Go Dad Go!

A self-important blog about riding bikes, raising kids and the all-too-rare nexus of these two pursuits.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Walkathon

I write mostly about cycling; I'm drawn to the sport for the "suffering," the tribulations riders put them through to get over mountains and to finish lines. But now I'll write about walking -- and the trials that the Joaquin Miller Walkathon participants put themselves through on their school's behalf.

My kids attend Joaquin Miller Elementary, a school that's had its ups and downs, but that has our full backing, and that I believe is a great place for our kids, backed by a great community of families, teachers and staff. One of the school's strongest aspects is its parent involvement; parents come together to run a number of events and elements, including the annual Walkathon.

A lot of schools around here hold walkathons: kids garner pledges to walk a certain number of laps around the school. At Joaquin Miller, a lap circumambulates Joaquin Miller and the neighboring middle school, and thus runs a full kilometer, and every year, many, many of those kilometers are walked by kids ages 5 to 11.

In our first year, when Mack was a kindergartener, I figured he'd walk seven, maybe eight kilometers, and he thus expected the same. Therein lies one of my favorite Walkathon stories: after setting this self-expectation, Mack set out to gather his per-lap pledges, and he called my dad. "Well Mack," my dad asked, "what's your goal." Mack said, "I think I'll walk seven laps." And so my dad pledged five bucks a lap.

You see what's coming.

Mack, just turned six years old, walked 22 laps. Like many other kids, he got caught up in the constant flow of walking around the schools, and he passed time talking with friends, and he was goaded on by me, and teachers, and friends -- and by the promise of a popsicle every fifth lap.

When Mack called my dad and told him he'd walked 22 laps, there was silence on the other end, followed by, "Mack, can you put your dad on the phone?" He asked me if he'd really walked 22 laps -- about 14 miles -- and I promised him he had. To which he said, "Guess I'm on the hook for $110."

Of course I think Mack's pretty special; indeed, he's been one of the top three walkers in his grade every one of his four years. But all the kids impress me -- kindergarteners slogging out 15 kilometers or more -- and fifth graders walking -- no joke here -- 50K. Over 30 miles!

This year the kids impressed me again. Many took off running at the beginning -- and some kept running for 15K or more. In our family, Declan -- not yet four years old -- walked 15 kilometers. He'd jog his funny little arm-waving jog, and then slow, and then slow further, until he'd decide to sit -- and then he'd see someone he knew, or remember the promise of the popsicle, and he'd stand up and take off running again.

Catie, meanwhile, suffered the same trouble as last year, as her feet began to ache terribly after 16 laps. She'd been determined to walk more than last year's 21, so she was horribly disappointed, actually crying "because I didn't meet my goal." (You can see how seriously these kids take this!) After she rested for awhile, Karen talked with her, and encouraged her to try a little at a time, which she did...and by the end of the day she'd walked 22 laps.

Mack, meanwhile, took some time finding his stride, as it were, first trying to keep up with other kids who were running, and sinking deep into frustration when he wasn't able to do so. But eventually he found a walking partner who wanted to approach the walk the same way he was -- steady -- and after beginning to limp with a sore foot after just 20 laps, he and his friend plugged away until they'd walked 31 laps, with about 30 minutes to go. They'd both set a goal of walking the most in the class, and they figured they needed 35 to do so; this also would have put them 3 laps ahead of their previous year's total.

With an hour to go Mack was a wreck, covering a lap every half hour, trudging along with a definite limp and a slight hunch in his back. But upon receiving word that his goal of 35 was possible, he kicked it into gear. He and his buddy picked up the pace considerably, cheering each other on with such wholesome encouragement that it seemed like caricature. With three laps needed and 20 minutes to, they decided that they only needed to start the 35th lap before time ended, before the starting gate closed, and broke into a jog, Mack unable to bend his legs for the soreness, but nonetheless moving about three times as fast as he had been earlier.

With two laps and just over ten minutes to go, Mack turned to his friend and said, completely earnest, "We can do this." To which his friend replied, "We will do this." I spent those last two laps close to tears; I felt like I was watching Hoosiers.

I kept one eye on my watch until it was clear that they'd make it; indeed, Mack and his friend walked through the starting gate and began their 35th lap with three minutes to spare. There was just one kid behind them, and they talked a bit about not wanting to be the last ones to finish. I reminded them that it didn't matter, that most of the kids had stopped walking long ago, and that they should enjoy their last lap as slowly as they wanted. But they'd started smelling the barn, and they completed the last lap nearly as quickly as the couple of previous ones.

