I watched the movie "An Inconvenient Truth" early this morning, and I must say that it had a deep impact on me. And in truth no part of me would even say that I am surprised it had a deep impact either. I think part of the reason that I have delayed watching the film, is that I realized early on how large of an impact the movie would likely have on me, and deliberately choose not to watch so I could keep living my life the way that I was. Willful blindness I believe is what academics call that, one helluva useful adaptive skill if you ask me. What I find most damning about a film like that though, is not the fact that I as the Joe Schmo-consumer out there am horrified and depressed by all the findings (the one part I didn't buy into was at the end of the film with all the hopeful, positive steps that could be taken, because I know full well that even if we do that, there is no way in hell that China will ever play along), I think that is frankly to be expected. I am more shocked and outraged that the people in charge of this country, in charge of the science behind these findings and who have real power to actually begin to make these changes are willing to do so f-ing little.
The one thing to me that the new Bush administration has shown is how easily democracy can be thwarted in a busy and vibrant country like the United States. The analogy of the frog boiling slowly in the water is I think spot on. Surround people with enough creature comforts, bury them in a ceaseless supply of escapism opportunities in the forms of TV shows, blockbuster movies, video games complete with a pantheon of its celebrities, and what do you get - a contented mass stricken by societal ADD that is incapable of focusing any attention on the long-term. I guess it is no surprise then that our polictical system has adapted to take advantage of this situation. Our antiquated two-party structure is unable to intelligently and honestly debate and discuss any single issue, even the low hanging fruit. No one has the attention span to care enough about anything. Part of me laughs at times, because when you step back it is kinda funny. It is so remarkably easy to get away with stuff, because the egregious is never fairly punished. But it is also embarrassing, and we as a country should be ashamed of ourselves. What misplaced pride we have.
I wish there was an index out there in the financial world that could bet against humanity, because I would love nothing more to short man. We really are poised on a precipice right now with so many forces conspring to smite us. We have internal man-on-man terrorist pressures who aspire for a nuclear posterity, we have nasty bugs and viruses evolving in an environment with super-charged evolutionary pressures encouraged by our overpopulation, undernutrition and misuse of so-called wonder drugs, we have the catacylsmic force of natural disaster - hurricane, earthquake, volcano, sea-level rise, air-borne pollution - working to systematically take out the foundation of our societies. And what forces do we have working for us? Cassandras abound because there is no political will to hear messages that are depressing and require long-term sacrifice. And with the increased understanding of human frailities, comes the increased ability to take rhetorical advantage of our human weaknesses and let the forces of inertia rule.
But such fatalism really is neither honorable nor productive. The stakes are too high. Being right and correspondingly rich doesn't cut it if it means that you have lost everything. For what does it profit a man to gain the world and lose his soul? Perhaps the most provactive line in the Bible, that great work of historical fiction. The sad thing is that I too know I am indirectly guilty of not living up to my understood (and now documented) sense of responsibility. In the face of so many awesome challenges, it is so hard to pick any one thing to focus on that it can be easier to pick none. So instead I have thus far chosen to work hard, do what I can in my personal life to live up to a higher standard, and pray that someone else comes along willing to take the fight up to the next level. In that sense, I do find the figure of almost-President Gore to be inspiring, at least he is putting his chips on the table and making a statement. But as a young-ish person without that clout, it just seems so impossible to make a real difference.
I don't believe that America's greatness has been an accident of fate. Certainly our natural resources and relative geographic isolation from war-torn Europe have been major benefits, but to me that is only half the story. In my opinion, the greatest asset we have had is that we have been inordinately blessed with the quality of our early leadership. The vision and integrity of the Founding Fathers (with notable exceptions of course), set this country on its impressive course. And when such events in history occurred where we were called upon to act together as a single people, most notably World War II, we responded.
Yet, the latter-half of the 20th Century, perhaps as a result of our unique position following World War II, has been a time of much less nobleness. I think in many ways both William J. Clinton and George W. Bush represent the two extremes of our country's modern persona. Clinton's unsurpassed mix of charisma and intelligence was ultimately marred by his utter lack of a moral compass, and Bush's folksy, keep it simple, real American straight-talk was corrupted by its lack of introspection and anti-intellectualism, and ultimately perverted by its inability to discern false (if not downright evil) prophets. They are both symptomic of how the United States has lost its way. It is my personal belief that the stakes have been raised for humanity, and our course as a species will be radically determined by who steps in to fill the current crisis in world leadership.
CJ
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Home, Sweet Home
So after a 16-hour flight, I have made it back to America, more specifically back to my mom's couch in the un-airconditioned apartment. What is a 31-year old doing sleeping on the couch in the "prime" of his career anyway? Thinking of investment ideas I suppose, or just wrestling with his jetlag or some other demons.
I have spent a lot of time recently reading about religion, which I guess isn't surprising given the crossroads that I am at in my life. I must say that the more time that I spend thinking about tough life issues, the more confident and comfortable I am in my aetheism. Everything just makes so much more sense without a God. Is that counter-intuitive? I'll say it again though, everything just has so much more clarity. I view the cultural phenomona of religion as an unwanted by-product of other more important social (evolutionary) advantages, and nothing more. Certainly it acts as no panacea as advertised. And the truly ironic thing, is that I feel that religion more often than not simply gets in the way of being a good person and doing the right thing, by applying indiscriminate, and usually arbitrary rules to any such decision. I honestly just don't get it, and feel that at this point in my life, I am going to shut the book on this question and move on to grow in different ways. Pretty stupid I suppose to put this down on paper, as the only person around who might read it, is the one who would least want to hear it, but that's what you do when you are tired and your judgement is off.
