Boston Marathon. That would mean running faster than 3:45:59. She told us on the ride up to the start line that she was going to run her race, regardless of what the time would be. Janelle knew her better and said that there were many levels of goals that we set for ourselves for these races: the "If everything goes perfect" goal, the "I'd be pretty happy with this time" goal, the "If it all goes to crap, I'm okay with it" goal. I told Sherry that getting to the finish line without and injury was half the victory. We all agreed, but all of us wanted so very much for Sherry to qualify for Boston.
At mile 20, the last time Janelle and I would see our race sister before the finish line, Sherry looked strong and was running smoothly. We were convinced she'd finish in 3:30.
At the finish line, we became anxious as 3:30, then 3:40 passed without seeing Sherry. Janelle said that she wanted her sister to have this victory: Not just because she had worked so hard and recovered with patience. Indeed, Sherry deserved to be rewarded with a great race. But, Janelle said she wanted the victory for herself: to know that it could be done, that one could recover physically and mentally from an injury and a bad race to triumph again.
The race clock now read 3:42:58. Janelle is jumping out of her skin.
"There's Sherry!" She screams, "Should I go to her and tell her to hurry up?"
"Yes!" I say, "Tell her to HAUL ASS, HAUL ASS!!"
I'd never seen a pregnant woman move so fast (Janelle is 30 weeks pregnant). She's yelling to Sherry and both of them come charging toward me. We run after her to the finish line: 3:44:37.
The finish line announcer says, "Slow down Sherry Hecker from Brighton, NY. Your support team is chasing you!"
Sherry tells us that the last 7 miles was so incredibly hard. She had slowed to a 10 min/mile pace for a couple of miles from pain in her hips. As she saw her hopes of a 3:30 slip away, she told herself that she didn't come all this way to not qualify for Boston.
I am so happy and grateful for her victory. It is a victory of patience and consistent hard work. It is my favorite kind of hope: that of possibilities.

Coach Mom

My mom is perhaps the most pragmatic person I've ever known. Her advise and opinions (mostly unsolicited) are devoid of any sentiment or regard for potential hurt feelings. The few times she has expressed sympathy have surprised me and the rest of the my family. It's usually while watching an Animal Planet program about the plight of sharks having their fins cut off and left to drown for shark fin soup or geese being beaten for their underfeathers to stuff into parkas and blankets. We find Mom tranfixed in front of the TV, in tears, vowing to NEVER make shark fin soup or buy down comforters again. Other than those few rare moments, she's all business.
Mom is like a rhinoceros beetle: black-horned and prickly on the outside with a soft, squishy underbelly.
She's only recently taken any interest in my triathlon endeavors probably because her hope that I would give up this un-doctorlike and expensive hobby had faded. She asked if Kevin and I train together (adding,"If you played golf, you could play together!"). I told her no--that he rides much faster than I do.
"So he doesn't ride with you, then wait for you to catch up?"
"No, mom, he doesn't." I'm anticipating some sympathetic comment about how he should be nicer to me.
She thinks about this and concludes: "This is good for him. If I were him, I wouldn't ride with you either. It would be complete waste of time." She goes on to tell me that we should train within our own abilities and that I should work harder so I can rider faster and keep up with him. Gee thanks, Coach Mom.
I tell her (big mistake) that when we met 2 years ago I could keep up with him in the pool and even dropped him once on a bike ride.
"Oh, REALLY?" Now she's going in for the kill.
"So why is he so faster than you NOW?"
Here comes the litany of unanswerable questions: Why don't you train as hard as Kevin? Why don't you try harder to swim, bike, run faster? He did it--what's wrong that you cannot?
I feebly explain that perhaps he's on the steep part of his athletic progression and that perhaps I have plateaued. She'll have none of it.
"That's all you have? Pfffft!"
I am 10 years old again, standing in front of her with my math test. I've scored 98%. She tells me, "That's good, but you should score 100% next time."
"So did you and Kevin sign up for IMLP?"
Actually, she doesn't call it IMLP or Ironman--it's simply referred to as "that race that you finish in the dark."
I tell her no, that we did not. She looks at me for a few moments.
"I understand. If your hobby causes you too much stress, then it just becomes work."
Ahhh...an enlightened triathlon insight. Thanks, Coach Mom.

Good Posture

I have the classic Boonvisudhi slouch: head and neck leans forward right where the neck sits on the torso. My dad, brother, aunts, and uncles all have it. So does this turkey vulture, but in a much exaggerated form.

I've been trying since high school to be more conscientious of it and stand up straight--it makes for better prom and senior pictures. I do pretty well--especially in front of cameras--but will slump back into my slouch when I'm tired.

At Masters last week, I subjected myself to a balls out set of 100's with barely 3 seconds of rest in between. At the end of the set, my friend Janelle looks at me sternly but sympathetically and says, "You need to keep your chin up. Your head position is really low in the water." Hmmm...I tell that it's a habit from a lesson taught long ago about "pushing the T". She then tells me that I should push the T from the top of my breastbone and NOT from my chin. Great point. Thanks, Janelle!

A few more 100's at zone 5 and I notice that my head position isn't about pushing T's but the return of my vulture slouch when I'm feeling fatigued. I straighten up, relax, and almost instantly swim faster with less effort.

I've been aware of this hanging my head posture while in aero on the tri bike. It sucks the energy out of my shoulders. I've made the straw on the aerodrink so high that if I slouch I get a straw stabbing in the face. This strategy has improved how I look in race photos (cuz that matters, doesn't it?), but I believe that it saves a few pennies of mental and physical energy for the run.

This weekend on a hilly trail run with Nathalie I noticed my hunching started when we'd reach the climbs. A small lift of the head---Voila! I was running more comfortably and efficiently.

Because my triathlon engine isn't a Ferrari and its horsepower is more accurately measured in how much energy a pony would generate nibbling on carrots, I'm all for being as efficient as possible. So my humble triathlon advise for today is to stand up straight.