Author: kennettron

My apologies for the long hiatus. I’ve just been so busy. If you read that sentence last year you might realize it was a sarcastic statement, but this year is a whole other story. I actually am busy. So busy, in fact, that this post will have to be fairly short, like under 3,000 words. A little over a year ago when I showed up in Boulder, knowing not a soul, who would have guessed that I’d actually be able to make it out here? I mean, I have a place to live that I don’t think I’ll be leaving or getting kicked out of in the next week, I have a job and I don’t foresee my imminent fireing taking place in the next couple months, I recently took out a loan (for ultra sexy bike racing gear, not for a car or some stupid shit like that), and I even have a girlfriend? Sorry, that should have been an exclamation point but all this growing up and domestic security has taken me aback just a little. It’s actually quite nice when I think about it–having a “life” as they say.

But unfortunately it means that I haven’t had that much time to train, and I’m thinking of hanging up my race wheels for the time being. Oh wait, that’s the exact opposite of what I meant to say. Remember, I just signed away my fourth born for that bike gear (the first through the third born were traded for carnitas burritos and it’s safe to say I came out ahead on that one). Nay, I’ve been crushing the pedals with more determination than ever. So far, every year I’ve gotten more excited about racing and training, which means there’s no reason I should stop any time soon. Somehow I’ve found the time to get in 20-27 hours a week on weeks that I’m not sick–more on that NEVER. I’m gonna get sick no matter what so I might as well go hard. So, like most people, I’ve been racking up the Long Fast Distance miles, because who the hell’s idea was it that LSD is good for a sport that requires you to go fast? Shiiiit. Wise Guru Ex-Coach Sam Ginsing, maybe I do need you after all to tell me to take a chill pill and ride slower and less!!

I just received a bunch of warnings about overdoing it and a lot of world class advice on training and human physiology from none other than Andy Pruitt and Neal Henderson, who are two pretty big-time dudes in the cycling world if you don’t recognize the names. Boulder Center for Sports Medicine is sponsoring our team this year, and I’ve already gotten more good advice and help from Andy, Neal and all the people there at BCSM than I deserve. I don’t remember if I ever announced what team I’m racing for next year, so I’m going to put it in the title right now. Okay just did it. Now you know about it. Wait, you knew about it before this since I just put it in the title retroactively. This is sort of like time travel. Anyways the team kicked things off this year with a camp last week, which involved bike fitting, physiology testing, numerous training, racing, physiology, and team-oriented discussions and presentations, and a weekend up in Dr. Pruitt’s and his wife’s (Sue) cabin in the mountains. After a heavy snow the night we got there, we did some snow shoeing, a lot of really good eating, and some skate-skiing, including a biathlon relay. On that note, a terrible tragedy ocured while Scott was taking (poor) aim at one of the targets. Our prayers go out to Nick’s family. He died doing what he loved–shooting guns at V02 max. No just kidding. I feel like I have to say that now after that last post.

Before I go any further, let me introduce the members of…

Team Rio Grande:

Scott Tietzel: Former pro on Jelly Belly, raced with Rio Grande for a couple years in the past, is coming from Juwi Solar last year and works at Curve’s super svelte line of ProTour level clothing. Likes to time trial like a boss and “put the hurt on weak bitch mofos.” (His words not mine).

Aaron Pool: Coming from five years racing in Belgium with the Fuji Test Team. So he speaks like, probably at least six words in Flemish and has evolved a deep hatred of the French (southern region of Belgium). He enjoys eating cheese ( I assume, I mean who the F doesn’t?), living in Vail, and discussing his passionate hatred of capitalism.  His main goal for this season is to “make everyone else hurt so bad they feel like useless human garbage, which they are.”

Colt Peterson (not my brother): Goes to school at CU Boulder, has pierced ears that are studded with what I assume are 30 carrot diamonds, is coming from Team Get Crackin’,  and enjoys hitting on super fine French Canadian  chicks during group rides, even if they’re completely nuts and don’t understand a word he’s saying. When asked about his goals for the season he began foaming at the mouth, growling, and groping his crotch.