In flying back today to New York, I sort of realized that while it is great to be with my family and talk to my friends here in the States, my experiment in foreign living at the age of 20 coupled with my dissatisfaction growing up in NYC has effectively displaced, nay, globalized me, and that my home now lies elsewhere. If anything, I no longer have and possibly never really ever had a single concept of home. I am a home-whore when it comes down to it. Wherever I go frankly feels a bit like home - NYC, Boston, Chatham, Taipei, Hong Kong, KL, Singapore, Vilnius, Beijing to name a few places. I cannot decide if this is a profound realization, or just some new-age type drivel, but perhaps my answer is that I do always need to be moving, to always be changing and to always be adapting. In thinking about my next step, I keep trying to ask myself, OK, what next, what is my next 5-year or 10-year plan, what am I willing to commit myself to? But in truth, I think I am trying to put a square peg in a round hole. I don't think that my definition of happiness works like that - I appreciate new experiences and new sensations too much. I am deathly scared of routine and complacency. Those concepts scare me to my bone. And it is more from this fear that I believe I routinely blow up whatever comfortable existence I am able to forge for myself, like pushing a giant reset button on a video game console in which you have pre-selected too many cheat codes so the game becomes too darn easy.
I am however getting excited about the prospect of a new life and a new career. I get the feeling that this time around in Hong Kong, things will be very different, and hopefully the pieces in my life will finally start to come together a little bit more, just like the "Winnie the Pooh" jigsaw puzzles of my youth. I have faith, in myself to be clear, that the details will all work themselves on out. INSEAD would have been a fun time, but I think my life demands something else.
Signing out,
CJ
I have spent a lot of time recently reading about religion, which I guess isn't surprising given the crossroads that I am at in my life. I must say that the more time that I spend thinking about tough life issues, the more confident and comfortable I am in my aetheism. Everything just makes so much more sense without a God. Is that counter-intuitive? I'll say it again though, everything just has so much more clarity. I view the cultural phenomona of religion as an unwanted by-product of other more important social (evolutionary) advantages, and nothing more. Certainly it acts as no panacea as advertised. And the truly ironic thing, is that I feel that religion more often than not simply gets in the way of being a good person and doing the right thing, by applying indiscriminate, and usually arbitrary rules to any such decision. I honestly just don't get it, and feel that at this point in my life, I am going to shut the book on this question and move on to grow in different ways. Pretty stupid I suppose to put this down on paper, as the only person around who might read it, is the one who would least want to hear it, but that's what you do when you are tired and your judgement is off.
In flying back today to New York, I sort of realized that while it is great to be with my family and talk to my friends here in the States, my experiment in foreign living at the age of 20 coupled with my dissatisfaction growing up in NYC has effectively displaced, nay, globalized me, and that my home now lies elsewhere. If anything, I no longer have and possibly never really ever had a single concept of home. I am a home-whore when it comes down to it. Wherever I go frankly feels a bit like home - NYC, Boston, Chatham, Taipei, Hong Kong, KL, Singapore, Vilnius, Beijing to name a few places. I cannot decide if this is a profound realization, or just some new-age type drivel, but perhaps my answer is that I do always need to be moving, to always be changing and to always be adapting. In thinking about my next step, I keep trying to ask myself, OK, what next, what is my next 5-year or 10-year plan, what am I willing to commit myself to? But in truth, I think I am trying to put a square peg in a round hole. I don't think that my definition of happiness works like that - I appreciate new experiences and new sensations too much. I am deathly scared of routine and complacency. Those concepts scare me to my bone. And it is more from this fear that I believe I routinely blow up whatever comfortable existence I am able to forge for myself, like pushing a giant reset button on a video game console in which you have pre-selected too many cheat codes so the game becomes too darn easy.
I am however getting excited about the prospect of a new life and a new career. I get the feeling that this time around in Hong Kong, things will be very different, and hopefully the pieces in my life will finally start to come together a little bit more, just like the "Winnie the Pooh" jigsaw puzzles of my youth. I have faith, in myself to be clear, that the details will all work themselves on out. INSEAD would have been a fun time, but I think my life demands something else.
Signing out,
CJ
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Singapore Sling
So I am sitting here at the Ritz Carlton hotel in Singapore contemplating what will be my next step in life, and also privately weighing how good of an idea it is to publicly opine on such questions, especially as part of a first-time blog entry. The issues at stake are large. School or job? Hong Kong or Singapore? Love or money? Well, that last one isn't really in question, I just thought it sounded cool. Big questions with weighty implications.
And at the same time I run through these internal cost-benefit computations I have decided to start a blog. I must admit that the man-journal with which I typically funnel my excess thought - read insecurities, self-delusions and occasional predictions- is more than a little jealous. Perhaps it's just pissed that I am able to type so much faster than I am able to pen by hand, though it would be a lie to say that something isn't lost in the ever variable yet consistently inelegant style of my handwriting.
I am worried that I have become soft in the stupor brought on by the twin threats of unemployment-induced diminished commitment and reduced responsibility, and maybe the task of (daily) writing is just the sort of discipline to keep the mind sharp and the senses acute. I have become excited about reading again, and am currently in the middle of four books actually. In truth, I just finished the worst one about an hour ago. It would see my predilection for saving the best for last also shows itself in my literary pursuits.
