The Importance Of Taking It Easy

Why is it as athletes we tend to be more aggressive in training than racing? I would see this all the time: every time someone's racing was under par their training became more aggressive to make up for what happened (or didn't) on the weekend. I would often watch people go hammer their brains out and try to prepare for upcoming events, which defeated the very purpose they were out to train.

Human beings are funny animals. Our very instincts that guide us through life for some reason turn on us when we get into sport.

I would like to propose a philosophy that all of us have heard about but most have a tough time putting into practice - RECOVERY -!! When working with the athletes I coach, they will all tell you I emphasize this very concept, one that enables their body to not only rest after their training but build on it as well. It’s very simple, the Engine has energy systems that enable the mind, body and soul to communicate with each other so that a human being has the ability to recharge and get ready for the next task at hand. When we take energy away from that system we dig a hole in the very system that feeds our drive.

The reason recovery gets so confusing to athletes is because it is our nature to push harder, and goes against our nature to yield and recover. We like to ride fast and run hard, and it has been ingrained into us to ignore pain for the sake of gain. NO PAIN NO GAIN! That archaic concept has outlived itself time and again, burning out athletes in the process. And injuring others.

(Don't think most injuries are the result of lack of proper recovery? What do you think the term "overuse injury" means, you dumb ass!)

In sport, learning the art of recovery, and believe me it is an art, will enable us to progress and achieve our goals much faster. We have no problem incorporating new training, adding more intensity, and pushing harder. It’s when we are asked to stop and recover that we balk. We are afraid that we might lose what we have worked so hard to gain. So we tend to go out and train when we should be recovering from our last acid bath. Since we are so driven, we tend to ignore the logical need for recovery, and opt for more punishment. In many pastimes, this might be seen as a healthy and productive work ethic. In endurance sport, it is passport to under-achievement.

Want to see a more successful season this year? RECOVER MORE. Granted, there needs to be something from which to recover, but your gains are made when you absorb your work. There are skilled times when to insert this recovery within your training, you don't just throw it in anywhere, but recovery is critical to true progress. When your racing is underway, if the recovery isn’t there, the mojo in races will quickly expire.

You have to recover as hard as you train, and a little more to allow for growth. It’s hard to break old habits, but if you're looking to accomplish your potential the change is necessary. The work ethic involved in hard training must be likewise employed to recovery.

You will find that recovery might be hard work, but worth it.

The Right Sort Of LIFT

Let’s roll this puppy right out of the gate.

If you don’t appreciate having ME to tell you the realities of “good health” then you are out of your mind. I mean, haven't we all had enough of "good health" equaling some gorgeous, flat-chested, way-too-high-spirited super-blond woman cheering about stairmasters and "balanced diets"? Seriously. There is more to good health than aerobics and celery.

La la la.

Good health is not just about being healthy (duh), it's also about feeling good. Feeling good on the inside and feeling good on the outside. Am I talking about touching yourself? Well, no – but go for it you want. That’s not the feeling good on the outside we’re going for in this moment however. I've made all kinds of points in my blog about setting goals and doing things in the short- and long-term to help our bodies get healthier. But I think it's high time I launch into something a little more tangible and outwardly faced. As it were.

Yes, I am speaking of boobs. Yours and mine. What and how to stuff ‘em. That’s right, it’s about time someone dove right to the heart of the matter – all puns intended.
Love 'em or hate 'em, you've probably got 'em. And that means you've got to do something with 'em. I suppose that "something" could be just letting them hang free, true. But while I like to think that I am supportive of my sistas who reject -- or burn -- the notion of bras, I long ago gave up on the idea that I could/would go anywhere in public without wearing one. So with all deference to those who choose a freer path, this post is about Selecting Bras That Fit. Never you fear, I am here to help.

Finding a bra that fits is even better than finding the perfect pair of jeans. A good bra is like a good friend: it'll support you, lift you up when you're feeling down (ahem), know your darkest secrets but love you anyway, and make you look great in front of even your worst critics. The right bra can improve your posture, make your torso look longer, and help all your clothes fit better.

Plainly put, the right bra can change your life.

You need to seek help immediately if any of these situations applies to you.