Trevor Connor: Team manager and also racer, avid researcher and publisher of things that I find very cool (human physiology, altitude, etc.), climber extrordinare. Hobbies involve staring down opponents on the start line while repeatedly pounding his chest, and “breaking legs and taking names, so that I can find out where they live and break their legs again after they’ve healed.”

Jake Rosenbarger: Formerly of Jittery Joe’s and BMC. Is the real deal, especially at building cakes since he and his wife own the infamous Kim and Jake’s Cakes on Broadway. Personally responsible for giving me the diabeetus over a single weekend, Jake enjoys long walks on the beach and “grinding the bones of my slain opponents to make gluten free flour.”

Nick Bax: Coming from XO Communications, studies biology, has lived east of the Mississippi for some reason, and is an equally terrible skate-skiier as I am. His favorite food is suffering, which he enjoys dishing out in large quantities to random people. Nick told me he just wants to “smash all those pansies like ants,” referring to everyone who’s not on Rio, and also most of us who are on Rio.

Me: Super thin, gaunt, lady’s man climber with an excellent hair cut and refined table manners. Coming from Hagens Berman, enjoys listening to people’s problems and offering sound advice, and also “helping guys get back on after they’ve been dropped. Because no one wants to see someone else in pain or get their feelings hurt.”

As you just read, everyone on the squad sounds like a clinically insane psychopath. So I think we might win some races. It’s a small group, but from what I’ve seen there are no weak links, which means that we’ll all blow up at the same exact same time, which would be pretty amazing if that actually happened to a real metal chain, which I don’t think is even possible, so that was a vastly inaccurate, lie of a metaphor for which I apologize.

The team is solely Colorado-based, with almost all of us living in or about to live in Boulder during the season. Our title Sponsor is the Rio Grande Mexican Restaurant, which has a half dozen locations in Colorado and will be supplying us with the wonderful opportunity to pursue our dreams of racing our bicycles at the professional level…and a delicious burrito now and then. Our other sponsors include:

Boulder Center for Sports Medicine
Specialized
Jose Cuervo
Curve Clothing
Dohn Construction
Peloton Cycles 
Vittoria 
Smith Optics

A super solid list of companies and institutes for which we’re extremely grateful, especially with the disastrous global economic climate and the terrible state cycling is currently in–both problems having been caused by the cheaters the liars and the human scum of the world. Teams are folding, races are disappearing,  and sponsors are fleeing. With all the established pro resumes our director, Trevor, got this year, he could have had one of the top NRC teams, but instead he chose to give some of us “unmade” guys a shot, and none of it would be possible without a lot of money, equipment, and time from the names on the list above. The goal of the team is to develop clean cycling with new riders. A group of better guys to take on the task would have been difficult to find.

On a completely different note, the best quote of the trip came from Nick while speaking to his dad, an expert in proteins, over the phone: “Hi dad, hey I have a question for you. How hot would you have to heat up an apple crumble to kill the rabies virus?” And on that note, I HAVE developed lock jaw in the past couple days. I’m not even kidding about that either. Pictures, videos, more written words, and un-written blank spaces to follow in regards to the team camp and other timely things.

Actually, so you don’t have to wait on me, a lot of video and pics from the team camp can be found here.

“Like being on the top of a mountain!!!!”

Thank you Sue and Andy for the great meals!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick plodding through Scott’s secret snow shoe trail up to the top of something Peak.

Scott waiting for his teammate to tag him for one of his three laps. Looking…pro for a skate skier I guess?

As the second slowest skate-skier, I was teamed up with Colt (above), who was second fastest in the time trail. We lost. We got last place. I blame it all on Colt. One would think he’d be able to shoot, you know, considering his name. (PS I was actually the one who sucked).

