Monkeying Around

Triathlons and running races are often pricey affairs these days, with athletes dishing out upwards to $700 to enter them. It is my belief that the participant doesn't receive a whole hell of a lot for his or her entry fee (e.g., a finisher's shirt, a medal, some gels, a pat on the back, a sunburn, some blisters and perhaps some fond memories, though these aren't guaranteed and tend to be short-lived anyhow), but then the races seem to be filling up faster than ever, which shows you that few people share my opinion.

Today I decided that I don't even share that opinion. Call me crazy but somehow I decided to dish out a hundred-plus smackers---$108 to be precise---to run a little more than 5K down in Denver's crowded city center. And I haven't even been running lately; in fact, the last time I ran further than to the bathroom was nearly a year ago. (That said, when one runs to the bathroom, the urgency and intensity is usually quite high, which more than makes up for any lack of frequency or consistency.)

So, why would I hand over $100+ smackers to run?

Because race organizers furnish each participant with a nice suit, just for entering. (You don't even have to finish!) As is my style---a style utterly lacking in all style---I've never owned a suit (or tie), so I figured, why not?!

Pardon the double negative here but not only have I never owned a suit, I've also only ever worn one on just two occasions (swimsuits notwithstanding, of course). There was the one time I got all spruced up since I was forced to stand before the Honorable Judge Skinner, but that's quite another story. That particular suit felt awfully constricting, but I'll admit that it could very well have been the circumstances of which were about to unfold, circumstances that had wrongly placed me in the wrong place at the wrong time. And, with the exception of the resultant stint in that damn orange jumpsuit, I haven't donned any sort of suit since.

Until today.

Today, you see, I paid $108 so I could wear this suit…



And to me it was well worth it. The race is called the Denver Gorilla Run and it helps raise funds for a good cause, or what I think is a good cause: The Mountain Gorilla Conservation Fund. The organization is devoted to the preservation of the Mountain Gorilla and has been ever since Dian Fossey spearheaded the effort, prior to her murder.

There are just seven-hundred or so Mountain Gorillas left in the world today (and yet the race had close to eleven-hundred gorilla wannabes…go figure) and, like so many other wonderful creatures, the primates are rapidly facing extinction, due in part to human expansion and poaching. Like so many other stories this planet faces, it is a sad state of affairs.

But this morning was the exact opposite: a festive, glorious day, though the unseasonable warm temperatures made wearing a gorilla suit a pretty unbearable experience. Not only that but the stupid eye holes on my suit's mask were slightly off kilter the entire 3.5 miles (and situated closer to my nostrils) and I only found my way to the finish line thanks to a keen sense of hearing. Gorillas are known for their keen sense of hearing.

And while I did run smack dab into the back of a parked car at one point, all the meanwhile setting off its annoying alarm system, I was able to reach the finish-line in my three-piece suit in one piece. Hungry and hot, I promptly refueled with a plethora of bananas and took refuge under a self-induced water spray, a lone gorilla in the mist.

I strongly urge all Denver and Boulder runners (and non-runners) to quit monkeying around and take part in this event next year. You'll laugh your hairy ass off and maybe even meet a gorilla you'd like to mate with (so you can do it like they do on the Discovery Channel), though I must admit: it is fairly difficult to decipher gender differences. (Oh, and unless you're a silverback, you really don't have much say in the matter.) In any case, I was not so fortunate, but I did manage to get my picture taken a bunch of times on the drive home. That is until I ran straight into the back of a parked car. Damn eye holes! See if I ever wear a suit again!

PS: Congrats to Sonja for finishing fourth overall and winning the women's Gorilla Gal division, more than ten-minutes ahead of her coach. I'll try to post additional primate pictures in the next day or two.

WTC Ironman Access

In the natural world it is bad form for the parasite to feed off the host to the point of having killed the host; the parasite then perishes as well.

It is no different in the business world, as "business" is man's way of survival, albeit invented. If the employee or customer steals from the business the business will have a tougher time of surviving.

But what happens when the business acts as a parasite? When the business steals from the customer?

Believe it or not, such behavior is commonplace in the business world, and in my relatively short lifespan I've witnessed numerous businesses go down---most because the market wasn't there, but many due to their own flawed conduct.

Borrow too much and make too little and voila! You're done.
Pay your employees too much and earn too little. Same result.
Pay your employees too little and your CEO too much: ditto.
Ignore your target market...

Well, you get the picture.

The WTC (World Triathlon Corporation) may very well have fallen prey to such a gaffe with their latest tactical maneuver, their "Access" program, a plan enabling their customers the chance to enter their events before their other customers do, all for the low price (read: sarcasm) of $1000. You read that right: One THOUSAND dollars, says Dr. Evil in his wavering little voice.