Example #1: Your Bra Creates Cleavage Where There Should Not Be Any

Sometimes, bra straps dig into your shoulder far enough that you get little lumps on either side of the strap.

(I do not know why she has no eyebrows or chin or left side of body.)

What is interesting about this phenomenon is that, in addition to it looking a little...shall we say...less-than-chic, it's also painful for the wearer. Your bra strap should not be a device of torture (well, any more than it has to be). Taking it off should not cause your shoulder muscles to pop back into place. If your straps are doing this to you, they are not the right size.

The next grade of offense is when your bra is too tight around your back, and you create anywhere from one to three extra fat rolls. This happens when the bra number size is a little too small. I still personally do this all the time because my subconscious really believes that if the bra is cutting into my skin all the way around, cutting off circulation, burdening my breathing, and creating all kinds of ripples under my shirt, then surely it must be working!

Normal back fits normally.

It is not.

FAR WORSE than either of these, though, is the bra that is too small for you cup-wise. I have done this. You have done this. But the look? It is really not good. I'm talking about when the bra starts creeping down, and the top of the boob starts spilling over, and then you end up with a pair of boobs above the pair you already have.

GOOD!

Problematic! (Also, let us not discuss the number of issues with THIS scary drawing!)
Four breasts on one woman is simply two too many.

Example #2: The Uni-Boob (aka, The Sports Bra)

I do not know why sports bras are made the way they are, but I will resign myself to the idea that some physics was involved and there's a reason the "athletic" industry created this contraption. For those ladies who are a bit smaller up top, the sports bras seem to do everything they can to mash your goods into non-existence.

For those of us with a little more top-cushion, the sports bras serve one purpose and one purpose only: to smoosh two perfectly normal breasts into becoming one, uncomfortable loaf. Sexy!

I don't pretend to understand this phenomenon, but it's no matter. The point is, your everyday bra should not do what a sports bra does.. If you're super worried about out-of-control bounciness, try wearing a sports bra under the sports bra -- that should help your breasts resist spandex unification. We double bag at the grocery store for heavy milk, why should this be different?

Example #3: The Bra That Is Super Comfortable (Because It Is Not Working)

The right bra should definitely be comfortable -- not digging in to your shoulders or back or unifying your goods. But it should not be so comfortable that it isn't actually doing...well...anything.

Here's a very scientific test:
1. Take off your shirt.
2. Look down.
3. Note where your boobs are.
4. Take your bra off.
5. Note where your boobs are.

If there is no difference between step 3 and step 5, your bra is not right.

Thus concludes my overview of when you should consider revisiting your bra "settings." When I'm properly fitted and properly supported, I know I feel like I've had a total body makeover. So until my next Good Health update, here's wishing the same to you and uh, yours!

Beaten Down By The Furry Paw

This story goes back a couple years ago, but hilarious nonetheless... Apparently Tigger the Tiger was accused of hitting a child while posing for a photo. As usual, give me a story and I'll find a way to enlarge it 3x its size! :)

"Naturally, physical altercations between cast members and guests are not tolerated", said a spokesperson for Disney.

A few days following the incident, the boy’s father, Jerry Monaco, told The Early Show co-anchor Hannah Storm, "At that point he started bumping into me and I apologized and I figured it was hot out and give him some space. At that point I backed off and went to take some home video of the rest of the family and, out of nowhere, he sucker-punched my son."

This could not be any more different than the relationship I had with my father. Here you have Jerry Monaco content with going on “The Early Show” to tell the world that his son was beat down by the palm of a soft, furry paw at The Happiest Place on Earth. My father would have pulled us apart, taken me to the side and had a talk with me. He would have said, “I don’t know what just happened there, but this sort of thing is unacceptable.” Then he would have handed me a small box cutter, saying, “Now go back in there and finish what he started!” Then he would have probably taken bets from the crowd, likely against me.

But you know the weirdest part about this whole thing? I’m not surprised at all that the big cat finally lost it. I always pictured Tigger as a loose cannon. He became increasingly hyper and strung out, seemingly always on the verge of snapping. Even Goofy, whose demeanor is defined by crazy, unpredictable behavior, never came off as out-of-control as Tigger did, with his small, unblinking eyes. If Mickey Mouse ran his family with a firmer hand, you imagine Tigger would have been handled like Joe Pesci in Goodfellas.