But back to the main question of next steps. I will have a lot of time to think about these things on the plane, so perhaps it is premature to jump ahead and put things on virtual paper now. The good news is that I'm sure no one will read this, and I imagine that even if published, such writing could be amended, though I haven't read the fineprint on this point. But who doesn't change their mind from time to time?
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Triathlon - Part Deux
And now, back by unpopular demand, comes the telling of the triathlon story - part deux. Only promise I make is that it won’t be as long as last year’s because I don’t have the patience to write it, and you, based on considerable feedback from last year, don’t have the patience to read it. (Note - doing final reread and this paragraph may no longer be true. Somehow became damn long.)
This time around the triathlon was, as the Spanish say, a completely different enchilada. Gone was the wonderment associated with race day. Gone was that strange admixture of adrenalin and animal fear. Gone also were the hurricane force winds. And while the fear of sharks (and a new Post-Irwinian fear of manta rays) was still present, it too had been mostly mastered.
In setting the stage for the race, it is probably worthwhile to spend a few paragraphs relating the events leading up to the weekend. Four days before departing to Florida, I returned from a grueling, trans-Pacific whirlwind of a trip that had me visiting both Hong Kong and Singapore. So in addition to a burgeoning waistline brought on by some of the tastiest dining in Asia, I was also battling this pesky, little thing called jet lag.
Upon returning home, I still had a ton off last-minute todos. Firstly, I needed to send my bike to the racing shop with the rest of the Team in Training participants so it could be shipped down to Florida. Only the catch was that the last time that I had used my trusty steed was exactly 366 days ago - Race Day 2006. By all accounts, I am quite the cyclist. $1,500 for bike and associated gear, with three trips logged. Clearly should have rented. The tires were completely flat (as in airless), and as you may recall, my gears grinded and needed to be re-aligned (hell, over the course of 25 miles that adds up to vital seconds off my time which could translate into the difference between 3854th and 3840th place). Fortunately, the trusty men of Jake’s bike shop on the Upper East Side were able to take care of it, and for $8 bucks no less. They didn’t even give me too hard a time when I ripped off the 2006 St. Anthony’s stickum tag still attached to my bike and inquired about their cheapest bike helmet (Paul took back his loaner) while at the shop.
In the days preceding the flight down to Florida, I also did a lot of things that seemed like good, if not great, ideas at the time that I would later come to regret. For example, on the Thursday before Sunday’s race, I did my own New York City poor man’s version of a mini-triathlon at the Time Warner Equinox. I wanted to test my sea legs out and see how putting all the events together would feel, perhaps a way to assuage pre-race anxiety. 1.1 mile swim, 18 mile bike ride and 3.7 mile run. I’m no fitness guru, but that was probably a terrible idea. Right shin splint - aggravated, energy level - depleted as you don’t bounce back at 31 like you do at 21. As I was also to re-learn, practicing in a 68F degree (20C for you foreigners) air-conditioned environment is not comparable to similar such exercise in 88F (31C) degree scorching, windless heat. New York’s endless freezing-cold spring didn’t help much either.
Another brilliant idea was to get drunk at my friend’s 30th birthday party the night before flying down to Florida. After Zum Schneider’s, I returned home to pack up all my gear since I am a last minute type of guy. Must be the latent banker in me, procrastinate then produce. I also was still wide awake due to the cerebral confusion induced by the aforementioned jet lag.
Friday morning also began with a bang (warning, terrible pun alert). It was one of those wonderful nights where the heavens just open up and lightening and thunder rain from the sky, setting off car alarms that even I could hear from my apartment on the 28th floor. I saw one of the longest lightening bolts I had ever seen from my (still embarrassingly curtainless) windows. Only downside to this heavenly pyrotechnic display was the 2-hour long flight delay it caused later that morning.
The flight down to Florida was relatively uneventful, except for the delay. It was the first time I had ever flown on Jet Blue and I got to tell you I became a fan. Despite a boarding pass that looked as if it were printed on the back of a supermarket receipt, the company apparently knows where to put its money to good use - on solid planes with efficient seat layouts that offer superior legroom capable of servicing a population as long-legged and fat as America’s. Now if they could only bribe JOKE air traffic control to get priority flight routes that leave on time like the big boys do.
On the flight, I sat next to a fellow TNTer who worked at UBS in their CDO group and his girlfriend. We bonded over terrible Satellite TV. Some show on Bravo that took people who looked decades older than they actually were and gave them a full makeover, after which they were placed in a sound-proof glass box to be paraded around a mall and subjected to the commentary and ratings of ordinary passer-byers. The goal was that the post makeover average of mall viewer age guestimates would be lower by more than a decade than the pre-makeover average. Interesting application of medical technology and statistics. Sure Hippocrates and Gauss are high-fiving it up somewhere. I would have watched Parental Control, but I had already seen both episodes (why did I just admit that?).
Eventually we landed, picked up bags, got shuttled over to the hotel and had to wait for our rooms. Paul van Hook and I were to be roomies, and the first room they pawned off on us was a smoker. The lady downstairs said it wasn’t too bad, and we would have to wait at least an hour before any non-smoking rooms would open up, and I said I would give it a try. Oh man. The room smelled as if it itself had been chain-smoking for forty years. I honestly believe George Burns himself would have choked on the air in the room. I immediately went downstairs, and we were able to finagle a non-smoker. Thank God. Not sure I would have survived the night in that pit otherwise. My lungs involuntarily have just winced three times just in the writing of this paragraph.