Here's essentially what you'd receive for that hefty sum…

• Exclusive advance registration to Ironman events (i.e., you get to cut in line!)
• Two VIP passes per registered event (some free pizza and soft drinks)
• One-year subscription to LAVA Magazine (in attempt to control the media, they've begun creating their own, while banning "outside" media at their events)
• 2011 Ironman Lottery entry plus second chance in the Ironman Lottery program (doubling everyone's chances leaves us all at odds…the same odds)
• 2010 Ford Ironman World Championship NBC broadcast DVD (a long-winded WTC advertisement)
• 20 percent discounts on Ironman partner products at shopironman.com and on-site event retail stores (but yet no discount to race entry fees)
• Official membership ID card (WOW!!! A membership card!!! Hold on while I go throw my pants in the wash; I just peed myself laughing…)

Benefits are valid for a year, starting from your activation date.

Again, the WTC may have made a judgment error here but only time and the market will tell. Hitherto they seem to know their market well, perhaps even better than the market itself does. (Many customers cry foul but yet continue to $pend.) If nothing else, I believe they made an error naming their new series the "5150", which is essentially California police code for criminally insane. Insane indeed.

I am no longer a part of their market (and would, in fact, take my dollars elsewhere if I ever decided to compete again), except to help athletes qualify for the events they host. So, in a way, I have a very small dog in this fight. It's a "fight" I don't care to lose (I rarely fight, but when I do I've found that it's a good strategy to try not to lose), as it may very well affect my own business (I'll admit: possibly for the better). I urge potential Ironman Access members to consider---and then reconsider---their spending habits carefully. Though I'm not a direct customer, those who are need to seriously weigh the decision long and heavy before dolling out a grand just to cut in line. It may sound like a first-class opportunity, but when the plane goes down we all die, and those leading the way usually die first.

No Excuses/No Regrets

Kona Day Three

It is great that Hawaii is west of the US mainland. For a guy who loves sleeping past 10am every single day, I'm able to travel here without any of the negative effects that usually accompany air travel. My internal clock is automatically adjusted to the new time zone the second I step off the plane. This morning I was up at 6am sharp…exactly 10am in Denver. I almost feel like a type-A kind of guy.

Type-A indeed; after waking so early we returned to Dig Me Beach, sight of Saturday's race start, for another swim. The goal wasn't to improve our fitness, or even to maintain it for that matter, but to work on our pathetic tan-lines and perhaps catch glimpse of some sea turtles. The creatures are magnificent in every sense of the word and are known not just for their mellow demeanor but for the fact they often outlast their human counterparts, growing as old as 200-years. That's the true definition of an Ironman, if you ask me. (This proves that it pays to be mellow.)

Alas, we were unable to see any. They seem to know to avoid the island this week, what with all the hoopla. Turtles aren't the type to enjoy hoopla. Sharks, maybe. Turtles, no way.

After the flop, we headed back to the condo for quite a bit of relaxation and quite a bit of breakfast. And because breakfast ended up being so big (it grew as we continued to eat, as breakfasts tend to), so too did the need for more relaxation. The postprandial effect was pronounced (in technical terms it's called a "food coma", something all triathletes know well) and all I could do was lounge around like a ten-toed Hawaiian sloth afterward. This would affect the remainder of the day in fact, and the planned bike ride was no longer planned but scrapped.

So instead of acting like Type-A triathletes, we sprawled, slept, sunbathed, snorkeled and surfed. This is the Hawaii I've come to love.

To end the lazy day we drove an hour from Kona to Waimea (elevation: 2,500-feet) for dinner. There, we feasted on lobster (brought in from Maine, oddly enough) and foods I could never afford had I been the one to pay. (Had I been the one to pay, it would've been rice and potatoes for everyone. Again.) Brynje's dad and step mom had invited us (us being Angela and I) and we'd have been fools for declining. Fools we were not. At least not this time around.

All told it was another shitty day in paradise, and tomorrow brings more of the same. But there will be some business to attend to as well: parties to catch, hands to shake, schmoozing to be done, beaches to comb. I'll be sure to have those I guide to balance it all with enough downtime.

PS: As sleek as they look, the mongoose is nothing more than a glorified rat.

PSPS: I've been asked to write down my race predictions for Saturday's main event (there is no other event). I may do this come Saturday afternoon or Sunday morning. No, in all actuality, it could be fun to speculate for once. I'll give it some more thought before Saturday, but for now...

Women:
1) Wellington, though she looked a little under the weather when I saw her today
2) Carfrae (a favorite to show)
3) ? Steffan?

Men:
1) Raelert (Andreas; his little bro will get his turn soon enough)
2) Alexander
3) Henning

Kona Day Two

The rain here seems to be a bit of a night owl, as more of it fell last night...enough for me to call off this morning's ocean swim. The risk of picking up a nasty microscopic bug is elevated when this happens and even a coach with half a brain (a description that fits me well) should know better than to have his/her athletes put themselves at risk. So, instead, it was off to the pool, where we discovered that it was closed for the day. "Furlough" was all the makeshift sign said. A leave of absence, how nice.

