Weight for Me

Weight is a sensitive subject for cyclists. Most of my cycling tribe knows, down to the .5 lb, how much they weigh, how much they should weigh and how much time each .5lb costs them climbing up to Skyline.

I've weighed about the same, give or take 5 pounds, most of my adult life. There was a brief period that I dropped down to about 135 in law school due to the simultaneous stress of a divorce and the bar exam. It didn't last long once I moved for my first job and compensated with being bored and broke with TV on DVD, food and wine.

Since then, I've been mostly OK with my body. I was much more irritated with the shape of my nose that the shape of my ass. Each winter I backed off the sauce when my pants starting getting snug, but even with all of the triathlon training in the last four years, I never managed to fall below 155.

I weigh in at TAI every Tuesday morning. Yesterday's number: 148.

After I mentioned weight loss in a previous post, I got an email asking me how I did it. So here it is, my unscientific, totally unproven and mostly unadvised guide to weight loss. Like many things I undertake in life, I don't recommend doing things my way.

1. Start by going to Vegas and drinking twice your weight in cheap beer and Jagermeister. In three days. Then look at the cyclocross photos taken two weeks later and realize that you are in the second trimester of a beer baby.

2. Weigh self and pretend to be ok with the number "164.8". For about 2 hours.

3. Join significant other in laying off the sauce. For him, it was 24/7. For me, a beer (or three) on Thursdays and after cross races. Then maybe a small one on Fridays. Or Mondays. This strategy, obviously, totally went to shit after six weeks.

4. I did, however, start halving my portions at meals and eating the other half only if I felt hungry again. Most of the times I wasn't.

#3 and #4 led to about a 5 lb loss in two months. This was good. My goal was 15 in a year. But, as usual, life interfered with this plan.

5. Go through a break-up, a existential job crisis and being snowed in at the same time. Quit eating anything that doesn't come out of a saltine box or soup can for several weeks. Consume most of your calories in bourbon and gingerale drank out of a plastic liter bottle while watching episodes of "Intervention" while wearing a wife beater, ski cap and backwards basketball shorts. Because nothing makes you feel better during a good drunk than contemplating those that "really have a problem" with alcohol.

6. While going through #5, continue to workout like a maniac because its the only thing that is keeping you from going crazy.

#5 and #6 led to a 10lb loss in a less than a month. Stress caused my body to just start eating itself, and it continued to do so for almost six weeks as I got myself sorted out.

7. Train to road race in the dead of winter, a time where you can burn 500 calories an hour just trying to stay warm. Do this for at least 10 hours a week. Preferably on a steel bike that weighs about 23 pounds and while wearing 5 layers of gear.

8. Overschedule your days to the point that you have neither the time nor energy to shower, grocery shop or drink beer.

But seriously, there were some healthy changes that took place during this time. I cook a lot more for myself, bike commute almost every day in addition to my regular workouts and don't drink much during the workweek--mostly because I'm not getting home most nights until almost 9PM.

I am riding almost every day and my body apparently responds to cycling differently that it responds to other activity. I have incorporated two high intensity workouts into my weekly routine and have been taking a core/conditioning class twice a week for over a year. Both have done some amazing things for the shape and strength of my body. Even as I weigh less, I'm carrying more muscle on my body than I ever have. More muscle-more calorie burn in everyday life.

That's all there is. Not magic or advisable or replicable, but the simple truth.

Not Coincidence that the Chinese New Year Starts Today.

I can't say that this past weekend will be one that I will fondly look upon in the future. Other than brief window of time on Saturday night where I was at a party, pleasantly buzzed but not yet catastrophically drunk, the last 50 or so hours have been pretty awful.

It started pleasurably enough. The first workout for the TNT Spring 2009 Tri Team was 8am Saturday. Our participants looked excited (albeit a bit apprehensive, or maybe that was the cold) and that sense of excitement always makes me smile inside. Here is a group of strangers who have no idea that in three short months they will be a family of fit, disciplined triathletes. Its fun stuff. I'm smiling again just thinking about it. I officially start my own coaching duties on the pool deck bright and early Wednesday morning.

Next was the team ride. This is where everything went to shit. One word sums it up: demoralizing. It simply sucks to be working as hard as I can and still watch everyone crawl away from me within a minute of a regroup. Even with frequent "get some perspective" checks (these rides are meant to be hard, I can't really expect to keep up with the men, its my first time trying to train to road race), I was totally miserable and pissed off. I wanted to go home, sell all of my bikes and go back to being a pathetic gym rat. I had just expected so much more out of myself.

