Hell of a start, eh? Bolder Boulder report

There's not much to say after running my slowest standalone 10K ever. Seriously, I've split faster on the end of triathlons than I did at the Bolder Boulder yesterday. And, appropriately enough, the story at the Boulder Daily Camera (http://www.dailycamera.com/news/2009/may/25/bolder-boulder-kicks-cool-dry-weather/) refers to "No-excuses weather."

Right, no excuses other than my own shoddy training. I've run seven times since the St. Louis Marathon, and while that time was (supposed to have been) spent reacquainting myself with the bike and the pool, I still should have had a little more jump than I did, given what my final time was. For the record it goes in the books as a 48:34, exactly six minutes slower than I ran in 2003. Yesterday it was low 50s and cloudy with no wind, while six years ago it was mid 70s and sunny. There's the fact that I started in the third wave of the day in 2003, meaning I had no more than 600 people on the course ahead of me, but I know how to run in thick crowds, which I did in 1995 when I ran a 46:07 while starting in one of the last waves (I signed up two days before the race).

I stayed the night at my friend Jen's condo, located a 10-minute drive from the start line. We parked at her office and had a little jog to the start line. The starters this year were University of Colorado athletics director Mike Bohn and 2008 Olympic steeplechaser Jenny Barringer, a CU alum. My wave started and I stayed to the outside because the first two turns tend to be pretty crowded. Naturally, I couldn't help but be caught up in the energy of the pack and I easily ran 7:25 for the first mile. After the race, Jen and I looked at an elevation profile of the course and, surprise, the first mile is all downhill. There's maybe 200 feet in variation between the course's lowest point (at about 1.25 miles) and the highest (around 5), but there's still going to be gravity conspiring with momentum to jack with my intended pace.

Onward. I slowed down quite a bit for the second mile as the race turned into north Boulder's residential areas. That's where some hills start. So, really, I didn't need to slow myself down as I had gravity helping me out. And I had my own muscle rebellion to help out. The last two miles of the race felt like the last 300 of an 800-meter run. Even on the last two hills, up into Folsom Field for the big stadium finish, the muscle fibers wouldn't fire. As Phil Liggett would say, channeling "Star Trek" while calling the Tour de France: "Control to engine room, we need more power. Engine room to control, there's nothing to give."

The start I'm referring to is the official start of my Ironman Wisconsin training. While I've long since accepted that a Kona spot just ain't happening this year, it's still discouraging to know how far I have to go. Granted, a flat-out 10k is in no way an indication of what it will take to roll through an Ironman marathon, but it's discouraging nonetheless.

Where do I go from here? The open roads...

Cycling sucks

Hate is a strong word. Life is too short to hate anyone or anything. I don't hate Walmart or KMart, but I won't shop there for a number of reasons. I don't hate American cars but the one I've had crapped the bed way too soon and I'll never buy another.

So it should come as a shock to learn that I hate cycling. Maybe.

Swimming and running are pure. You put on your suit and goggles, hop in the water, and go. If something hurts, change how you swim. Or grab a kickboard. Or pull buoy. Or fins. Or you put on your shoes and go. If something hurts you walk, or stretch, or stop.

"Only the bicycle is pure in heart," wrote Iris Murdock. She has a point. To a point. The bicycle involves moving parts that need maintenance -- lubrication or adjustment or replacement. It's key to know when those things are needed, either by looking at them or by feel. I know my own body inside and out, but this extension of my body, 22 years after I bought my first one, remains a mystery.

Distance-wise cycling comprises roughly 80 percent of an Ironman, 112 miles of 140.6. Time-wise, that figure drops to around 56 percent. In my PR of 11:42:40 (Florida 2003), my bike split was 5:42 and something, less than half the time I spent out there, attributable to hitting the wall on the run. But in my goal for Ironman Wisconsin this year, my goal split of 5:36 is around 55 percent of the 10:45 I hope to be out there. The split goal looks arbitrary but that's 20 mph for 112 miles. And to meet that goal I'd better get cracking. Sigh.

It's no secret why triathletes like T.J. Tollakson and Jordan Rapp are tearing things up. They both have degrees in engineering, and they spend every fiber of their expertise making their bikes faster, from shaving ounces off the weight of their chains to debating the drag coefficients of 10 different kinds of wheels. None of that shit interests me. Since seventh grade, when Mr. Kannegeiter suggested I just don't have the mental faculties to do math, I've been more than happy to fulfill that prophecy (witness the mental gymnastics to figure out my pace in St. Louis, at least until I mailed it in the last 5.2 miles). Mechanical things puzzle me, and my seven-year-old bike, like most everything that's seven years old (including humans) requires more attention than I can muster. Beyond lubing the chain once a week and changing tubes, however, I have no idea what to do. And I have no idea (beyond general fitness) why I feel so damned slow and cumbersome on it.

Cycling in the sustained 30 mph winds of the Laramie Valley can be frustrating at best, dangerous at worst. You think you're headed straight into the wind and then it shifts 45 degrees, blowing you either into traffic or into the ditch. Or maybe it doesn't shift and you spend an hour-and-a-half in your third-smallest gear, spinning into the zephyr, only to turn around and spend an hour coasting back to town. Is there any real aerobic benefit to that? Let's not forget that the only viable north-south route (guaranteeing an equally dangerous crosswind) is a U.S. highway favored by drunk motorists and methed-out truckers, and reputed to be a 65 mph graveyard.

All this is to say nothing of the ridiculous culture divide between cyclists and triathletes. Cyclist culture is one of conformity, from their packs and arcane rules of etiquette to the attire, matching the jersey to the shorts to the socks. Triathletes are just out to ride, to get from the swim to the run in the most efficient manner possible, and it doesn't have to look pretty. Put me in the "just ride, baby" camp, which of course runs counter to the local culture. Fuck that noise.

So there. My bike leans against some shelves in my interior hallway, ready to go. I lay in bed and wait for the alarm to go off. When it does, I go to the bathroom, pass my bike, return to my bedroom... and get dressed for work.

Cycling... or not

The bike made its outdoor debut on Monday. I took it up Roger Canyon Road north and east of town, giving it a climb I wasn't aware was that steep. It was the one day out of about 20 that the wind blew out of the east; normally it prevails from the west off the Snowy Range, picking up speed on the 32 miles of savannah between a wide spot in the road called Centennial and Laramie.

But I'll brave that another day. Point is, it's May and I've had my bike outside twice. Twice. Granted, some of that had to do with my hopeless run focus, but the weather has kept me on the trainer in front of endless Ironman videos for much of what's passed for spring. The bike-focused Ironman training will either come as a huge shock to my system or it'll be a welcome change from the pounding of marathon training.

Perhaps both.