Also worth mentioning here is that this triathlon was structurally different than last year’s. This time around I was the slacker member of a group of eight guys all running the race. For many weeks now I had been CCed on countless email messages, and the group had selectively been training with each other on weekends. And waiting to reclaim our baggage was the first time we all were physically gathered in one place - thus was formed the Fellowship of the Gang of Eight, a select group of New York-based finance professionals dedicated to kicking ass while curing cancer. Led by our mentor, Paul “If only I could swim” van Hook, the team included - Dave “Euro-Speedo” Klug, Brett “Smooth-talking” Hickey, Emir Senturk (whose name is its own nickname), Andrew “the Sandman” Sandberg (I know, also too easy), Bradley ‘Too Sexy” Yale, Raph “Define Girlfriend” Tse, and myself, Chris “Missing in Action” Jackson. And of course it is only fitting that the opening salvos were fired while riding in the back of the shuttle bus to the hotel. Juvenile setting perhaps appropriate for the juvenile conversations to follow.
Post hotel check-in, we went down to the ocean practice swim wetsuits in hand. Sadly, at this point of the story, I need to confess a personal failing that has quietly festered into a full-blown character flaw. Since the race last year, I have completely broken down and now actually feel unabashedly comfortable parading around in my tri-shorts. (There I said it. Don’t want to dwell on it, but also didn’t feel comfortable hiding it anymore. I just hope people will still look at me for who I am…)
One discovery down at the beach was that the wetsuit I had from last year now truly felt like a tourniquet around my chest. I’m not sure if it shrunk or I just had become huge, but simply breathing on land was a struggle. However, I still ultimately decided to wear it as I was told the trade-off between extra buoyancy outweighed the constricted oxygen and limited arm movement. Still not sure on that score. Following the swim, we walked back to the room, freshened up and went out to tasty Italian food at the nearest mall. Group of Eight plus three members of the fairer sex, consisting of two girlfriends and a mom.
After a good night’s sleep, we got a late start on the Saturday morning practice swim. Afterwards, I headed back to the hotel to take a call, and then I was off to meet up with my mom who flew down later that morning. This year I had decided to push hard to acquire a secret weapon called family support, having seen how successfully Paul had used it to his advantage last year. Scrambled around the rest of the afternoon running race-related errands - race registration, bike drop-off. Learned I was to receive lucky number #316 and would be the first of the non-professional waves with a 7:10AM start. Only food I managed to get down was a vanilla malt and half a grilled cheese sandwich at a Johnny Rockets with the mom.
This year the pre-race all-you-can-eat pasta extravaganza started early at 4:30PM. Now I do want to vent a little bit here, as that “all-you can eat” is a total misnomer. I personally felt like Homer in the Simpsons episode where he gets kicked out of the seafood buffet, unsated, for being a remorseless shrimp-eating machine. Think I ended up scavenging for around 20 individual ziti and around 5-6 bowties, a thimbleful of tomato sauce and 1.5 cold pieces of chicken before they effectively stopped serving food. Despite my raging hunger, I also limited myself to one deliciously soft chocolate chip cookie. I was so proud of my discovery of discipline that I immediately ate another. Was less proud after that.
Feel a bit like a jerk for downplaying the dinner because while there were some great pictures in the slideshow, much hand-clapping, many a heartwarming tale of courage, ending with an inspirational sendoff, all I could think about was food. I was STARVING, and frankly I was not alone. After dinner, I and a select few members of the Gang of Eight went over to the local supermarket to stock up on last minute supplies. This meant different things for each of us. For Raph it meant a 6” sub, for Paul it meant greasy fried chicken and chicken tenders and for me it meant a giant 12” Boar’s Head roast beef and American cheese sub. Just like they recommend in Triathlon magazine.
Onto the race. Now, had I trained harder than the year before? Arguably. Was I in better overall shape? Arguably. However what was unarguable was that my mental approach to the race this time around was different. My goal was to work this bitch in under 3 hours come hell or highwater. I actually gave my mom some estimates of what I would need to get it done - I wanted a 29 minute swim, 90 minute bike and 55 minute run, with 6 minutes of combined transition times. If I could do all that, this I’d hit my sub-3 hour time.
Was a frantic buildup to the race in the morning. My mom was late meeting me, and I only was just able to meet up with her to drop off all the electronic gadgets that come to rule one’s life - cellphone, BBerry, camera and small camcorder. Barely had time to get my cap and googles in place before I was sent into the box for the countdown. My two goals to myself this time around in the swimming portion were to never stop stroking (couldn’t resist) and to try to do a better job staying close to the buoys so as not to turn a 1.5km swim into a 2.0km swim.
Horn blew and we were off. I waded through the water and struggled a bit through the first 300-400m. However, the water was beautiful and relatively calm, and after the first 400m it really felt great. Swimming has always been my favorite of the events, and the conditions couldn’t be beat, besides perhaps the unavoidable fact I was surrounded by 200 kicking and elbowing bodies who always seemed to be in my way. That being said, I never felt like I hit a particularly fluid swimming stride and I swear that wetsuit ultimately slowed me down. I muscled through the entire race fulfilling the first objective of never stopping, swam probably around 10-15% wide, and 29:10 minutes later it was over.
Next was the bike, my big wildcard for the race. I had done three spin classes a couple of months before the race, and was curious to put those three hours of training to the test in a real event. Good news was that my bike was working properly, and gear shifting would not be one of my excuses for inferior performance. I also was really proud that I managed to successfully muster up enough courage halfway through the bike ride to reach down and grab the Gatorade bottle from its holder and drink half its contents without either falling over or knocking into any other bikers. Small but meaningful victories all of them.