After the post-ride latte, I rode home and tried to take a disco nap. When sleep wouldn't come, I cleaned the shared space in the condo. My current roommate (a nurse what worked nights) moved back to Alaska on Friday and it was nice to bang and clank through the house with the TV blaring Top Model reruns at full volume. Made a playlist for the cocktail party and packed for the Sunday ride in the unlikely event that I would feel like an 8:30 ride after a cocktail party. At any rate, I didn't feel like riding my bike any further than I could throw it.

Turns out, I wasn't even conscious at 8:30 the next morning. Kristin's party was a blast. Correction-- it was a blast until I hit the point where I was retarded drunk and wanted more than anything to be home in my own bed. Two large manhattans plus a high level of physical and emotional exhaustion equals bad news. I fell asleep on a bedroom floor for an indeterminable period of time, then woke up and drove home in the snow. Passed out with contacts in and clothes on.

I woke up at some point to wash my face and feed the cats and then gain when my alarm went off to remind me that IT'S TIME TO RIDE. Right, ride, ha-I felt like a garbage dump. No, I felt like a bona fide superfund site. When I couldn't get back to sleep, I figured I'd at least make breakfast and switch venues to the living room couch. Then I realized that I didn't have any coffee in the house.

One of the total bitches about getting older is that not only are hangovers physically awful, they have become emotionally awful. Once I realized that I was, heaven forbid, going to have to leave the condo to get coffee, my system reacted like someone had died. And thus the downward spiral and waterworks began in earnest. I was looking at myself from outside and thinking, 'are you fucking kidding me,' but was just too tired to stop the onslaught.

Honestly, reader, I don't like the way I'm living my life a whole lot right now. I am feeling exceptionally uncomfortable in my own skin. I dread going into work and dread going home to an empty house. That leaves training. I love the cycling and the associated comraderie, but I'll admit that I've been using a manic training schedule as a means of ignoring the fact that I really do need to figure my shit out. Not tomorrow, not next month. Like RIGHT NOW.

No one can pull me out of this hole. I have to get out of it myself.

Feeling that it was best to start from the inside out, and because there was no way I was getting more than fifty paces from my couch or the nausea-reducing ginger ale in the fridge, I went to clean and organize my kitchen and assess my nutritional situation. This may seem like a small step to regaining order in one's life, until you consider that I've lived in that condo for almost four years and have never organized the kitchen. There is no sense of order to my kitchen cupboards. Various roommates and boyfriends have attempted to manage the chaos of pots, pans , coffee filters and assorted canned goods, but it all goes to hell when I am back to being left to my own devices.

Here is what I discovered yesterday afternoon. I own 9 bags of rice. Nine. If given sufficient water and power, I could live out the end of days in my condo by subsisting on rice. Rice and diced tomatoes and powdered iced tea. I am not joking about this.

Two hours later, I was finished both with the organizational project and a trip to the grocery store to purchase a few items that go well with, you guessed it, rice. And I felt a lot better about myself.

By nine last night, I was feeling almost human again. I cooked dinner (rice, anyone?), watched a movie and made a significant to-do list. Fifty percent of the items on that list are gimmes. Buy lighbulbs. Fix front fender. Schedule a haircut. Bring my own coffee to work.

The other half are things that are going to be very, very hard for me to do. Get started with the 3/4 time arrangement at the firm. Make real steps to start writing for money. Network. Lay off the sauce. Make efforts to meet new people. Ask for help when I need it.

The most daunting item of all: complete all items on this to-do list.

Pretty Much the Hardest Ride Ever.

Five point seven miles an hour. No amount of willpower and positive thinking could make that number creep any higher.

I was on the last climb of the day, a 400 meter cupcake on River Road. I've climbed this riser many times, at 10, 11 MPH. No sweat. But never at the tail end of a Pete's Mountain hammer-fest.

Not like anything that I had done that day resembled hammering.