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“Hey this is Morgan. Leave a message and I’ll ring you back. Thanks.”
At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished recording, hang up or press one for more options. To leave a callback number press five.
*Beep*

Hi Morgan. It’s Kyle…Uhhhh…I, um…haha wow, already off to a bad start on this one! Shit I’m terrible at messages, or awesome depending on how you look at it. Um, I’ll just get on with it…I have some bad news, man. Pretty shitty news. Fuck. I hate to be telling you over the phone, on a message, but..uh..I guess I’ll just go for it. Well, earlier today when I was out on that hike with Sarah…I…blacked out when were were going down that super steep section with all that sharp scree. You know, where it…yeah you know–you’ve done that hike like a thousand times. Anyways, I blacked out and took a bit of a fall. I’m in the hospital now. I’m fine. I mean, from blacking out and falling. Just some little scrapes. I fucked up those blue pants though. But…actually I’m calling because. I’m here now, room 501. At the hospital. I mean room 301. Shit. But, yeah I’m not doing great actually. The reason I blacked out was. Uhhh…shit man. I hate to tell you over the damn phone…you know? The doctors say I have a…a pretty bad…um, a ruptured blood vessel in my brain. An aneurysm. It’s…not good. It’s, uhh, not in a good spot, but. I’m going in for surgery now, which is good because there’s a really high chance I’ll make a full recovery since I got in here so quick. But I go in for surgery, like in a few minutes. They said I could call some people real quick to…just in case. Fuck my head hurts. They want to operate like immediately. It’s not in a good spot, but it’s not a super massive rupture though. It’s not good though. Ha, I guess I’ve said that already. Well. Uhhh…they–there’s a good chance the surgery will go fine. They have to insert this coil thing, like up my femoral artery down in my leg, up through my A-orda, however you say it, then through my neck and up into my brain. They said it sounds worse than it is–at least it’s not like I have to have my skull cracked open or anything. It stops the bleeding. Of the broken blood vessel. I’ve got a massive headache right now. But they say the surgery should probably work out and they said I probably won’t have like any long term damage or anything………So, fuck man. I’ve gotta call mom and dad now. The nurses want me to turn the phone off pretty soon. So…I guess. Shit I don’t know how to tell them. But, damn I was hoping to get a hold of you. I just wanted to say goodbye, I mean…and that, uhhh…yeah I…well just in case, you know? Okay. I’m sure I’ll–it’ll be fine though. They said they wouldn’t operate if it was too messed up. It’s not like I’m in a coma or anything. Talk to you soon. Hope the trip is going well and say hey to everyone for me. Okay gotta go. Later.”

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“Hi I’m Kyle. Leave a message and I might return it. But probably not.”
At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished recording, hang up or press one for more options. To leave a callback number press five.
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“Yo Kyle, saw I just missed your call. We’re on our way back down from the mountain and the hot tub is calling our names. Holy shit the snow’s been amazing. You shoulda come out here, man. We got dumped on that first night with two feet of powder. I think we’re gonna stay for another couple days and head back on Thursday because another storm is coming in tonight and it’s gonna dump again. Oh, looks like you left a message. Probably about how lame you realize you are for not coming! Ya stupid idiot! Mid terms are no excuse. With your grades you’re gonna graduate in May no matter how shitty you do this semester, but the snow might be gone for good with this damn global warming. Oh well, more for us. Later nerd.”

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“Hi I’m Kyle. Leave a message and I might return it. But probably not.”
At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished recording, hang up or press one for more options. To leave a callback number press five.
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“Kyle, it’s Morgan. Shit dude…I just listened to your message. I’m on my way home. I’m coming back early to bring you your stuff at the hospital and–. The guys are dropping me off at the airport. I’m gonna fly back instead of drive with them. You’re probably in your surgery right now. Getting that thing shoved up your leg. Haha. I should be back soon. Okay, well. Cool I’ll see you soon then. I’m sure everything’s gonna be fine. We should, uhh, do a weekend trip once you’re better. We googled it and it doesn’t sound like the recovery is that long, so that’s good. You won’t miss out on too much of the season at least. Okay. Anyways…Later.”

