THE greatest comeback in sports

If you missed the Floyd Landis solo 80 mile attack (see image above) on Stage 17 of the Tour de France, you missed one of the greatest comebacks in sports history. After "cracking" (and I mean crack--even I could have beat him up the moutain) on stage 16 to La Toussuire Les Sybelles, Landis somehow mentally and physically recovered overnight, planning and then executing the ludicrous move of taking on the entire peloton all on his own with 80 miles of torturous climbs and dangerou descents ahead.

I'm in awe. Landis, in one day, gave us something Lance the invincible could not: the unexpected, the incomprehensible, from the dregs of defeat to the heights of winning. All of this and more was communicated in "the look"* he had on his face as he crossed the finish line and rose his fist in the air. It brought shivers down my spine: more than confident, more than jubilant, something special that only comes after facing head on despair and defeat only to defy all expectation the next day to conquer them both. His look wasn't about winning the stage but rather to say, "I'm back and I'm going to win this whole damn thing." This was confirmed in the post-race interview when asked if he was excited about today's stage win: "I don't care about that. I want to win the tour." Winning a single stage in the Tour de France is the highlight for many top cyclists; this was Landis' first stage win in the Tour but he did not even care.

Check out the last "real" stage, the time trial on Saturday. Landis must make up 30 seconds on the Yellow Jersey to win. Should be easy (he beat Peirero by 1:40 in the first time trial and he had a bike problem) but you never know in this post-Lance Tour era.

*inexplicably I can't find an image of him crossing the line--I was sure it would be front page.

An ode to Men

What an amazing three day weekend. I can barely walk down stairs, my eyes are but narrow slits because of the lack of sleep, and my every foible and weakness has been ridiculed; still it's all worth it, every pain and ache, every bit of tiredness, and every personal dig.

Saturday I left for Great Basin National Park with three friends from our book club. I can't think of three better guys--honest, spiritual, yet comfortable being Men. That is eager to engage in the not-so-secret arts of manhood--cutting sarcasm and one-ups-manship, good old junior high grossness, and frank discussion about life and sex. Doesn't get any better in my book.

Saturday morning we mountain biked in the desert; then we ascended to 10,000 ft to set up camp at Wheeler Peak campground. That evening we hiked to the glacier on the east side of Wheeler Peak. The anomaly of snow in the summer makes me giddy and “skiing” down was par excellance.

Sunday we hiked Wheeler Peak (13,063 ft)—from 10k to 13k in three miles, the last mile of rock nearly going straight up into the sky. On the way home we stopped for the second time at one of the three restaurants in Baker and the only one open on Sunday—T and D’s. You can only imagine the fun with had with that name.

I got home at about 9pm and immediately started preparing for my next manly activity (I know, females do it too but it's still different)6:15 am departure to Wasatch Blvd where I was to meet Aaron for a kick in the ass hill workout. I thought about bailing--so exhausted--but didn't want to be a wimp. Our plan was to climb two or three (I was always thinking two) SLC canyons. My plan after 10 minutes of riding on my sorry ass tired sore legs (Wheeler Peak was less than 24 hrs old) was to turn around and go back home to my bed. Fortunately the soreness dissipated.

First we climbed Little Cottonwood canyon, a full hour plus of climbing. What a beautiful canyon, what an exhilarating descent: 40-50+ mph all the way with few cars. Next we took on Big Cottonwood, another hour and half of climbing, much tougher of course, with lactic acid from LCC already in our legs and the temperature reaching into the 90s. My legs cracked at Solitude but I finished it out even though Aaron had become a small red dot ahead of me (Aaron once climbed these two plus Millcreek in 6 hrs). To put it mildly the descent sucked—I could barely manage to get into an aggressive downhill stance for a few minutes at a time. All I wanted was to survive. Thank God Aaron waited for me at the bottom and shepherded (i.e. I hugged his wheel and never let go) me back along Wasatch blvd over the last 5 or so miles.

All in all: 64.60 miles in 4:41, average speed: 13.8, max speed: 51.3, approx. elevation gain: 6'000 ft. I sure love being able to measure out, to the tenth, second and foot, the day’s activities—sometimes meaning can be fastidiously calculated and stamped into reality. Long live concrete tangible, male-like, goals.

If I can have a weekend like this every few years for the rest of my life, I think I can pull through to the End and maybe even do some of it with a smile on my face. It's a good day to be a Man.