Last year, the bike ride was probably where I lost the most confidence; it was a tour de force of humiliation which had me passed on the left by endless streams of bikers. And they didn’t just pass with a polite head nod and gradual fade into the distance, they burned by me at a dangerous clip with a sudden “whush” type noise. That’s the downside to starting the race in the first non-professional wave - with no one slow to pass, best you can do is hold your own. However, this year I managed to hold my own a lot better. Very few whushs, and lots of head nods. Took seven minutes off my time from last year, and there’s definitely still more fat to shave off that bone.
So when I pulled in after the bike, I had no idea what time it was, as I had left my watch in Hong Kong and the US doesn’t sell watches. I thought I had moved reasonably fast, at least definitely faster than the year before, and was excited when I saw that the clock showed 1:59, after I had changed into my Nikes and started the run. This meant that so long as I could run a sub 60 minute 10km, then I should be in a pretty good shape to achieve my sub-3hr goal. Maybe I could even hit the 2:55 mark, as running was something I had done a fair bit of training for over the past few months. However, I hadn’t counted on the heat hitting me as hard as it did.
Last year, I was frustrated a bit with myself because I still had a lot of gas in my tank when I finished the race. This year, while I still was doing well on the gas front, my engine thoroughly overheated. It was just so damn hot, I could barely move the last mile. I remember the last coherent thought I had before I came to the final stretch was that I at least could take some real comfort that I put it all out there on the line for that final run and wasn’t holding back anything.
When I got to the finish line, I was scared to see what the time would be. Honestly, I had given up hope on that last mile. I knew I was not running fast, and though I had willed my legs to move and my arms to pump in runlike fashion, the truth was that a grandma in a walker would have outpaced me handily (remember just like in the beginning of Office Space). But then something amazing happened, I looked up on the final clock while the crowds were cheering me on home, and with around 100m left to go it read “3:09:12”; since I began ten minutes after the first wave of professionals that meant I could and would beat the 3-hr mark. Everything was not in vain. Honor at last would be restored to the House Jackson.
English-majors avert your gaze, many numbers to follow. Final 2007 time/stats - 163 out of 206 in Male 30-34 age group. #2142 out of 3,466 overall. Final time of 2:59:34 #102 in swim at 29:10, #183 in bike at 1:24:40, and #155 in running at 59:37. This compares favorably in every measure to 2006 time/stats: 159 out of 168 in Male 30-34 age group, #2420 out of 3,087 overall. Final time of 3:21:43. #122 in swim at 33:32, #160 in bike at 1:31:32, and #151 in run at 1:06:38. (Hadn’t fully appreciated that I was only better than 9 other guys last year. Ouch)
Still nothing to really brag about, but almost all those other dudes don’t weight 200lbs. They have a lot less to carry around than I do. Now I know one could argue that’s the point - they train in order not to weigh 200lbs, but I like to envision myself as a 140lb dude carrying a 60lb weight around his neck (and stomach) throughout the entire friggin’ race. Imagine I’m carrying a wounded 8-year old across the Florida desert over 30 miles who’ll die if he’s not rescued in under three hours. Tell me that doesn’t seem a hell of a lot more impressive. I’m sure Klug (the other big-guy in the pictures) is with me on this, though he trumped me with his bleeding feet. Think stigmata got him the night before the race. Stigmata is tricky like that.
Also, I guess in one (fanciful) interpretation, I even accomplished that crap I wrote earlier about taking 30 minutes off my time, if one views that 30 minute reference in terms of a TIVO-ed equivalent episode of a half-hour sitcom, which I implicitly assumed everyone had understood. See that, I still can rationalize with the best of them. Watch out Chuck, I’m coming for you.
So the race was over, everyone finished and was happy and feeling great. No grievous injuries to any of our team and our times all varied from semi-respectable (mine) to great (Raph’s and Paul’s running/biking time). After lounging around most of the afternoon, we reunited at the infamous Cha Cha Coconut’s club at the end of the pier for the post-race drinking festival. Old man that I was, I sat back drinking Diet Cokes and watching others’ aching quads and sore calves perform the Electric Slide. Yeah, it was one of those kinds of DJs.
Towards the end of the evening, I also distinctly recall someone in our group having the brilliant idea of getting up at the crack of dawn to watch the sunrise the next morning (like it wasn’t scenic enough that morning). Now I clearly remember thinking that this was some kind of joke, but all be damned if there wasn’t a wakeup call (actually four of them) for the room at around 6:00AM urging us to get out of bed and walk to the ocean to enjoy the sunrise. I was told this sunrise was actually witnessed by a few folks. I didn’t make it. I was tired from staying up late and, oh yeah, running a triathlon.
After coming back on Monday night, I would say that I didn’t get full closure on the race until after the Triathlete Mutual Admiration Society dinner at Peter Lugers, booked three months in advance. Steaks for 8, grilled thick slices of bacon, tomatoes and onion, saagwala-style creamed spinach and a “Holy Cow” sundae sealed the deal and made the race complete. Stogies and a post-dinner stroll over the Brooklyn Bridge at night didn’t hurt either.
As always, no type of epic journey would be complete without a moment of introspection, and the latent business man in me still thirsts for key takeaways delivered (as always) in concise bullet form:
This time around the triathlon was, as the Spanish say, a completely different enchilada. Gone was the wonderment associated with race day. Gone was that strange admixture of adrenalin and animal fear. Gone also were the hurricane force winds. And while the fear of sharks (and a new Post-Irwinian fear of manta rays) was still present, it too had been mostly mastered.