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“Hi I’m Kyle. Leave a message and I might return it. But probably not.”
At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished recording, hang up or press one for more options. To leave a callback number press five.
*Beep*

Hey Kyle, I’m at the airport, but…that storm I was talking about just started and it’s hitting pretty hard right now and all the flights are delayed for fucking ever. Nothing leaves until tomorrow morning they’re saying. At the earliest. It’s just going nuts here. Hey give me a call when you wake up. Mom and dad are a bit worried. I called them and told them what was going on since I guess you didn’t get a chance to call them. They’re on their way out there now too. Okay, later.”

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“Hi I’m Kyle. Leave a message and I might return it. But probably not.”
At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished recording, hang up or press one for more options. To leave a callback number press five.
*Beep*

“Hey Kyle. Shit I guess you’re probably resting now. I’m just getting on the plane. Mom and Dad got delayed too from the storm. It got all the way out west to home and messed up the flights there too. They’re getting in a few hours after me I think. Okay, gotta go. I’ll be at the hospital at around two or three or so. Give us a call when you’re up.

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“Hi I’m Kyle. Leave a message and I might return it. But probably not.”
At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished recording, hang up or press one for more options. To leave a callback number press five.
*Beep*

“Hey man, just got off the plane. I’ll be there in like an hour. I have a King Size bag of peanut M&Ms with your name on it. Bye.”

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“Hi you’ve reached Sharon, please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you. Thank you and have a great day!”
At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished recording, hang up or press one for more options. To leave a callback number press five.
*Beep*

“……Mom…it’s Morgan. I guess you guys are still fly-..*cough*. Sorry. Clearing my throat. I guess you’re still on the plane. I…Kyle’s surgery……..I’ll see you guys when you get here.”

As you all are very well aware, Lance Armstrong is about to confess to Rosane that he never had cancer. I’m personally very excited to watch the two-part interview, which airs Thursday and Friday night at 4AM on Rosan’s public access channel, right after the flying model airplanes. Now I don’t care about retribution. I know I was right all along, despite being vehemently disagreed with and shunned by every beginning cancer patient I’ve talked with over the years. I stuck to my guns and watched as the faith fled those same cancer patients as they entered their third and fourth years of the disease. They too began to question Lance’s hazy cancer past. You see, once you’ve been in the game long enough, the rumors and accumulated personal knowledge begins to surmount even the most thick-skulled believer’s blindness. Besides, I once saw Lance up close and there’s NO WAY his package boasts that much girth with just one ball.

I left off with my gigantic four day weekend of smash-fest frigid rides. I took a short recovery of one or two days and started up again, finishing the next week off with two more six hour rides. And then I rested. I rested real guud. All week long I held back, waiting patiently to strike at Monday’s soft underbelly with the anger and bloodthirst of a starving wildebeest–a wildebeest that eats meat.

But before that, Friday came along (after Thursday and before words), and I went to a Reel Big Fish concert with Tricia and some of her friends. I didn’t know what the music was going to be like, but imagined something like Phish. So…like really lame, stoned fake hippy music. I was wrong. It turns out that Reel Big Fish attracts an entirely other kind of stoner (I even found a pipe on the ground, which I decided I should not bring in to work to show off).

Reel Big Fish is skaw, sort of a mix between a bunch of stuff that includes trombones. So I liked it. There was also a mosh pit. I spent the entire time in the mosh pit and the bruising on my back and shins proves it. Like any concert, I pretended to be way more into the music than I really was, and made sure to fake sing, scream and jump and shove more than anyone else. I will not be outdone by a bunch of damn high schoolers!

I opted out of a Saturday snowboarding trip because it was too cold up there (-33 with wind chill) and just laid around all day Saturday. I didn’t want to chance getting sick, especially since Adelaide and almost everyone I know is getting sick right now.