Porcupine hill climb

As a recovering runner (in the tradition of a recovering alcoholic), I've taken up cycling this summer. I've always used cycling to cross train for running and one summer even did a century ride and one citizen's race, but this year I've decided to try out category racing. As with many new things, it's been tougher than I thought it would be. At the Porcupine hill climb up Big Cottonwood Canyon to Brighton, my first race, I hoped to get under 1 hr 10 min and place in the CAT 5 racers (the lowliest of the racing classes) but wasn't successful. Instead I finished in 1:13:49 (though I'm listed in 1:18 something--they got my number wrong which, even though I hate to admit it, bothers me). The journey has been fun as I've learned a lot about cycling just in time for the Tour de France. Still there have been a few rough spots too: my crash in the MS ride, being dropped from a training peloton of racers out west in Hooper, and making several riding etiquette faux pas (standing while in a tight slip stream, coming off the front on the right when the wind was coming from the left and certainly others I'm unaware of).



Well, none of this is probably particularly interesting to anyone but how about my Porcupine hillclimb photo? Nice tongue, eh? I guess it's my trademark. Early on in my life friends noticed (to my embarrassment) that I would stick my tongue out as I skied, moving it from side to side as I turned and, in general, whenever I had to accomplish a difficult physical task. I'm not sure why the tongue comes out. Good thing I've never bitten it off. Funny, though, how it really hurt me when someone made fun of me (I remember my good friend Corey mimicking me) and how now I can't imagine why I even cared. Too bad big MJ wasn't playing basketball at the time--I could have tied my tongue donning to greatness.

Testimony not borne

Many people today have used the phrase “I’m thankful for our freedoms.” I would also use this phrase to describe how I feel about my country but my definition of these “freedoms” would focus on what I believe is the most important freedom. I’m most thankful that I live in a country where, by and large, protest is protected, protest of war, protest of the government, protest and even hate for a president. In Mormon-speak we often refer to the US as the promised land. I believe the essence of a promised land is one that affords us the freedom to speak out without fear of death or violence from our government.

Even though the public may not know “everything” going on in a war or crisis situation, it’s clear that many times our government does get it wrong. Not so long ago our government supported the persecution, murder, and expulsion of members of our own faith. It’s too bad that more citizens didn’t take their patriotism—their commitment to freedom and justice—more seriously; if they had there would have been demonstrations in support of Mormons spread out from Nauvoo to Palmyra. I hope we remember our divine right to speak out against injustice and even immorality. Many of you, if I recall correctly, took up this right with much vigor, sometimes with more vigor than suited my tastes, in criticizing President Clinton. Even though I often didn’t agree with the rhetoric of impeachment and complete moral failure, I would defend your rights to protest what you saw as immoral and wrong.

I pray we would all defend this right, not only when we agree with the position taken, but even when we do not. If one has held onto to some sort of hope that what Bush did in Iraq was moral, I certainly expect this individual would not deny anyone the right to question, to protest, to disagree with our president. Being patriotic, which we often discuss as a religious duty, allows, even demands, that we give support to what we see as truth and justice, never yielding to blind support of a political party, our country, our president.

My father fought in Vietnam from 1966-68. While I’m grateful to the citizens who supported him personally in the short-term as a soldier, I wish more citizens, more Saints, had supported him in the long-term by protesting the war. If only Vietnam—a war started on false pretenses in the Gulf of Tonkin—had ended a few years earlier, then maybe I’d have that part of my father whhich is now gone and ruined: the emotional void I sometimes see in his face and the occasional tear he has shed after one too many. And maybe the emotional connection I yearned for as a child would have been realized. I too am thankful for our freedoms but let us not imagine that our freedoms are always, or even mostly, threatened from some outside enemy. When patriotism is not allowed to include dissension and critique, our promised land status is put into peril.

Bloggin in my mind

After a long hiatus I finally blogged a week or so ago, which turned on the blogger thought process. Many a blog I have composed in my head over the last week or so but not a one have I written down. I don't have time to compose them all so I will ask for you input in order to help me make the crucial decision of what to blog. Here are a few blog ideas floating around in my head:

#1 "Testimony not born": after listening to several flag waving testimonies last Sunday and my Bishop's admonishment to "not question our political leaders and the war because they know things we don't," I composed a point by point (in my head) rebuttal type testimony, a testimony of protest, on several levels, as it were.

#2 "Biting off more than I can chew (pedal in this case)": one more extreme athletic event--50 mile bike ride where I got dropped from the peleton--where I overestimate my ability. Will I ever be able to concede I'm not as athletic as I think I am or that I once was and that (let those terrible words be said) indeed I am aging?

#3 "I hugged my dad twice!": Overcoming fear and trepidation, I have successfully, after 20 years of uncomfortable goodbyes, hugged my dad after our last two get togethers--my sister's wedding and a trip to the cabin.

Each blog idea sounded better in my head than it does now in bald faced type. Interesting that my three ideas are each caught up in a major theme in my life: religious anxiety, extreme exercise obsession, and father-son relationships. If I could just figure out these few issues, I think I'd be happy as a clam.