Saturday mornings for Team Tedder/Circus/Hammer Velo are where the rubber meets the road. Long stretches at race pace, minimal recovery. I knew what I was getting into...pain, suffering and a lot of riding by my lonesome. I spent most of Friday evening and Saturday morning with my stomach churning with anxiety. I knew I would get shelled, I just didn't want take a wrong turn out in Clackamas County, run into "Deliverance" and never make it out again. And we were doing Pete's Mountain, emphasis on the word "mountain." To say that I'm a crappy climber would be to insult crap.

We rolled out Springwater Corridor and cut up to Terwilliger through the cemetery. Because this was uphill, it could've been more fun, but I've done the cemetery dozens of times and know where the top, and relief, is located.

Once we got through Lake Oswego, the boys (and Beth) put the pedal to the metal and I wouldn't see them again for 5 miles, even though I managed to keep over 20MPH for the entire stretch. The point of the ride is to ride hard, though, so I put my head down and kept on keeping on. Which was hard as I hit every stoplight in West Linn and every time my heart rate got over 80%, my lungs started filling up with the remains of my New Year's cold. There were a few times I though I would drown in my own snot.

At the first regroup, I was barely there long enough to farmer blow all over the road when we were off again. And again, it only took a few minutes before I was riding alone. The second regroup wasn't far down the road, and that time I had enough time wrestle out of my bibs, pee and take in a few calories.

Then we started climbing. The climbing gnomes promptly affixed an anchor to my rear hub and I drug that anchor along for miles and miles. We were riding in a thick fog and every time I thought I was close to the top, the fog would part and usually reveal an increase in the grade of the road. I hadn't seen anyone in 20 minutes and could only laugh each time the road got steeper...as I had voluntarily showed up in order to subject myself to this nonsense.

Third regroup. Again, no time for anything other than a quick drink and a futile shaking out of the quads. Then more climbing. In the fog. By myself. In the middle of nowhere. As hard as I could go. I wanted to take a break after two miles at 7 MPH, but knew the group was waiting. My legs burned and I couldn't stand up in the saddle more than a few seconds before I thought my knees would buckle.

But, surprisingly, I never mentally gave in. I never wanted to quit. I knew I could make it. albeit way goddamn slower than everyone else. I made up a little song in my head that liberally used the phrases "fucking ridiculous" and "fat ass up the hill" and "get your fucking ridiculous fat ass up the hill." To the tune of a Britney Spears' song.

Fourth regroup wasn't even a regroup. The peloton started rolling again as soon as I was within 20 meters.

Fatigue, dehydration and caloric deficit caught up with me in a big way once we hit the home stretch on River Road. I hadn't had time to refuel at any of the regroups and had had a hard time getting anything down while on the bike due to the layer of snot that was blocking most of my windpipe.

The last ten miles were a exercise in frustrated futility. I would try to keep up, try to hold on, but my legs just weren't having it. It was like trying to convince two cranky toddlers to take a nap. I'd say, "come on, just a little bit faster." They'd say, "um, no." By the time we hit the Springwater corridor, it was taking all of my will and concentration to stay above 15MPH.

At the end of it all, we rode approximately 45 miles (my bike computer spontaneously reset itself three times on the ride, so I'm not exactly sure of the mileage), but my body felt like that it was closer to 85. My two wool baselayers, windstopper jacket and tights were soaked in sweat. I was so glad I'd driven to River City, as I don't think I could have made it back up Corbett, even with a pack of wild dogs chasing me.

Hardest ride ever, but not the worst. I knew what I was signing up for, and there will be many more rides where my only company is the climbing gnomes and the sound of Britney Spears in my head.

But I know it will make me a stronger rider. Either that or a homicidal maniac. Stay tuned.

Training Philosophy? Train Hard. Have Fun.

Someone asked me other day to describe my training style. I thought about it for a bit, then responded, "I'm a self-coached, regimented pragmatist." "Huh?" was the response.

Self-Coached: I don't have a "training program" right now. Because I opted out of doing the half-ironman race with the athletes that I help coach, I was doing their spring workouts with them on Saturdays (less any run mileage over 10 miles), but wasn't following their complete program. This, in combination with various back and shoulder injuries, has forced me to develop my own weekly schedule. Fortunately, I am becoming a scholar in my various athletic endeavors and have a good handle what I need to do to be reasonably competitive and get in plenty of rest (although the latter is usually forced by circumstances related to work).

Regimented: I don't find it hard to make room for a workout everyday, and I love a consistent schedule (i.e., I'm a bit, but just a bit, of a control freak). Jeff's class twice a week, track and swim with TNT on Thursdays, TNT on Saturdays, Tri Club on Wednesdays. I'm a "regular."