In setting the stage for the race, it is probably worthwhile to spend a few paragraphs relating the events leading up to the weekend. Four days before departing to Florida, I returned from a grueling, trans-Pacific whirlwind of a trip that had me visiting both Hong Kong and Singapore. So in addition to a burgeoning waistline brought on by some of the tastiest dining in Asia, I was also battling this pesky, little thing called jet lag.
Upon returning home, I still had a ton off last-minute todos. Firstly, I needed to send my bike to the racing shop with the rest of the Team in Training participants so it could be shipped down to Florida. Only the catch was that the last time that I had used my trusty steed was exactly 366 days ago - Race Day 2006. By all accounts, I am quite the cyclist. $1,500 for bike and associated gear, with three trips logged. Clearly should have rented. The tires were completely flat (as in airless), and as you may recall, my gears grinded and needed to be re-aligned (hell, over the course of 25 miles that adds up to vital seconds off my time which could translate into the difference between 3854th and 3840th place). Fortunately, the trusty men of Jake’s bike shop on the Upper East Side were able to take care of it, and for $8 bucks no less. They didn’t even give me too hard a time when I ripped off the 2006 St. Anthony’s stickum tag still attached to my bike and inquired about their cheapest bike helmet (Paul took back his loaner) while at the shop.
In the days preceding the flight down to Florida, I also did a lot of things that seemed like good, if not great, ideas at the time that I would later come to regret. For example, on the Thursday before Sunday’s race, I did my own New York City poor man’s version of a mini-triathlon at the Time Warner Equinox. I wanted to test my sea legs out and see how putting all the events together would feel, perhaps a way to assuage pre-race anxiety. 1.1 mile swim, 18 mile bike ride and 3.7 mile run. I’m no fitness guru, but that was probably a terrible idea. Right shin splint - aggravated, energy level - depleted as you don’t bounce back at 31 like you do at 21. As I was also to re-learn, practicing in a 68F degree (20C for you foreigners) air-conditioned environment is not comparable to similar such exercise in 88F (31C) degree scorching, windless heat. New York’s endless freezing-cold spring didn’t help much either.
Another brilliant idea was to get drunk at my friend’s 30th birthday party the night before flying down to Florida. After Zum Schneider’s, I returned home to pack up all my gear since I am a last minute type of guy. Must be the latent banker in me, procrastinate then produce. I also was still wide awake due to the cerebral confusion induced by the aforementioned jet lag.
Friday morning also began with a bang (warning, terrible pun alert). It was one of those wonderful nights where the heavens just open up and lightening and thunder rain from the sky, setting off car alarms that even I could hear from my apartment on the 28th floor. I saw one of the longest lightening bolts I had ever seen from my (still embarrassingly curtainless) windows. Only downside to this heavenly pyrotechnic display was the 2-hour long flight delay it caused later that morning.
The flight down to Florida was relatively uneventful, except for the delay. It was the first time I had ever flown on Jet Blue and I got to tell you I became a fan. Despite a boarding pass that looked as if it were printed on the back of a supermarket receipt, the company apparently knows where to put its money to good use - on solid planes with efficient seat layouts that offer superior legroom capable of servicing a population as long-legged and fat as America’s. Now if they could only bribe JOKE air traffic control to get priority flight routes that leave on time like the big boys do.
On the flight, I sat next to a fellow TNTer who worked at UBS in their CDO group and his girlfriend. We bonded over terrible Satellite TV. Some show on Bravo that took people who looked decades older than they actually were and gave them a full makeover, after which they were placed in a sound-proof glass box to be paraded around a mall and subjected to the commentary and ratings of ordinary passer-byers. The goal was that the post makeover average of mall viewer age guestimates would be lower by more than a decade than the pre-makeover average. Interesting application of medical technology and statistics. Sure Hippocrates and Gauss are high-fiving it up somewhere. I would have watched Parental Control, but I had already seen both episodes (why did I just admit that?).
Eventually we landed, picked up bags, got shuttled over to the hotel and had to wait for our rooms. Paul van Hook and I were to be roomies, and the first room they pawned off on us was a smoker. The lady downstairs said it wasn’t too bad, and we would have to wait at least an hour before any non-smoking rooms would open up, and I said I would give it a try. Oh man. The room smelled as if it itself had been chain-smoking for forty years. I honestly believe George Burns himself would have choked on the air in the room. I immediately went downstairs, and we were able to finagle a non-smoker. Thank God. Not sure I would have survived the night in that pit otherwise. My lungs involuntarily have just winced three times just in the writing of this paragraph.
Also worth mentioning here is that this triathlon was structurally different than last year’s. This time around I was the slacker member of a group of eight guys all running the race. For many weeks now I had been CCed on countless email messages, and the group had selectively been training with each other on weekends. And waiting to reclaim our baggage was the first time we all were physically gathered in one place - thus was formed the Fellowship of the Gang of Eight, a select group of New York-based finance professionals dedicated to kicking ass while curing cancer. Led by our mentor, Paul “If only I could swim” van Hook, the team included - Dave “Euro-Speedo” Klug, Brett “Smooth-talking” Hickey, Emir Senturk (whose name is its own nickname), Andrew “the Sandman” Sandberg (I know, also too easy), Bradley ‘Too Sexy” Yale, Raph “Define Girlfriend” Tse, and myself, Chris “Missing in Action” Jackson. And of course it is only fitting that the opening salvos were fired while riding in the back of the shuttle bus to the hotel. Juvenile setting perhaps appropriate for the juvenile conversations to follow.