Back when I lived in Los Angeles, I worked for Warner Bros and, coincidentally, Disney. Knowing a little something about “The Industry”, if I were in Disney PR, I’d view this as an opportunity. Here’s how I would spin it:
Tigger is on drugs. Tigger uses crack and meth. He is a troubled tiger who made some mistakes and is in need of help. They could even say he was molested as a cub to drum up sympathy. Then take him out of circulation at The Magic Kingdom for a few months. Send him to rehab. Put him, Christopher Robin, Pooh, Roo and Eeyore on an episode of A&E’s “Intervention.” Piglet could break down in tears saying, “You hit a kid, Tigger! You’re out of control!” Cross-promote it, make a big deal out of it – peel back the façade of perfection that Disney World has portrayed for too long now. Ratings would skyrocket!

Then in July, at the height of tourist season, reintroduce the clean, newly rehabilitated Tigger. He could go around the park carrying a Poland Spring bottle, posing for pictures while fake-punching kids and telling them to stay off drugs. He’s Disney’s real-life comeback story: a walking, talking embodiment of the idea that even though the world can be a hard, cruel place, in the end friendship and cheerfulness will triumph. Send him on Larry King, Jon Stewart and Oprah, where she can show flashbacks to his lowest points and he can choke up while saying, “I was a different tiger then.”

It would be the best thing Disney has ever done with itself.

When Time Stands Still

Maybe you'll think this is eerie.  Maybe you'll think this is bizarre.  Maybe you'll think I am off my rocker.  But if nothing else, maybe this will cause you to just to be still for a moment, and consider.  Consider what?   I have no idea.  Maybe this is nothing.   Maybe it most definitely is not nothing?   I can only tell you what happened.  And that I'll never forget it.

I think there are certain conversations we all have in our lives that become so imprinted on our hearts, and our minds, that we can (and do) recall them with greater clarity than others. 

I have one like that.  I have such a clear vignette of this moment....how I felt......the temperature of the room.....the exact song playing in the background ........the precise words exchanged... what she was wearing.   It's so clear in my mind's eye if you told me this happened yesterday I would almost believe you.  I remember everything that clearly.   But it happened 26 years ago.  How can I remember so many details from a conversation that took place decades ago when I often can't remember what the Hell I did 2 days ago.  :) 

It was my Freshman year of high school. December 23, 1985.  2 days before Christmas.  

 We'd had a half-day at school so I was home early.  12:46p if we want to be precise (I remember).  When I left for school that morning everything in my world was normal.  My Mom made my eggs and english muffin and yelled, "Have a nice day, honey!" as I bolted out the door to my boyfriend's car.   When I would return, a mere 5 hours later, nothing - not one thing - would ever be the same.

5 hours earlier there had been music and laughter.  My Mother was a Juilliard-trained musician and our house was always LOUD.  Until that afternoon.  And never again after it.  

When I got home from school, Mom had apparently returned from the doctor.  I didn't know there even was an appointment -- that just shows what all you parents do for your kids.  You hide what isn't necessary to burden them with.   You tell them only when/if you have to.

She'd found a lump in her breast and, since I do not know how many appointments she'd had before this one, I saw the result of the one that mattered.  This day.

The Clock.

My mother was predictably quite jolly.  Especially around the Holidays (which is probably why I hate them now).

But as she stormed into the house..............at 12:46pm........and threw down her purse.........and hurled nonsensical sentences -  I was annoyed (C'mon - I was a teenager).  But mostly I was confused.  'Mom!!!!!!!!!!!    Why are you being so pissy'??!

All of a sudden, amid her ranting about crazy crap..... laundry not done, the sun not shining, the TV on - whatever - she turned to THE CLOCK.

We'd had a miniature antique Clock in our home that had been there longer than I was alive.  Her father was one of 10 children - and one of her Aunt's had gotten it for her when Mom was a girl - and Mom LOVED that Clock.  She did.  She would feature it prominently on our mantle even though it wasn't the most majestic piece ever created.  To her it was.  It was in every home she had ever lived.

I tell you this because it is critical to understanding where this is going.

