The wind is a man.
There are men out there who are wonderful and kind. Many men, most men, who are not at all like the wind. There are men you can love and love you and do it well.
But I’ve known men, I’ve known some men. Yes, the wind is a man.
A breeze is also a man. You can crave the breeze, long for its touch, miss it when it’s gone and feel calm joy at its return. In a still, early morning, the breeze has sleepy conversations with the trees, leaves giggling at private jokes the breeze saves just for them, branches snuggling in for sweet, dozy caresses.
The breeze is sly and flirtatious. It tickles and teases. With subtle fingers, it strokes your face and arms and hair. And with sudden playfulness, it uses both hands to tousle your tresses, disarranging every single lock. Laughing, like it’s a funny joke. It’s not funny. It's really not funny. The breeze is definitely a man. Great power, tempered. A big man, who shows restraint and care.
The breeze and the wind are different men. You can love the breeze. Not so, the wind.
The wind is bold and brash and bellicose.
The wind is an egomaniac. It always needs to be noticed.
The wind talks just to hear its own voice, and doesn’t listen to reason.
The wind has a ready temper.
The wind is a man, and not a very nice one. You don’t want to run into the wind on a bike ride on a lonely stretch of road.
Like a fist meeting a table, a sudden gust sneaks through a crevice in a hillside and takes your breath away, blows you off balance, tenses every muscle with the powerful jolt. The wind wants your attention.
And then comes the steady stream of abuse, a litany of complaints rushing past your ears, invading every orifice, sabotaging your will with its pervasive negativity. Impossible to ignore, but of course you try. Downshift twice and plunge ahead, but the unrelenting barrage sucks at you, drags you down into a morass of self-doubt, self-pity, self-recrimination. The wind is a bastard.
There are moments of calm. At first you name them reprieve, but the moments are short and rare. You realize they are just an inhalation, a catching of breath. But you treasure them, just the same.
When its voice doesn’t work, the wind uses its size to intimidate. It blocks your path, a presence, a force, a hulk, posturing, beating its chest, waiving its arms wide: You want to leave? You’re not leaving.
You try to ease by without touching, no eye contact, maybe if I just scooch a little this way… But it’s on to you. Bobbing and weaving, chin out-thrust, arrogant eyes gleaming, and belligerence in every movement, the wind uses its aggressive size to keep you in your place. The wind is smirking. The wind is a real son of a bitch.
Keep trying, keep pedaling, in the little ring, head bowed. But the wind really doesn’t want you to go. It wants you where it wants you. It tried its voice, it tried its size, next it lays on hands. Every movement forward, it pushes you back, palms against shoulders and chest in a succession of quick shoves, yelling angry words all the while, so all you can hear is the sound of the wind in your ears. The wind can make you cry. The wind is a real motherfucker.
You can’t fight the wind. You can only persevere. Keep going to the end, and then go inside and lock the door. The wind might thrash and moan, but like a vampire, it can’t cross the threshold.
Moral: check the weather before biking, and savor the love of a good breeze.
There are men out there who are wonderful and kind. Many men, most men, who are not at all like the wind. There are men you can love and love you and do it well.
But I’ve known men, I’ve known some men. Yes, the wind is a man.
A breeze is also a man. You can crave the breeze, long for its touch, miss it when it’s gone and feel calm joy at its return. In a still, early morning, the breeze has sleepy conversations with the trees, leaves giggling at private jokes the breeze saves just for them, branches snuggling in for sweet, dozy caresses.
The breeze is sly and flirtatious. It tickles and teases. With subtle fingers, it strokes your face and arms and hair. And with sudden playfulness, it uses both hands to tousle your tresses, disarranging every single lock. Laughing, like it’s a funny joke. It’s not funny. It's really not funny. The breeze is definitely a man. Great power, tempered. A big man, who shows restraint and care.
The breeze and the wind are different men. You can love the breeze. Not so, the wind.
The wind is bold and brash and bellicose.
The wind is an egomaniac. It always needs to be noticed.
The wind talks just to hear its own voice, and doesn’t listen to reason.
The wind has a ready temper.
The wind is a man, and not a very nice one. You don’t want to run into the wind on a bike ride on a lonely stretch of road.
Like a fist meeting a table, a sudden gust sneaks through a crevice in a hillside and takes your breath away, blows you off balance, tenses every muscle with the powerful jolt. The wind wants your attention.
And then comes the steady stream of abuse, a litany of complaints rushing past your ears, invading every orifice, sabotaging your will with its pervasive negativity. Impossible to ignore, but of course you try. Downshift twice and plunge ahead, but the unrelenting barrage sucks at you, drags you down into a morass of self-doubt, self-pity, self-recrimination. The wind is a bastard.
There are moments of calm. At first you name them reprieve, but the moments are short and rare. You realize they are just an inhalation, a catching of breath. But you treasure them, just the same.