Post hotel check-in, we went down to the ocean practice swim wetsuits in hand. Sadly, at this point of the story, I need to confess a personal failing that has quietly festered into a full-blown character flaw. Since the race last year, I have completely broken down and now actually feel unabashedly comfortable parading around in my tri-shorts. (There I said it. Don’t want to dwell on it, but also didn’t feel comfortable hiding it anymore. I just hope people will still look at me for who I am…)
One discovery down at the beach was that the wetsuit I had from last year now truly felt like a tourniquet around my chest. I’m not sure if it shrunk or I just had become huge, but simply breathing on land was a struggle. However, I still ultimately decided to wear it as I was told the trade-off between extra buoyancy outweighed the constricted oxygen and limited arm movement. Still not sure on that score. Following the swim, we walked back to the room, freshened up and went out to tasty Italian food at the nearest mall. Group of Eight plus three members of the fairer sex, consisting of two girlfriends and a mom.
After a good night’s sleep, we got a late start on the Saturday morning practice swim. Afterwards, I headed back to the hotel to take a call, and then I was off to meet up with my mom who flew down later that morning. This year I had decided to push hard to acquire a secret weapon called family support, having seen how successfully Paul had used it to his advantage last year. Scrambled around the rest of the afternoon running race-related errands - race registration, bike drop-off. Learned I was to receive lucky number #316 and would be the first of the non-professional waves with a 7:10AM start. Only food I managed to get down was a vanilla malt and half a grilled cheese sandwich at a Johnny Rockets with the mom.
This year the pre-race all-you-can-eat pasta extravaganza started early at 4:30PM. Now I do want to vent a little bit here, as that “all-you can eat” is a total misnomer. I personally felt like Homer in the Simpsons episode where he gets kicked out of the seafood buffet, unsated, for being a remorseless shrimp-eating machine. Think I ended up scavenging for around 20 individual ziti and around 5-6 bowties, a thimbleful of tomato sauce and 1.5 cold pieces of chicken before they effectively stopped serving food. Despite my raging hunger, I also limited myself to one deliciously soft chocolate chip cookie. I was so proud of my discovery of discipline that I immediately ate another. Was less proud after that.
Feel a bit like a jerk for downplaying the dinner because while there were some great pictures in the slideshow, much hand-clapping, many a heartwarming tale of courage, ending with an inspirational sendoff, all I could think about was food. I was STARVING, and frankly I was not alone. After dinner, I and a select few members of the Gang of Eight went over to the local supermarket to stock up on last minute supplies. This meant different things for each of us. For Raph it meant a 6” sub, for Paul it meant greasy fried chicken and chicken tenders and for me it meant a giant 12” Boar’s Head roast beef and American cheese sub. Just like they recommend in Triathlon magazine.
Onto the race. Now, had I trained harder than the year before? Arguably. Was I in better overall shape? Arguably. However what was unarguable was that my mental approach to the race this time around was different. My goal was to work this bitch in under 3 hours come hell or highwater. I actually gave my mom some estimates of what I would need to get it done - I wanted a 29 minute swim, 90 minute bike and 55 minute run, with 6 minutes of combined transition times. If I could do all that, this I’d hit my sub-3 hour time.
Was a frantic buildup to the race in the morning. My mom was late meeting me, and I only was just able to meet up with her to drop off all the electronic gadgets that come to rule one’s life - cellphone, BBerry, camera and small camcorder. Barely had time to get my cap and googles in place before I was sent into the box for the countdown. My two goals to myself this time around in the swimming portion were to never stop stroking (couldn’t resist) and to try to do a better job staying close to the buoys so as not to turn a 1.5km swim into a 2.0km swim.
Horn blew and we were off. I waded through the water and struggled a bit through the first 300-400m. However, the water was beautiful and relatively calm, and after the first 400m it really felt great. Swimming has always been my favorite of the events, and the conditions couldn’t be beat, besides perhaps the unavoidable fact I was surrounded by 200 kicking and elbowing bodies who always seemed to be in my way. That being said, I never felt like I hit a particularly fluid swimming stride and I swear that wetsuit ultimately slowed me down. I muscled through the entire race fulfilling the first objective of never stopping, swam probably around 10-15% wide, and 29:10 minutes later it was over.
Next was the bike, my big wildcard for the race. I had done three spin classes a couple of months before the race, and was curious to put those three hours of training to the test in a real event. Good news was that my bike was working properly, and gear shifting would not be one of my excuses for inferior performance. I also was really proud that I managed to successfully muster up enough courage halfway through the bike ride to reach down and grab the Gatorade bottle from its holder and drink half its contents without either falling over or knocking into any other bikers. Small but meaningful victories all of them.
Last year, the bike ride was probably where I lost the most confidence; it was a tour de force of humiliation which had me passed on the left by endless streams of bikers. And they didn’t just pass with a polite head nod and gradual fade into the distance, they burned by me at a dangerous clip with a sudden “whush” type noise. That’s the downside to starting the race in the first non-professional wave - with no one slow to pass, best you can do is hold your own. However, this year I managed to hold my own a lot better. Very few whushs, and lots of head nods. Took seven minutes off my time from last year, and there’s definitely still more fat to shave off that bone.
So when I pulled in after the bike, I had no idea what time it was, as I had left my watch in Hong Kong and the US doesn’t sell watches. I thought I had moved reasonably fast, at least definitely faster than the year before, and was excited when I saw that the clock showed 1:59, after I had changed into my Nikes and started the run. This meant that so long as I could run a sub 60 minute 10km, then I should be in a pretty good shape to achieve my sub-3hr goal. Maybe I could even hit the 2:55 mark, as running was something I had done a fair bit of training for over the past few months. However, I hadn’t counted on the heat hitting me as hard as it did.