The virus hit me hard Saturday night. I spent all day Sunday doing nothing. My head throbbed so much I just laid on the ground in front of the window in the sun patch like Garfield. I rode my bike to the store that afternoon at 1:45, came home and made soup. Monday was very similar except I didn’t need to go to the store. It’s Tuesday now and I’m feeling a lot better, though I worked from home so I wouldn’t contaminate everyone else. So that’s all my exciting news. Oh, one more thing. Yesterday I had one of the greenest poops I’ve ever had. Phew. I knew I was forgetting something.

Kennett SMASH silly flat roads! 24 hours of riding in four days just happened. For you math wizards, that equates to approximately one third of my time on the bike. Since it was a four day weekend with new years eve and all, I decided it was imperative to use the time off wisely–having a job makes finding time to ride slightly more difficult than having either no job or a semi-job, though it’s still fairly easy so long as you cut out everything else in your life.

Unfortunately, as the weekend approached, so too did the cold winter weather. Long gone are the 60 degree days of early December. All a sudden it dun got real cold! I went to Oregon the prior weekend for Christmas with my family, where I got a couple good rides in down at sea level, which reminded me how soft one could get living down low with the lazy flat landers. The thick atmosphere and the ease at which I pedaled took away much of the joy I get from hacking and coughing and wheezing during my rides at altitude. Plus, all that oxygen just can’t be healthy for you. Bad for the brain and the liver is what I’ve heard. I won’t go into all the details of my too short Christmas at home weekend, but I did firmly smash a five hour ride at 305 watts, I smashed my brother at Chess (barely), and I moderately smashed the fridge. In hindsight I wish I’d eaten more. (PS: Everything should always be described in terms of how heavily it was smashed). And in case any of you are wondering, I will be talking in watts today and if you don’t want to hear about it you can go to someone else’s blog who refuses to discuss power, which really means they’re weak and slow and aren’t able to do anything worth bragging about.

A Christmas Day snow storm bombarded Boulder during my flight home, and the lack of friction made dragging my Pika Pack the one mile from the bus stop to home easy, like a sled. The snowpack did not make for good riding conditions though, especially with the real cold weather still on the way.

Thursday evening and I was still scrambling to find a cheap flight to Tucson for the weekend after I finished work on Friday. My plan was to fly Friday night, ride four days, and fly back late on Tuesday so I could miss out on the 20-degree cold front moving in on Colorado. For some reason I couldn’t find a cheap flight the day before the new year weekend. Thoughts of a Greyhound expedition crossed my mind, and very quickly continued on down the line to the massive landfill that is Kennett’s Shit Ideas, the toxic chemicals of which are currently seeping into the groundwater, pumped back up as city drinking water, and corrode the minds of the townspeople that inhabit Kennett’s Shit Idea City, which was once known simply as Kennett’s Idea City.  The vicious cycle of toxic water and the dumbing down of the citizens has seen the slums and brothels grow as the museums, city parks, and playgrounds diminish.  It’s sad, but the townspeople have become so dimwitted that they don’t know the difference. Not having ever experienced the sense of sight, how could a blind man possibly miss the warm glow of a sunset over the Pacific? Well, he probably does somehow, but we’re not talking about blind people. We’re talking about the delinquents and idiots and trashy human beings of Kennett’s Shit Idea City. They’d rather get a dozen day-old Manager’s Special donuts for $1.89 than take in a heart-warming, sigh-inducing sunset–the closing paragraph of one of Earth’s rotating chapters–a moment for self reflection, the bitter sweat taste of nostalgia, and tomorrow’s bright promise of everything today failed to bring. Slightly stale donuts are pretty good too though. I’d have to side with the townspeople on this one.