Back to the bay and Dig Me Beach. We'd have to swim and take our chances. I opted to take my own leave of absence and remain anchored on land so I could coach from afar, by sitting under the shade of a banyan tree and reading a study about the athlete ego. It was like reading an autobiography!

After the "coaching", I set out to ride the bike course with Angela and Gant. (Brynje was to chillax all day! That's Angela and her in the picture.) We motored from the get-go, but were held up by numerous traffic lights, lights that all seemed to conspire against us, lights that weren't around a decade ago. But once we made our way north of the Keahole International Airport we were free to set sail. Angela pulled us the entire way and would end up riding the bike course in five-hours flat, though we did stop our watches to refuel for five minutes in Kawaihae. I wouldn't have made it home without that stop, I kid not.

It was fun to watch Angela do what she does best and I could sense her excitement to enter this race someday. That someday will likely be in two years, if her coach has his druthers (he always gets his way, by the way). It was also fun to watch the plethora of male cyclists look over at the 53-kilogram Angela as we passed. Talk about a study of the athlete ego! As is natural for the male ego (read: fragile), a few would try to re-pass and "race" her, attempting to assert their dominance and yet, at the same time, assure that they wouldn't be racing at their best on Saturday.

To me, this behavior is utterly laughable, and I cannot, for the life of me, understand why so many young and middle-aged guys hate being passed or beaten by females. Hell, all a guy needs to do is go train with the local high school girls swim team to realize that he's gonna get chicked more often than not. So why is it any different on the bike? Chrissie is going to beat all but twenty or so men come Saturday, so you better get used to getting chicked guys. Until you do the work these ladies have, it's an inevitability. Gender, schmender...work works, regardless of genitalia.

We do more of the same tomorrow and if a guy cares to compete again because he hates being chicked, well, he can certainly kiss his best effort goodbye come Saturday. Let go the ego, gents. Focus on the task at hand. Chances are you're gonna get chicked anyhow, so why let it bother you now?

Kona Day One

For the next week or so I'll try my best to post a short write-up each day from my current whereabouts here in Kona, Hawai'i, mostly about some of what I see each day and some thoughts regarding the whole Ironman experience.

It's been a while since I last hopped on a plane (does anyone actually hop?) but it was time to return to the islands, and I wasn't about to row or swim. (To boot, colder climes were imminent in Colorado.) Island life has always been my cup of tea, even though I usually surround myself with mountains. Hawai'i, thankfully, has both. I'll drink from both cups.

After arriving late last night, in a reasonably serious rainstorm (a special note to Saturday's competitors: it's not wise to swim in the ocean here after rainstorms; all the microbial crap floats downstream, and there is no more downstream once you're at sea level), I was able to catch up on much needed sleep. Airplanes, as cool as they are, don't allow for sleep, or any other form of rest.

Upon waking it was time to build the bikes up and head out with the gang. In today's case that gang was Brynje Enderle, who's competing on Saturday (she qualified at the Saint Croix 70.3 earlier this year), her Husband Gant, myself, and Angela Naeth, who is not competing on Saturday, but will come here in two or three year's time and kick some serious arse (mark my words). Our mission was to ride a moderately hard four hours, the last long-ish, hard-ish ride of the year for Brynje. We were to each be her domestique, entirely at her beck and call, even though none of us knew what a "beck" was. Jeff Beck? That annoying Glenn Beck? Or is it just Beck Beck?

Ultimately, I was the weak link in an otherwise robust chain gang, but we managed fine, despite the truly horrific winds out past Waikaloa. I know everyone always talks about the winds here on the Big Island but holy crap, these were the kind you can only pray for on race day if you're a strong cyclist. (Or not...if you're not.) At one point we looked down to our bike computers/GPS units to note our "speed". "Speed", of course, isn't the correct word. We were doing a whopping 4.6 miles per hour, despite the fairly hard effort. I drank four bottles in a four-hour ride, whereas I normally do with half of one in that time (Veylupek means "camel" in Chinese).

Toward the end of the ride we were blessed with a sprinkle, ever so slight though it was. The sun remained camouflaged by darkening clouds and the temperature was actually quite pleasant.

The island has morphed a bit since I last visited in 1999, the year race organizers asked me not to return (for having drank a beer during the event). There are far more buildings and cars now, with plenty more coming and staying. When I first visited Kona in the early 90s there was only the small downtown pier area and not much else. Now there's a Costco and a Sports Authority (a store that probably knows nothing about triathlon, I'd venture to guess) and a whole host of other big box retailers. It's a sad sight but welcomed on the wallet. Like everyone else, I support what I oppose. When I first came here I showed up with a tent and a bike (in a cardboard box). Now, there are few places one could camp. Malls have replaced those places.

One conclusion I've drawn in just my first day here: Ironman is definitely now a rich white man's activity but boy, can some of these rich white guys go fast! Up and down the main strips---Alii Drive and the Queen K Highway---they run and ride (a bit too fast if you ask me). It's a spectacle for sure, and I plan to do all the spectating I can, right up until midnight on Saturday. It's good to be back.