So Mom is ranting and raving - and then she notices The Clock.  And she FREAKS OUT.  My mother rarely freaked out.  Something was up.

She started screaming about having just replaced the battery days earlier on The Clock.  Yet The Clock had stopped again.  And she was PISSED.  She went on about that damn Clock for more than a few minutes.   I'll never forget this.  

I didn't know what the F was up with her.  Who gives a shit about The Clock?  Get another battery, woman.  Good Lord.

But then she said, out of no where, "I have Cancer, Carole."

And then she bolted out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

I stood there, motionless.  Staring at the floor.  Staring at The Clock.  Thinking nothing but somehow everything.  I remember not really understanding what she had said.  Cancer wasn't as mainstream in the mid-80's as it is now.  I was 14.  I didn't really know much about it other than people died from it.

When I think back on that scene now, with the wisdom of adult perspective, I know her ranting and raving had nothing to do with The Clock.  She was incredibly upset, likely frightened beyond belief, and was "reacting".  The Clock was her target but not at all her intention.

The following week she had her left breast removed.  The following year, she was dead.

So why is The Clock important???

On February 21, at age 48, my mother was pronounced dead.

It would be several weeks before I would take notice of The Clock in our house after her death.  But then I saw it.  And I gasped.

The day she was diagnosed with Cancer, her precious Clock had stopped ticking.  And it stopped at 9:05.

Her official time of death on February 21:  9:05

The Clock has never been started again.  I've never allowed anyone to touch it.  It remains as it stopped.  When time stopped.

I can't bear to have it anywhere near me.  It sits in my Father's guest room.  But at the moment my father dies .... as I collapse in grief when I lose the only family member I have left .... the first thing I will grab is that Clock.  I won't grab the $50,000 in cash he has hidden.  I won't go to the car or the TV's or the big things to sell.   I will get The Clock. 

And so I submit this post in honor of when time stopped - in my life and in my heart - at 9:05 on February 21. 

Rest in peace, sweet Mother - the funniest person I knew, the one who gave me my humor, and the kindest woman, the one who gave me love.

I miss you.

xo

Vertical Climb

I have a love-hate relationship with hills.

Running hills is an interesting lesson.  It is hard for me to find peace with my body…I struggle with air (I need a mask and oxygen tank on wheels with a pole beside me),  I struggle to keep my shoulders back, struggle to look far enough ahead to stay focused, but not so far that I panic.  I struggle with what is 'natural' to do with my arms and how much to pump them, struggle with my pace, struggle with the 'and over' part, wanting to screech to a stop and bend over at the crest, struggle with catching my breath on the downhill, struggle with my limit on the descent between getting some turnover in my legs and going down with limbs totally flailing and out of control like a child.  I struggle with the morale it takes to do it over and over again, with the added pleasure of keeping my times consistent.  I just plain struggle.

I had a little work trip that recently brought me to Phoenix.  I feel so lucky that one of the outcomes of my years as a professional racer was that I had an opportunity to make friends all over the country.

Phoenix based Pro Triathlete, my friend Angi Axmann

 I quickly reached out to my friends with RaceLab, and they invited me on their group's 10-mile trail run.  I was warned it was a "strenuous 10-mile course" and I should "plan to walk a lot".   Ppppfft.  Whatever.  Terrain doesn't scare me, this bitch 'aint walking.  Bring it.

 Hmpft.  One thing I have learned - there is nothing the running gods love more than to punish a soul who isn't humble.  I met up with the group, and off we started.  The first 20 minutes were slightly challenging, but I kept thinking, "Oh man, I'm so kicking this mountain's ass.  This isn't so bad.  I can totally do this!"    Mmmm hhhhm.    I rounded a dirt carved corner and gasped. … I was staring up a vertical climb I would be on for over 40 minutes.  I huffed and puffed like one of the three little pigs, feeling weaker and weaker with each 20 meter section of terrain I furthered.  

Despite walking, I really did feel like I was hoofin' it.  I was moving.   I had been out there for a while.   Up until that point I had avoided looking at my Garmin but I was starting to get a little anxious to be DONE and needed a countdown.  I glanced at the total time and noticed 1 hour and 14 minutes had lapsed.  Wow.  Nothing like challenging terrain to make the time FLY.    I thought to myself that I was SURE to be close to the finish.  I took a guess that I was probably close to 8 miles completed, but definitely more than 7 miles.  I truly believed this.