My legs had been feeling pretty dang good on Thursday and Friday, easily pumping out tempo at endurance effort. This got me excited for the weekend. I said to myself, “You know, the cold won’t be too bad. I’ll just stick to the flat roads and stay out of the mountains. Work on my flat riding muscle groups a bit. A little chilly weather will harden me up too. Put some hair on my chest. Put some grit in my teeth. You know, sink my eyes back into my skull a little more. Deaden the tips of my fingers and toes with a lovely dark purple hue and help shave off some unnecessary weight. Give me hallucinations about bonfires and sunny beaches mid-ride as my vision fades, frozen cross-eyed  Come back to reality briefly and contemplate riding out onto that frozen lake and see if the ice will break just so I can get my hypothermic death on quicker.  Yes sir, this cold weather will make for a good, moral-boosting weekend.”

Saturday was one of the cold days. The average temperature during my ride was 21 degrees. But I have to admit, the cold didn’t get to me too much, for I was riding hard. I was on a mission that day: to break the five hour, 300 watt barrier at altitude. I’d done it at sea level and I knew my legs were good, and with an entirely flat ride on the menu, today was the day. Except, because I’d felt soooo good the previous two days, I had changed my goal of 300 watts at five hours to 320 watts at six hours. Always want more and never let yourself accomplish a goal. Always increase the bar, that’s my motto.

I re-assessed my goal after two and a half hours, now just hoping to do the six hours at 300. Since a large portion of my calories (and all of my liquid) was stored in my bottles, I had to stop a little earlier than planned because the bottles had frozen solid 30 minutes into the ride. I stopped off at a gas station for edibles and a LARGE cup of hot chocolate, the CAP LOCKS meaning I filled up one bottle with hot chocolate and drank another full large cup and a half while standing in the store. The hot chocolate didn’t taste sweet enough, so I added extra sugar to it. As I added sugar at the hot chocolate/coffee fixing station, I noticed there was a pump bottle of “Energy Elixir.” I gave it two or three pumps and my hot chocolate was good to go. Also, by hot chocolate I mean cappuccino. I used cappuccino and hot water to thaw my bottles and, still cold but quickly becoming jacked on sugar and caffeine, I consumed a big chocolate donut, bought two large king-size peanut butter Snickers and an apple pie, and stepped back out into the 18 degree weather and back into my pedals.

The next hour went well. I got warm again fairly fast and was able to pump out good power. Then, all of a sudden at hour 3.5 I noticed that I was cracking already. The cold weather and the hard effort were getting to me. My average power was down to 306 and falling fast. I slammed the apple pie. It gave me energy for 20 minutes. Then the real suffering began. I let out some yells and grunts as I plodded along through the rolling farmlands and past the oil and gas pumps of eastern Colorado. No cars, no people, just the occasional friendly oil tanker truck that always gave me plenty of room. The mountains were far off to the west, hazy from the cold foggy afternoon air. Snow covered the barren, silent land. In my ears Raged Against the Machine, out my mouth Raged Against My Legs in curses and increasingly animalistic grunts. I couldn’t maintain seated power for very long at this point, so I took prolonged stints out of the saddle. I growled some more. I forced most of one of the Snickers down, which tasted awful at the time. My stomach was upset for the next hour and I contemplated throwing up, but decided against it.

Coming into the fifth hour, I decided to salvage my original goal and hit 300 for five hours, and after that just ride the last sixty or eighty minutes home at a civilized pace. I barely managed this, throwing down pretty much everything I had in the last six minutes, bringing my average back up to 300 from 299. I was crushed physically, but content. I rode easy for five minutes and started back up at a decent pace until I got home, 75 minutes later at dark. I rewarded myself for the good effort by laying down in the shower for a long time.

Day two: Sunday. Sunday was easy. It was sunny and it wasn’t nearly as cold as Saturday. I think the average was a whopping 30 degrees. I burned through this ride with no problems at all, except that my ipod got caught in my rear wheel and broke. That made two broken ipods in the period of one week. I was not pleased. I got home at dark again, but this time didn’t need to lay in the shower. Day three would be a different story and I knew it.