Pragmatist: I'm a lawyer. One that is slowly losing absolute control over my daily schedule as I become more and more able to handle client matters and meetings on my own. Part of the pragmatism is flexibility. Thirty-five mile ride on a weekday night? Not if I have to be in BPA meetings for 8 straight hours, then need to spend 2 hours catching up on what has built up during the day. An hour on the trainer or a quick spin class will have to suffice.

Another part of my pragmatism is acknowledging that I had to find a new reason to get out there and be active. I am never going to win a race. I had my moment of glory in May 1995. That will have to do. Its all about having fun at this stage of my life. I have a goal to try one new activity every year. It's been a great experience that has opened my eyes and helped me let go of a lot of my fears, but I need to start picking activities that don't involve buying $400 of new gear.

The final part of my pragmatism had been trying to accept my body for what it is and focus instead on keeping it healthy and injury free. And making that junk in my trunk good for something other than keeping my seat warm.

Training the "Choose Your Own Adventure" Way-And The Gold at the End of the Rainbow

2008 has been of a choose-your-own-adventure kind of year.

Here was the original plan as of February 2008: Hagg Lake 4K Swim, Granite Man, Blue Lake Olympic, Pacific Crest Olympic, Xterra Vashon Island, TBD at Descutes Dash. Rest up for a few weeks, get ass in gear for cross.

The best laid plans coincided with reality like a bug on a semi windshield.

Here how this year has actually gone down: Sign up for Blue Lake Sprint after discovering potential scheduling conflict with Emily's going-away party. Decide to run Wildwood 20K at last minute. Wipe out and damage shoulder on a recovery run after Wildwood 20K. Skip Hagg Lake 4K swim because unable to secure back-fastening bra without pain, much less swim. Compete at Granite Man, but without the swim portion. Set Granite Man triathlon course record despite not actually competing the triathlon. Convince AA sports to let me switch from Blue Lake Sprint Tri to Olympic Relay. Come down with the plague two days before Blue Lake, unable to do anything but watch from the sidelines.

After Blue Lake came and went, I gave in. This season is, for all practical purposes, a bust as far as "competition" is concerned. I am hoping to swim at Xterra Vashon Island, but that might be the only 800 meters that I swim all summer--and it might be a side stroke. I am completely uninterested in developing a chronic shoulder condition.

I have also completely lost interest in foregoing recreation for training on my summer weekends. I was on the loaner mountain bike out at Hood River yesterday with Sarah Tingey. Yesterday's mountain bike ride was so much fun--and really frigging hard. I don't have the conditioning for sustained trail climbing and the bike handling was a full body workout. Sarah and I pushed our bikes uphill a lot, and laughed about it afterwards over beers and burgers as we sat in the sun at Full Sail. Quite possibly a perfect day on and off the bike.

The unexpected joy is that after that ride yesterday, I am finally motivated to do something, but that something has nothing to do with triathlon. I really just want to be on trails as much as possible for the rest of the summer. I want to conquer my fears and become a competent mountain biker. I think I just needed a new challenge in order to find my fire again. Short track starts tonight (!!!!!) and the new bike should be here before we leave for Pacific Crest.

And speaking of Pacific Crest: I will be racing the Kuota for only the second time this year. Those 24 miles will be a very interesting experience for my hamstrings. But riding fast will be a good change up from mountain biking--one that I'm sure my body and psyche will appreciate.

The Day After

Boy did I feel like hell today. Too much birthday bourbon (damn you, Emily) and my attempt to get back in the pool lasted one stroke. One. There is no swimming in my immediate future. I'm still planning on competing at Granite Man, but will be doing the duathlon instead. Such is life. I still get to go somewhere where there is sun in the forecast.

I spend a lot of time reading other athlete blogs and I've always wondered why triathlete blogs read more like a training diaries. Maybe that's all they are being used for. I have never been interested in putting my daily output and input into the public domain because, really, who cares?

I tried to become a numbers geek once, but lasted one week as it bored me out of my mind. I have to do enough "not fun" things in my daily life (work, pay bills, pluck eyebrows, clean up cat puke), that I didn't need to add to that list "making a permanent record of how little training I do in proportion to how much beer I drink."