I looked down at the distance.  4.73 miles.   HOLY SHIT.  Are you kidding?  I was going to be out there all day!   I was beyond humbled.

My friends assured me that the trip down would be much faster and easier.  But they didn't take into account the wimpy way I pick my way down a mountain.  I am slow and deliberate, annoyingly cautious and in some ways I prefer the suffering of the climb, just because my footing is firm.  I am certain there is a metaphor about my personality in here somewhere, but I'm not sure I want to see what it is.

I finished the 10 mile trail run in 2:09.   Actually it was 9.5 miles, so I am even suckier.  :)

Anyway, I did a lot of good thinking on that solitary trail.   I love the hills.  I hate the hills.

I can't keep myself from this antithesis, it's just too good.  Maybe that's why lately I've been making myself do a lot hills.  I want to be fit for these suckers…in running, and in life.  They often come: HILLS... be it in a race or in everyday living, when we least expect them.  We think we are giving it everything we have, and then WHOA, there it is, no way around it except to climb.  I feel an intense motivation to do "hill repeats" and to do them a lot... I want to feel dimensions of this inflicted pain, until I have a 'muscle memory' of it – in my legs and in my heart.  I want to have practiced enough, done the drills so many times, that when I am suddenly faced with a 'hill' of any proportion, I kick into auto-pilot.  I want to do the right thing, and do it well, if for no other reason than because it is what I have been trained to do.  In life, there is not time to dwell on accessing the hill.  You just go because it is blocking your path. Sometimes you even have to be strong enough to carry others with you.  Up and over.

 Maybe I just need to know that in a pinch, if the situation requires it of me, that I can haul a little ass.

The best part of a good run, "rehydrating" margaritas afterwards with Cory & Andy

And some quality time catching up with my awesome friends Angie Kell and Karl Tunberg

And.................. you know............... if this was your Arizona view and weather in February - what could you do but exhale?

That's what I am talkin' about!!

Really?

I suppose it's possible that at some point in my life I will cease to be amazed at how some people get by in the world, but I'm beginning to lose hope. I'm just back from lunch at Subway. 

This is the conversation between a Subway employee and a customer just behind me:

Customer: How much is a 6-inch tuna?

Employee: [ pointing at the menu just over his head ] Four dollars.

Customer: How big is it?

Employee: How big is a 6-inch sandwich?

Customer: Yes.

Employee: Um... 6 inches?

Customer: You mean, like, onetwothreefourfivesix?

Employee: Yes.

Customer: Oh. In that case give me two foot-long Spicy Italians.

Try as I might, I simply cannot fathom the thought processes, if they can be called that, of the customer while this conversation was taking place.

Did she think she might confuse the employee into giving her two foot-long meat sandwiches for the price of one 6-inch tuna? Is there some form of  6" besides onetwothreefourfivesix that I'm not aware of?  Does anyone really walk into a Subway thinking to themselves, "I'm gonna have either a 6-inch tuna or two feet of Spicy Italian"?

Isn't this like getting all the details for a one-way flight to Dallas and then buying 2 round-trip tickets to Omaha?

It makes me wonder if she asks the person at Home Depot how tall their 8-foot stepladders are, or the person at the 7-11 how much a 32-ounce Big Gulp holds.   Or my personal favorite, what time is Midnight Mass?

..

Sick Season vs Valentines Day

 I’ve decided that the Sick Season is much like Valentines Day. We all know that Hallmark created Valentines Day to sell more cheesy cards and artery clogging chocolate even though we are theoretically supposed to celebrate our significant others and loved ones throughout the entire year. But they’ve got us suckered into buying all of this aforementioned crap because they have really good marketing strategists and hello, someone is going to buy me some chocolate. And maybe even a cookie. You cannot go wrong with this scenario.

The Sick Season, however, has no cookies or chocolates or even flowers that die within the week. What they have are twelve dollar boxes of Sudafed and long lines at the pharmacy where you have to prove that you’re not going home to cook meth by showing the window worker your full set of non-meth-damaged teeth and signing a technologically advanced slip of paper. All of this leads me to my final conclusion that the Sick Season was created by a bunch of sadistic pharmaceutical reps who needed to bump their monthly numbers and started spreading these nasty lies about a ‘Season’ and ‘being prepared’ when really we should just be prepared for angry germies to attack our sinus cavities at any given moment.