As I walked through the finishing gate with them, I felt like there should be a crowd to cheer them on, to welcome them back -- but for all their determination, their feat wasn't particularly special, not on a day when other kids walked as far or farther; when parents volunteered for six hours or more on a Saturday; when the students, with parents' and others' help, raised tens of thousands of dollars.

That said, I'm proud as hell of my kids, and yes, particularly of Mack. If there's one thing I want to see in my kids, far more than raw talent, it's determination, and I saw it at the Walkathon.

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Sunday, March 22, 2009

Anger on the Rough Streets of Menlo Park

I was fortunate enough to be able to steal away for a lunchtime ride between meetings on the Peninsula last Thursday, so I joined the renowned "Noon Ride," which winds through the very affluent Silicon Valley communities of Palo Alto, Menlo Park, Woodside and Portola Valley. The ride is a serious one (though not as fast as it was ten years ago, it seems), with local racers taking up space well outside the bike lane to gain advantage going into the unwritten, but well-heeded sprint points.

As the ride wound down we descended the length of Sand Hill Road, pedaling easily past the VC firms; a number of guys rode in the right-hand traffic lane. Sure enough, a couple of cars honked -- and not with light "excuse me" double-taps, but full lay-ons. It's an unnerving sound when you're on a bike; but then, if you're riding in the car lane when there's a 15-foot bike lane, shouldn't you expect it?

Sure enough, an angry exchange ensued. A couple of guys shouted at the honkers, one of whom was a kid of about 17 driving a yellow convertible muscle car. Both drivers shouted back, and the insults got ugly. F-bombs sidewindered back and forth, middle fingers were raised, crotches were grabbed; one rider pulled the classic double-middle-finger-point-at-the-chamois’d-crotch. Both sides showed serious, hateful ire; there was nothing lighthearted about this, nothing playful.

Cylists yelled at the kid: "When's the car due back to your dad?" (Not that funny, I thought; pretty banal.) The kid yelled back, "How old are you? You're f---ing old!" (Sort of funny, since we really are pretty old.) At each of three lights we'd catch back up, and the vitriol would start flying again; soon it spread to other cars, including a woman in an iconic Mercedes SUV with an iconic bandage over her evidently recently-improved nose (and I'm thinking, "This is what a recession looks like?").

I rode away from the group, imagining the scene erupting into one of those disasters I've read about. As I did so, I couldn't help but think: (1) We cyclists were in the wrong, riding in a traffic lane; yes, the drivers overreacted -- we didn't slow anyone down -- but they didn't endanger anyone, while we did; (2) What in God's name were we going to accomplish with some heated exchange? There's no teaching anyone anything in that situation. At best we piss each other off and create more tension between cyclists and drivers; at worst someone gets angry enough that inuries or arrests result; and (3) This is happening in Menlo Park? Is this a place where people need to feel such profound anger? This felt like deep, urban bitterness, class hatred-type stuff, and it's going down between guy on a $5,000 bike and a woman in a $50,000 car?

I was embarrassed, frankly. I'd expect better from the smart people I tend to meet on these rides. But wearing my Team Oakland kit, I also felt proud; I just don't see riders in my 'hood taking things that far.

Friday, March 20, 2009

Happy 40th, Karen!

Actually, Karen's 40th birthday was two days ago -- but tonight we're hosting a small party, so I'm taking this opportunity to blog-wish her a happy day.

I try to avoid schlock in these posts, so I'll make the briefest of mentions here that Karen is an incredible person, someone who packs love for her family, compassion for people in our community and beyond, a genuine determination to better herself -- and a lot of fun -- into every day. She works tirelessly on behalf of our kids, their schools, our neighborhood and people far, far away. Sometimes I wish she'd say "no" more -- but then I realize that what drives her isn't an unwillingness or inability to do so, but a genuine desire to work for others. And that's about as good as people get.

Happy 40th birthday, Karen!

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Contador

Taking a moment to write not out of personal experience, but out of my rear end: I see that Alberto Contador won the first stage of the Paris-Nice stage race -- and won it handily, beating time trial specialists Brad Wiggins and David Millar by eight seconds over a five-and-a-half mile course. To this, my response is: Uh-uh. I don't think so.