Day three: Monday. Monday was a terrible, terrible day. Day three is always the worst. It was snowing when I left for the ride at 11:00 and was still snowing two hours later. The average temperature for Monday was 19.6 degrees. The ride consisted of a constant battle with myself to not turn around and go home. I kept making bargains: “Just ride another hour and that way when you turn around you’ll at least have done a three hour ride. Okay scratch that, just ride another thirty minutes. Never mind, but you can at least do another 15 minutes.” During all the arguing with myself, I was distracted enough that before I knew it I was at the three hour mark and feeling fine. I looped through Fort Collins and headed south to Boulder. During the ride back I felt as though I’d been lazy so I decided to hammer the last two hours home. I arrived after dark again. I was fairly shattered from the cold and the last couple hours of the ride so earned the reward of sitting down in the shower. Today was the only day I came back with ice on me.

Day four: Tuesday. I know by now, after my many years of cycling, that the fourth day on in a row is sometimes one of the best days for some strange reason unknown to both science and God. Of course I wouldn’t feel nearly as good as day one, but day four is typically pretty decent. Although I’d only gotten one hour of sleep the night before, there was a slight chance this ride could end up being troubled. I compensated with extra coffee: a total of nine cups (not mugs, but the measurement type of cup, which is equivalent to 2.2 liters for all my European readers–for some bizarre reason I had 180 views from Portugal the other day. Either the internet is broken again or my audience has widened vastly.

It was another warm day. The average temperature was 28 degrees. I rode south through Golden to the Red Rocks Amphitheater, where I ate a sandwich and gazed down upon the Amphitheater amongst all the tourists. A lady with a thick southern accent, out of breath because of the walk from the parking lot 100 feet away, spoke from behind me, “Oh, it’s just like a football stadium, ain’t it?” I closed my eyes and shook my head slightly in disgust. This is why people hate Americans. This is actually why Americans hate Americans. I finished my sandwich and continued riding south until my time was up and I had to head back to Boulder. I got home in the dark for the fourth day in a row. This time I took a full on bath in celebration of 22,500 kilojoules burned, 480 miles ridden and, despite it all being pretty flat, 20,000 feet climbed all in the past four days. The elevation gain isn’t anything to write home about, but in total time and miles on the bike, this is the most riding I’ve done in a four day period.  Possibly even in a five day period. Though I’m pretty tired, I feel like another two liters of coffee would have seen me through a fifth day just fine.

Wednesday back at work hit me hard, not just in the sense of being tired. It was back to real life. I thought this was a funny notion when it first dawned on me. “Back to real life.” As if the last two months of having a job has taught me anything about that. Like I’m some expert on juggling a real job and paying bills and doing real life grown up things. When I formulated that sentence in my head on Tuesday night, “back to real life,” had I really forgotten that for the past four years of being a complete bike racing bum, every single day had revolved around pretty much nothing else but training? I think so, because this four day weekend was extra awesome. Like twice as good as most weekends for some reason. Actually, exactly twice as good.

With some rest and a bit of luck I won’t get sick this week and all my hard work will finally pay off in April. Until then, I’ll continue to do my best not to overtrain.

The football stadium. I did not take this picture.

I decided the only reason Lang Reynolds looks at all skinny is because of his big, gigantic, fat head. Look how skinny my snowboarding helmet and goggles make me look! And yes, I wore these every day this weekend.

With the novelty of wearing ski goggles and helmet long gone, the ‘after’ photo of my first ride shows how much of a slobber fest it really was. Get it?

Death is never unexpected, yet impossible to prepare for. We know it’s out there. Its eternal stalk is sensed by all, and quietly shoved to the dark corners of our minds so we can graze in peace.  Unrelentingly, it creeps up slowly from behind, inching closer and closer until it makes its final, sudden pounce. Just a savage blur caught from the corner of an eye, then nothingness.

There’s not much more to be said about death. The positive is that it reveals a chance for the still living to look back and smile about all the good times shared. If we do things right, the warmth we leave behind will outweigh the loss. In this sense my friend, Dick Sisson, triumphed.