Last year, I was frustrated a bit with myself because I still had a lot of gas in my tank when I finished the race. This year, while I still was doing well on the gas front, my engine thoroughly overheated. It was just so damn hot, I could barely move the last mile. I remember the last coherent thought I had before I came to the final stretch was that I at least could take some real comfort that I put it all out there on the line for that final run and wasn’t holding back anything.
When I got to the finish line, I was scared to see what the time would be. Honestly, I had given up hope on that last mile. I knew I was not running fast, and though I had willed my legs to move and my arms to pump in runlike fashion, the truth was that a grandma in a walker would have outpaced me handily (remember just like in the beginning of Office Space). But then something amazing happened, I looked up on the final clock while the crowds were cheering me on home, and with around 100m left to go it read “3:09:12”; since I began ten minutes after the first wave of professionals that meant I could and would beat the 3-hr mark. Everything was not in vain. Honor at last would be restored to the House Jackson.
English-majors avert your gaze, many numbers to follow. Final 2007 time/stats - 163 out of 206 in Male 30-34 age group. #2142 out of 3,466 overall. Final time of 2:59:34 #102 in swim at 29:10, #183 in bike at 1:24:40, and #155 in running at 59:37. This compares favorably in every measure to 2006 time/stats: 159 out of 168 in Male 30-34 age group, #2420 out of 3,087 overall. Final time of 3:21:43. #122 in swim at 33:32, #160 in bike at 1:31:32, and #151 in run at 1:06:38. (Hadn’t fully appreciated that I was only better than 9 other guys last year. Ouch)
Still nothing to really brag about, but almost all those other dudes don’t weight 200lbs. They have a lot less to carry around than I do. Now I know one could argue that’s the point - they train in order not to weigh 200lbs, but I like to envision myself as a 140lb dude carrying a 60lb weight around his neck (and stomach) throughout the entire friggin’ race. Imagine I’m carrying a wounded 8-year old across the Florida desert over 30 miles who’ll die if he’s not rescued in under three hours. Tell me that doesn’t seem a hell of a lot more impressive. I’m sure Klug (the other big-guy in the pictures) is with me on this, though he trumped me with his bleeding feet. Think stigmata got him the night before the race. Stigmata is tricky like that.
Also, I guess in one (fanciful) interpretation, I even accomplished that crap I wrote earlier about taking 30 minutes off my time, if one views that 30 minute reference in terms of a TIVO-ed equivalent episode of a half-hour sitcom, which I implicitly assumed everyone had understood. See that, I still can rationalize with the best of them. Watch out Chuck, I’m coming for you.
So the race was over, everyone finished and was happy and feeling great. No grievous injuries to any of our team and our times all varied from semi-respectable (mine) to great (Raph’s and Paul’s running/biking time). After lounging around most of the afternoon, we reunited at the infamous Cha Cha Coconut’s club at the end of the pier for the post-race drinking festival. Old man that I was, I sat back drinking Diet Cokes and watching others’ aching quads and sore calves perform the Electric Slide. Yeah, it was one of those kinds of DJs.
Towards the end of the evening, I also distinctly recall someone in our group having the brilliant idea of getting up at the crack of dawn to watch the sunrise the next morning (like it wasn’t scenic enough that morning). Now I clearly remember thinking that this was some kind of joke, but all be damned if there wasn’t a wakeup call (actually four of them) for the room at around 6:00AM urging us to get out of bed and walk to the ocean to enjoy the sunrise. I was told this sunrise was actually witnessed by a few folks. I didn’t make it. I was tired from staying up late and, oh yeah, running a triathlon.
After coming back on Monday night, I would say that I didn’t get full closure on the race until after the Triathlete Mutual Admiration Society dinner at Peter Lugers, booked three months in advance. Steaks for 8, grilled thick slices of bacon, tomatoes and onion, saagwala-style creamed spinach and a “Holy Cow” sundae sealed the deal and made the race complete. Stogies and a post-dinner stroll over the Brooklyn Bridge at night didn’t hurt either.
As always, no type of epic journey would be complete without a moment of introspection, and the latent business man in me still thirsts for key takeaways delivered (as always) in concise bullet form:
- Youth is exciting and contagious
- People need to do things for causes larger than themselves to have any hope of deriving meaning in life
- Family and friends matter most
- All metaphors comparing races to life are true
- Photo-swapping technologies are cool, and make sharing so easy they actually eliminate the need for siblings
I want to give a shout out (looks strange written, no?) to the rock-solid group of guys for making the experience so memorable. And though I run the risk of being ribbed ruthlessly in the near future for my ramble into sentimentality, I think in the end it was the constant flow of inappropriate male banter, the onslaught of ruthless zingers, and raw enthusiasm on display that made this race one of the most rewarding experiences in my life. I also want to thank the family members, girlfriends and other friends that trekked down to Florida for the weekend for cheering us on, inspiring us to race hard and, not least, putting up with and possibly even loving us.
I want to thank my mom, Nancy Jackson, for braving the elements and making the trip down to Florida. It was huge having her there for me, and I sincerely hope that she had as good a time as I had having her there. Hopefully, there was enough of a parental critical mass that it never got too boring for her, even if they did run out of her favorite whiskey at the closing dinner.
Finally, I want to thank everyone again for helping the team exceed our ambitious fund-raising target of $20K (think we hit over $28K). Bit by bit, everything we do makes a difference and that is comforting.
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