I’m really not so sure now how this relates to Valentines Day but I’m just going to blame my incoherency on the prescription-strength pills that came in a really pretty orange container. Pretty because it had the words ‘codeine’ and ‘Carole’ within bare centimeters of each other.

The blatant irony and hypocrisy of this day isn't lost on me.  Its original conception was a day intended to honor Christian martyrs.  First established in almost 500 AD, the day was associated with romantic love in the spirit of Geoffrey Chaucer when the tradition of courtly love, not one night stands or "friends with benefits", flourished.  Lovers expressed their feelings with flowers and greeting cards that were known as "Valentines".

It is most fitting that on this day, a day intended to showcase love and courting and beauty, that it would be united forever with a massacre.  The conflict was between two powerful crime families in Chicago in 1929: The South Side Italian gang led by Al Capone versus the North Side Irish gang led by Bugs Moran.  Sub-machine guns and automatic rifles were open fire.  Victims were sprayed left and right, shots continuing to fire even after people fell to the ground.  People were ripped apart and obliterated in the bloody massacre.  

Valentines Day: a day which conjures feelings of pain and utter devastation.  Perfectly fitting!   Bitches.  :)

For any of my soul sisters who have been glaring and seething at the flowers and Hallmark cards on display these last few days, here is a great little diddy that my friend sent me a few years ago that makes me laugh.   Ladies who share my pain, this one is for you:

The arrow Cupid shot at me must not have hit,
Because I think love is a big crock of shit!

This day needs to get the hell over with and pass,
Before I shove a dozen roses up Cupid's ass!
So here is my story, what else can I say?
Love bites my ass... F*ck Valentine's Day! 

Speaking of blaming things on drugs, I’m going to go ahead and incite that clause for this morning’s Bust Ass in the parking lot. I’m told it was a very graceful Bust Ass, one where I gently swept my arms above my head in slow motion as my foot attacked the perfectly flat asphalt, turning at an impossible angle before I landed on my hands, one knee, an ankle and a hip. I’m going to let you picture how all those body parts ended up touching the ground at the same time and then I’m going to tell you how I’ve never lost a Twister game yet. Unfortunately this was not a Twister game or even a test of my wicked bendy skills. 

My clutziness is something to behold.

.

Update on Scott Whitney

Giving a loving shout-out to irontexasmommy for shooting me an email to ask about Scott's status..... AND she wanted to rally a card-sending cause from the athlete community.   Wow.  I mean seriously, people.  

There it is - right THERE folks!  The GOODNESS in others that affects me so profoundly I am almost speechless.  (Almost!)   So many of you who don't even know Scott have been asking about him. 

I told Scott's wife, Tiffany, that people were asking me about Scott, people who didn't even know him, and she was so touched.  

It makes me feel good......it really does - how connected we all become to one another.  We don't even need to know the person to feel genuine concern, want to help, want updates, etc.  For as much evil and hatred that exists in the world, every time I turn around I am struck by some random act, some statement of utter kindness that makes me smile to myself. 

You guys are some GOOD people. 

Thanks to Irontexasmommy for such a generous, loving gesture ........... but mostly for reminding me that there is more LOVE than sadness out there.   I needed that today....

Scott's update:
He is definitely improving.  Tiffany said he was taken off the ventilator and it sounds as though his fever has broken.  He's in for a long road, but thankfully all signs are good that he is going to make it. 

If you would like to check on Scott's progress via or sign the guestbook, please feel free to visit his CaringBridge Website:  http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/scottwhitney

Cheers, my friends...

Hide From The Payback......

Oh man...............

I have GOT to do this.

I fully (and painfully) am aware that paybacks are a BITCH - and that I am going to be constantly looking over my shoulder this year waiting for it .....

But the Rev3 Team has had some lively banter going on - and one of our beloved members  Tim Andrus   was pretty much dared to take a picture in a Rev3 banana hammock.

Naturally, I cannot resist blasting this to the blog reading world.