The fun stuff is in the narrative of the experience and in the knowledge that some unexpected and delightful will happen during almost every workout or race. So I'm disappointed that my debut in a true off road tri will have to be delayed a few weeks (Vashon Island Xterra), but I have no doubts that tomorrow morning's race will be a memory maker.

Nature or Nurture....but at 5AM, does it really matter?

I fear that I am turning into my parents, who operate on Farmer Standard Time. Up at 4 AM. In bed by 8PM. I can remember how excited my mom got when they got digital satellite and she could start watching prime time TV at 5. In college I became a late sleeper purely because I couldn't wake up unless it was to the sound of dogs and someone clanking around with the wood stove.

This morning was the fourth consecutive morning that I got out of bed at 5AM, refreshed and ready to start the day.

This alarming trend started about 10 months ago, when I started going to Jeff Tedder's core class at Alameda Fitness Center after a flare up of my IT band during Seattle to Portland. Even in the middle of the summer, getting my carcass up and over to NE Portland by 6AM was a huge struggle and I would often roll over at 4:30 AM and turn off the alarm. Then I added the pre-core spin class to my Wednesday and Friday routine and was able, most mornings, to roll in on time for a 5:30 AM class.

For a few months, I figured that waking up at 5:15 AM twice per week was just about enough for one person. Then two things happened: it started getting lighter and I put Lily on a diet.

Lily is my Siamese cat. She is one of the sweetest life forms on the planet. And also one of the dumbest and most food-obsessed. And she is not, shall we say, svelte. More like the opposite of svelte. After she starting limping a few months ago and Coco lectured me about overweight cats and arthritis, I finally put her on a serious diet. She's lost about 3 pounds and is pretty unhappy about it.

So when the sun comes up, I start waking up and things basically go like this: Owner wakes up. Cat wakes up and automatically thinks it is food time, when it usually is the opposite of food time. Cat moves out of arm reach and starts squawking. If unsuccessful in waking Owner, Cat sits two inches from Owner's face and begins squawk-purring. Any hope of falling back to sleep goes out the window when there is a 12 pound cat bitching in your ear and breathing dried cat food breath on you. Shutting her in the closet is not deterrent; neither is beaning her in the head with rolled-up socks. So I decided one morning to just get up, feed the damn cat, then ride out to Mt. Tabor and do hill repeats. It felt good to get the workout out of the way and having Tabor to oneself at dawn is simultaneously peaceful and invigorating. Eventually that became the Wednesday morning routine: 6 AM Tabor repeats with the HTFU crew.

When I figured out last night that the only time slot I had to exercise today was the 5-7AM slot, I found a spin class at 24 fitness that would fit. After staying up until 11PM watching the season finale of Lost (fantastic), I was dreading the sound of the alarm.

But a funny thing happened...I woke up at 5:15, like I had the three previous days, and was in the car and driving on I-405 before I realized what had happened. I have adapted. Which is not a bad thing at all. Getting the workouts out of the way before the workday begins alleviates the "I have to workout today" anxiety and I find that I drink more water during the day.

Spin class was great today, even though it was taught by this frenetic instructor who bounces all over the place and always sweats through her light colored tank top and rarely wears a bra. Nipple all over the place isn't what anyone needs before the first latte of the day.

So being like my folks is not a bad thing. Just someone stop me if I start drinking freeze-dried coffee.

Gut Check

"With proper attitude, almost anything is possible, What you believe, you will achieve."

When Being Out of Shape is Glorious.

I've officially been "out of the off season" (as opposed to being "in season," a phrase that reminds me more of horse breeding than training) for nine days now. In that nine days I've already done $400 damage to the Hornet and have had to sit in my office all day with ice on my knees. And they let me mentor new triathletes...fools all of them. (Unless it it really a matter of being an example of what not to do...like "don't get drunk at a beer festival the night before a race and expect to be racing in clean shorts and peanut butter free hair the next day").

Last Sunday was my boyfriend Doug's inaugural ride on his new road bike. I think he thinks that I'm sort of ridiculous for making him ride the trainer for 15 minutes to learn how to get in and out of his pedals...he picked it up right away. Apparently some people don't need two hours on a high school track and countless inner thigh bruises before becoming comfortable in clipless pedals. I'd hate him if he weren't so strangely attractive in bike shorts.