If there's one thing we've learned in recent years it's that if it looks like doping, it's probably doping. When a little-known rider emerges to win the Tour's polka-dot jersey, he's on something; when a polka-dot jersey winner transforms himself into a Lance-esque all-rounder -- and wins mountain stages without appearing winded -- he's doped.

And when a twiggy little climber like Contador powers through a prologue like Cancellara...it's just not natural. That's like a Kenyan marathoner showing up and winning the Olympic 400 meters.

I obviously have no evidence to support this. Contador was implicated in the Puerto affair, but then, who wasn't?

But as LeMond says, there are certain things the body just isn't able to do, not naturally. I don't know if Contador will ever be busted; he won't be while he's riding on Lance's team. But I'd put money on something untoward going on here.

Monday, March 09, 2009

A Dad's Odyssey


Every over-30 cyclist I know struggles to find time to train. Dads, even more so.

It's such a constant refrain that it borders on the banal: If I had more time to train, I'd be faster. If only I could ride more.

What goes without saying -- for most of us -- is that we all elected to make a trade-off, and given the opportunity, none of us would trade back. (I do know one guy who likely wouldn't make that trade; he's the fastest racer/dad I know, and he recently told me that he's pretty sure that the next time he sees his wife will be at a bike race -- because she knows she can find him there, to serve him with divorce papers.)

Though not on a micro-, incremental level; I'm not about to write that "I'll trade any minute on the bike for a minute with my kids." Minutes and hours on the bike make it a lot easier to remain patient when with the kids. Sometimes I push past the point of marital comfort, but only slightly, and never irrecoverably.

Most of all, we dad/racers become very adept with creative training. Occasionally I'll see a guy grunting up a steep hill near here, towing a trailer full of kids (and snacks, and books, and Gameboys...), eying his heart rate monitor through the sweat dripping from inside his helmet, and I think, "Dad. Racer. I admire him."

Take last weekend. Saturday was jammed with priorities, and Sunday promised heavy rain. So I:

...awoke and helped Mack get ready to spend the entire day at his Odyssey of the Mind competition. Karen's parents, who judged the competition, drove away with him at 6:30.

...spent the rest of the morning helping Karen get Catie and Declan ready, for chorus practice and friend's birthday party, respectively. (Admittedly, had Declan not been going to this all-day party, this all would have proven even trickier.)

...hopped on my bike at 8:30 and rode out to Pleasant Hill, exactly 20 miles and 60 minutes away. I took the first climb easy, but then picked out riders ahead of me along the route, picking each one off, picturing my teammates off at a road race in the Central Valley, and determined to ride every bit as hard and long as them.

...spent 45 minutes watching Mack's team's problem-solving exercise ("Shockwave") in which (as a first-time entry) they exceeded expectations by supporting 50 pounds with an 18-ounce balsa wood structure (not bad for a bunch of third graders!).

...greeted Karen and Catie, fresh from chorus and on to round two of Odyssey -- Catie competed as well -- and then pedaled away, this time at full time-trial pace the entire trip back.

...once home, and now starting to feel some fatigue, grabbed my commuter bag with pre-queued iPod and sped down to San Leandro to lead a Spinning Nation group at the Java Gym. I had 35 minutes to get there -- if I wanted any time at all to set up. It took me 28 minutes of hammering, and I arrived just in time to greet my class and the gym's proprietors (my "bosses"). In front of all of them I managed to drop my iPod three times, including once when the cord wrapped around my axle no fewer than seven times as I pedaled; queue up the wrong playlist twice; and get blindsided by a full-on bonk 30 minutes into class, nearly tumble off the bike, weave over to the Clif Bar stowed in my bag and then return and resume a high-cadence drill -- all while speaking through my headset/microphone.

...changed out of my sopping-sweaty shorts and t-shirt, resign myself to recovery pace for the ride home, and slogged the 45 minutes of most uphill riding home.

...ate about five pieces of pizza, drank two full bottles, and then weeded the front yard.

...after hearing from Karen that she and the kids would stick around for the awards ceremony, poured myself a hefty glass of red wine -- and then sat down to TurboTax and finished filing for '08.

NOT that I deserve any credit; Karen does, and her parents do, and so do the kids. I managed to show a little support, but even a day like this one is mostly an indulgence. It was exhausting, but exhilarating, and yes, I felt every bit as tired as if I'd spent the day racing.