Sorry Tim..........but seriously, I can't stop laughing. (Not at you in the hammock - at least you can fill it. But at me for actually doing this to you...)

Game on.

I’ll be the first to admit, I’m no life coach. More than anything, I’ve simply followed my passions and lived my life accordingly. What’s the recipe for success? … I really have no idea? From what I have observed in those who are successful (“success” being defined as living up to one’s full potential) is that they have a few underlying principles in common:

Find Your Beat - No matter what your definition of success, if you are not happy doing what you do all else seems immaterial. Follow your passions. Do what you love. There is no higher calling. Find your beat and dance to it's own drummer. And dance with reckless abandon!

Focus - My grandmother once told me, “You can have anything you want, you just can’t have everything you want.” To me, this speaks to focus and perseverance. Set goals and stay the course. Will it be easy? Hell no! Undoubtedly there will be hurdles to overcome and obstructions to conquer. Highly accomplished people remain focused on getting the job done despite the blockades. “Obstacles are those frightful things we see when we take our eyes off our goal,” said Henry Ford. Keep your eyes on your goals and never, ever give up.


Fail Spectacularly - The grander the challenge the higher the potential for catastrophe. The history books are filled with stories of successful people risking everything. Sometimes the outcome is a celebrated success, other times it’s not so pretty. The main lesson here is to have the courage to try. Failure can lead to incredible discovery. Embrace failure as an opportunity to learn and grow. Shake it off, pick up the pieces, and move on.

Never Stop Exploring - Show me someone who is content and I will show you an underachiever. Be restless. Search, endeavor, wander. Push your limits and step beyond your comfort zone. The familiar breeds contentment and complacency. True growth only occurs when you journey into uncharted territory and tackle the unknown. "Man cannot discover new oceans until he has the courage to lose sight of the shore", - Andre Gide.

May 2012 be YOUR year for attempting great challenges to be better!

Be safe out there!

If you're like me, any time you hear of someone who has been in a bike accident, something in your gut seizes up.    We all know it could be ANY OF US, at any moment.   Like veterans of the same war, we cyclists are all out there together.   Even when we don't know the person, we are connected to their story because it really could be us, at any moment. 

The fact is, for any of us who choose to get on our bikes to head out for a ride, it's only a matter of time before we crash.  It isn't IF we will crash, it is WHEN.   Either due to your mistake, or someone else's. 

Not everyone will crash, but odds are likely you will.  At some point.

Those are tough words to read.  Mostly because we know they're true.  It isn't if.  It's when.

Not every crash results in something serious (Thank GOD).  Sometimes it is just road rash.  (ouch.)  Sometimes you'll just break one bone.  Other times you'll break more than one.    And.... once in a while, there will be one of our own who endures something much more significant.

Last weekend, your friend and mine in Atlanta, Scott Whitney, was getting in some miles on Columns Drive.  Like hundreds of folks in Atlanta do, day in and day out.  Like Scott has done for  years.  Like I did.  He was there riding with Jim Burt --- Scott pulled for a few laps, then it was Jim's turn.  With Jim out in front, he didn't see the crash behind him.  

Scott was initially unconscious after the accident. The paramedics arrived and he was rushed to Kennestone Hospital's trauma unit.

The doctors immediately did a cat scan and determined there was bleeding on his brain; they needed to perform surgery to alleviate the pressure that was building from the swelling.

The neurosurgeon removed part of his skull to alleviate the pressure (left side above the ear). During this surgery, the doctor said he had a subdural hematoma (larger than expected) and he had more bruising on the brain than expected too. 

As of yesterday, Scott's condition has stayed the same, which is good because it hasn't worsened. Today the doctors put Scott on a mild paralysis medicine. This is to help reduce the swelling in his brain.

The overall plan stays the same. Scott will remain heavily sedated through this weekend to continue the healing. If all continues well, they plan to remove the breathing tube on Monday.   Scott is a tough fighter (!!), as this situation has more than demonstrated.

Please keep Scott, and his terrified beautiful wife, Tiffany, in your thoughts and prayers ........ and be careful out there, my friends!!!    Although no area is completely safe, please choose areas that are as safe as possible.  It just isn't worth it....