Our ride was the 25 mile option out at Sauvie Island. We woke up to steady winds on the east side and I was expecting the worst out at Sauvie. But lo and behold, we ended up with a bright sunny day and NO headwinds. It was amazing. About fifteen people showed up to ride. There were bald eagles roosting out by the beaches and we could see Mt. Ranier and Mt. Adams in the distance.

After the ride, a bunch of us ended up at the Lucky Lab for a few hours. It ended up being one of those perfect beer commercial sorts of days. The type of day I would long for when I was 18 and think, "that must be what being an adult is all about-hanging out with grown men in lycra and listening to stories about pooping one's pants."

The Hornet is giving me trouble again. Last week I lived and learned the rule "if it ain't movin, don't force it." Turns out you can break your shifters by ignoring that rule. And guess what? New shifters are not cheap. And then there is always the possibility that those shifters won't quite be adjusted correctly and you'll spend the weekend grinding up hills because you can't shift into your climbing gears and have too much damn ego to stop and head back down the hill. Then you'll get to spend Monday wearing ice packs velcroed to your knees while trying not to lose too much respect from your colleagues, who are frequently wondering why they hired an associate that wears icebag knee pads and always looks like she needs to brush her hair.

Nine days in and I had my first truly miserable training workout of the year today. Jen and I swam about 2400 meters today, including 20 75-meter repeats. The whole time there were two large gnomes hanging onto my ankles. Have you ever tried to swim while dragging gnomes? Not so fun. Gnomes drink a lot of beer and wear a lot of loose fitting wool clothing...serious drag.

Off to a Portland Triathlon Cub meeting....



Happy gnome hunting-

Lindsay

"Winter Training"-The Ultimate Oxymoron

Something I've struggled with the last two years is the notion that if I preferred happy hour, second helpings of homemade mac n' cheese and Law and Order reruns to the self-flagellation of running or riding in the fifth level of hell known as "the Pacific Northwest in December," I wasn't a "real" triathlete. Guilt is truly a pain in the ass.

For 2007 I am going to make two triathlon-related resolutions. First-embrace the off-season. This year I let myself to get (relatively) out of shape in the fall because I was burnt out and hurting after a nine-month season, but still felt guilty every time I chose to relax, shop or socialize instead of working out. And instead of doing the yoga, long walks and balance training I promised myself I would do, I kept slogging through runs that weren't fun and walking out of spin classes irritated and unmotivated. I fell into the trap many athletes fall into: we believe that if we take a break, not only will we lose the fitness we worked so hard to gain, but we'll also lose the motivation to start up again in the spring.

That being said, every year I'm wrong about these losses. Now that my body and mind have rested for a few months, I can't wait for longer, warmer days (notice I don't say "drier"-Oregonians know better than to leave their rain coats home until June) and the camaraderie of weekend long rides. Granted, it will take me a few weeks of hard work to regain the mindset that a ten mile run is "no big deal" and to develop the fitness to back it up, but I know that I will get there in time for Pacific Crest.

Second resolution-embrace myself as a "perfect athlete." Triathlon is a sport that can give people great confidence, but it can also wreck havoc with a person's self esteem. I like to joke that three things are standing between me and my career as a professional triathlete: being employed, dating a brewer and genetics. The third factor is the trickiest one.

You know in magazines where some socialite writes into the fitness columnist all worked up about building up bulky muscle from spin class and the columnist responds that cycling just tones legs and the socialite will look great in her Roberto Cavalli holiday dress. That columnist is a LIAR. That columnist has obviously not had sufficient exposure to those of us with the "backyard" gene. This is the gene that creates a very interesting phenomenon: the faster and longer I am able ride, the less likely it is that my damn pants will fit around my ass by the end of the season. I've seriously thought about getting coaching credentials so I can write my pants off as a business expense.

I can joke about this now because the same legs that have a summer and winter wardrobe frequently redeem themselves by working over skinny chicks at races, both on and off the bike. But what isn't funny is how often my notion about "athletic" bodies frequently finds me judging race success by how many skinny chicks I beat off the bike instead of through my own goals for pace and nutrition. This, obviously, is not a good strategy for developing a long-term love of the sport.

I am going to talk about mental training and positive self-talk to the TNT participants next spring. I don't know whether feel like a bit of a hypocrite or an actual expert on the topic.

That's all for now-I still have to write another email to Santa begging for a metallic hot pink time trial helmet.

Merry Christmas-

LRK