When its voice doesn’t work, the wind uses its size to intimidate. It blocks your path, a presence, a force, a hulk, posturing, beating its chest, waiving its arms wide: You want to leave? You’re not leaving.
You try to ease by without touching, no eye contact, maybe if I just scooch a little this way… But it’s on to you. Bobbing and weaving, chin out-thrust, arrogant eyes gleaming, and belligerence in every movement, the wind uses its aggressive size to keep you in your place. The wind is smirking. The wind is a real son of a bitch.
Keep trying, keep pedaling, in the little ring, head bowed. But the wind really doesn’t want you to go. It wants you where it wants you. It tried its voice, it tried its size, next it lays on hands. Every movement forward, it pushes you back, palms against shoulders and chest in a succession of quick shoves, yelling angry words all the while, so all you can hear is the sound of the wind in your ears. The wind can make you cry. The wind is a real motherfucker.
You can’t fight the wind. You can only persevere. Keep going to the end, and then go inside and lock the door. The wind might thrash and moan, but like a vampire, it can’t cross the threshold.
Moral: check the weather before biking, and savor the love of a good breeze.
Fascinating where your brain can go during a 8.5-hour workout! Oy.
Triple Brick complete! We biked a 30-mile loop from Danville out to the brown farmlands of Highland Rd, and then did a 50-minute run along the Iron Horse Trail, repeating 3 times. Despite the dark moments on the 3rd bike loop where much of this post was conceptualized, and despite the sudden and unexpected onset of intense knee pain in the 2nd run loop (and subsequent 3rd bike and 3rd run), I ended the day feeling amazing. Nutrition, check! Endurance, check! Positive attitude, check!
When I came in from the final run loop, I kept shouting, “YEAH!” almost uncontrollably. I was, perhaps, a little loopy with fatigue. But I was also incredibly proud. I’ve ridden 90 miles before, sure, more even. I’ve run 16 and more. But I’ve never ridden 90 miles AND run 16. Phenomenal! And aside from the debilitating knee pain, I felt like my muscles could have carried me further. Perhaps to 140.6? I think so!
IMLT Countdown: 35 days.
Triple Brick complete! We biked a 30-mile loop from Danville out to the brown farmlands of Highland Rd, and then did a 50-minute run along the Iron Horse Trail, repeating 3 times. Despite the dark moments on the 3rd bike loop where much of this post was conceptualized, and despite the sudden and unexpected onset of intense knee pain in the 2nd run loop (and subsequent 3rd bike and 3rd run), I ended the day feeling amazing. Nutrition, check! Endurance, check! Positive attitude, check!
When I came in from the final run loop, I kept shouting, “YEAH!” almost uncontrollably. I was, perhaps, a little loopy with fatigue. But I was also incredibly proud. I’ve ridden 90 miles before, sure, more even. I’ve run 16 and more. But I’ve never ridden 90 miles AND run 16. Phenomenal! And aside from the debilitating knee pain, I felt like my muscles could have carried me further. Perhaps to 140.6? I think so!
IMLT Countdown: 35 days.
Week 40 Mileage
Monday, August 12 Swim - 45 minutes, 2000 yards Tuesday, August 13 Bike - 1 hour 30 minutes, 20 miles, 2200 ft gain Wednesday, August 14 Run - 50 minutes, 5 miles Chabot Equestrian Center trail Thursday, August 15 Bike - 2 hours, 25 miles, 2770 ft gain Friday, August 16 Rest Saturday, August 17 - Triple Brick Bike - 5 hours 30 minutes, 60 miles Run - 2 hours 35 minutes, 16 miles Sunday, August 18 Swim - 45 minutes, 2000 yards | Totals: Swim - 1 hour 30 minutes, 4000 yards Bike - 9 hours, 105 miles Run - 3 hours 25 minutes, 21 miles Core - 0 (and here explains the knee pain!) Total - 14 hours |
Week 39 Mileage
Tuesday, August 6 Bike - 1 hour 10 minutes Bike computer mysteriously out of juice. How do I judge myself without metrics??? Wednesday, August 7 Run - 1 hour 10 minutes, 7 miles Bayview Sequoia Trail Thursday, August 8 Extra rest during a recovery week Friday, August 9 Swim - 1 hour, 3000 yards Saturday, August 10 Bike - 3 hours 30 minutes, 58 miles Run - 20 minutes, 2 miles Sunday, August 11 Swim - 35 minutes (open water, no sharks) Run - 1 hour 10 minutes, 7 miles | Totals: Swim - 1 hour 35 minutes, ~4000 yards Bike - 4 hours 40 minutes, 58+ miles Run - 2 hours 40 minutes, 16 miles Core - 0 (bad, bad, bad, bad, bad) Total - 9 hours |