Even Recipes Can Make You Laugh

On account of my newly found talent for Depression Cooking, a friend of mine sent me a recipe for something he calls a "Torttino."  If you've never laughed at a recipe before (who laughs at recipes?), this may be your day!

Now, I have no idea what this is supposed to be or look like once made, but it sounds like it might be delicious. Plus, this man once ordered a Dairy Queen Blizzard® (see below post) using the words, "Pumpkin Pie with Nerds®!" so you know it must be good. Wait, that sounds foul...

Thankfully, this "Torttino," as it were, has nothing to do with dairy products, therefore, it's probably a recipe to be trusted. And while normally I would not publish something like this verbatim (or at all), I must mention that since my friend is super fabulously gay, he has a knack for adding flair to the English language, which almost makes up for the TOTAL LACK OF BEANS in his recipe. Not to mention, I'm the kind of innovative genius who can take a "Torttino" and turn it into a "Poorman's Quiche," which makes for a cheap meal and a lovely blog post. Or maybe that's a lovely meal and a cheap blog post. Or a gnarly meal and a gnarly blog post. Whatever.

Anyway, allow me to present to you the "Torttino!"

INGREDIENTS:

• 8 "eggs" [Ed. note: He uses a bourgeois version of eggs called "EggBeaters." Psshah!]
• 2 bell peppers, diced like a MOFO
• Half a bunch of deveined swiss chard (rainbow chard if you swang that way) [Ed. note: I have no idea what any of those high-fallutin' words mean.]
• 1 10" chorizo (NOT a euphemism, this time) [Ed. note: OH SNAP, GIRL!]
• 1 red onion; cut that bitch up into half-moons
• 3 yukon gold taters, sliced into 1/4" coins
• Some fresh rosemary needles [Ed. note: Uh, really?]
• 4 cloves garlic, smashed and decimated
• Olive oil
• 1.5 tsp pimentón (smoked paprika, WHAT!? that shit is SIIIIIICK) [Ed. note: Again, really?]
• Salt-n'-pepa
• 1 big ass castiron skillet [Ed. note: Now that's a Depression item I can get down with!]
• Some kind of cover (I used another pan) [Ed. note: Again, that's a hobo innovation I can get down with!]
• Oven @ 325
• Lots of wine for the drankin'.

DIRECTIONS:

• Fry up the onions until golden and add garlic near the end. Transfer to "Hold All My Shit" bowl.
• Oil pan; fry up pepper until soft; toss in chard and fry until beginning to char; toss all that shit into H.A.M.S. bowl.
• Oil pan, toss in taters; cover with other pan.
• DO NOT OIL PAN, fry up chorizo; drink lots of wine 'cause it's delicious; transfer chorizo to bowl.
• Whisk together "eggs," pimentón, s&p, pour into H.A.M.S. bowl, combine, then toss in skillet. Cook until edges start to brown.
• Toss that bitch in the oven for about 10-12 minutes. When it's SET, BROIL THAT MOTHERF*CKER until it's golden brown.
• Eat until you puke.

Wow. I must admit that sounds delicious, but you know what? It also sounds expensive! And so here are my suggestions to turn this super homosexual "Torttino" into a super destitute "Poorman's Quiche."

INGREDIENTS:

• REAL eggs laid by skinny, poor chickens
• Beans
• Potatoes
• Beans
• Onion
• Pepper
• Beans
• Whatever spices you were able to busk for that day.
• Moonshine for drankin'.

DIRECTIONS:

• Chop up all that sh*t, throw it into a pan and cook over open dumpster fire.
• Eat until you puke.
• Drink moonshine until you puke again.

And voila!

So the choice is yours. Do you want to squander away your devaluing dollars on meals like the Torttino? Or would you rather save up your hard-earned welfare to eventually buy a shiny new pennyfarthing by choking down the Poorman's Quiche instead? The answer seems pretty clear to me.

In the meantime, while you ruminate about the superiority of my Poorman's Quiche over The Man's Torttino, allow me to alert you to my fascination with the elderly that has continued to grow when this video reached my Inbox. Is it wrong that I relate to the senior set more than I relate to most 30- and 40-somethings? NO!  They ride dirrrrty just like me!
Ride DIRTY!!! 

So funny!