It’s good to know that doping is a thing of the past.

With five hours in my legs from the previous day, I set out under a sunny, blue sky morning with nearly as many cups of coffee still percolating in my veins. I rode Hunchback of Notre Dame style, jackets upon thick gloves, upon hats and vests bulging out of my back pockets and stuffed down the neck of my jersey. The cold heights of tall mountains and lofty adventure awaited me and I came prepared. The first 10 minute climb disappeared behind me easily, unnoticed. My mind was buzzing with thought and creativity, now long lost despite neural-pathway-strengthening during endorphine release. Just like the pavement underneath, training and race memories fade with rapidity the faster you go, contrary to the most current brain research. For a cyclist there’s always so much to look forward to so it’s difficult to remember the past, especially when the present hurts so much.

I descended steep gravel, enjoying the loose dirt corkscrew bends and letting my rear tire slip out just a little. A few weeks ago I’d come inches from plowing into an aggressive dog right here. I do remember that. A Saint Bernard I think. A big dog on too long a leash in need of a strong kick to the nose to put him back in his place.

The next hill shot up into the mountains with dozens of steep switch backs crawling upwards. I too was turning the pedals over at crawling pace, grinding away in content with fresh legs at a strong tempo. Pines surrounded me as I picked my way among the grooves of the dirt road. It was pleasantly absent of cars and other humans, except for a few hillbilly shacks, which turned into mini mansions the higher up I went. Washboard sections turned into bike-swallowing holes as the road took on the form of a Jeep trail. I glanced over my shoulder down upon the ever deepening valley of green trees. I smashed it up the final couple steep switchbacks, one approaching 30%. I took the final turn just before the top with some speed, almost plowing headfirst into the one and only car I’d seen in the last hour.

The barren, windy top of the climb was just the beginning of round, brown, highland hills resting before the stunning white mountains beyond. I ate a half peanut butter sandwich, descended a few minutes, and then continued climbing off and on for another hour.

I reached the high town of Nederland, perched directly above Boulder, and stopped for a hot chocolate at the supermarket, sipping with speed, seated in a small plastic dining booth next to where they make sandwiches. I looked out the window to the parking lot. A strange place for a parking lot. 8,400 feet into the Rocky Mountains surrounded by wilderness.

I paid and vainly thought I noticed the jailbait cashier checking me out. She was most likely observing my snot, chocolate, and dirt-encrusted face with disgust, but that’s not what I thought at the time. A little modesty doesn’t hurt. But a shit ton of confidence will crush modesty any day. I got on my bike, jacked up on sugar and a rager and tore off farther into the treed mountains, searching for a new road that would take me to the Continental Divide. Fifty miles of dirt roads and 4,000 more feet of climbing stood in my way. Aint. No. Thang.

Another 20 minutes of riding and I came upon the turnoff, eager for the unknown and hoping to see a moose or something else cool. A cold river followed the dirt road, both cutting their way far into the slowly ascending valley. I was now nestled between steep, dark ridges that towered thousands of feet into the air. The temperature immediately plummeted as I made my way into the valley and the river to my right grew a thick sheet of ice. The gigantic white mountains came into view once again; all 14,000 feet of their magnificence loomed in front of me, making everything else seem puny and pointless. The steep walls closed in on the sides, narrowing my vision like the blinders of a horse to the heavy glaciers and jagged peaks. The ice was four feet thick on the river and my breath blew out in thick clouds.

I came to the end of the road at a gravel parking lot. At first my confusion lead me to believe that I’d have to trespass over a chain-link fence and enter a dark train tunnel that said DO NOT ENTER. It cut into the side of a cliff like a scene dreamt up by Tolkien. Unfortunately my Garmin told me not to go in there though. Instead, it said I’d missed a turn a half mile ago. I back tracked, happy that my adventure was going to happen. I’d find the top of the Rockies within an hour and a half and gaze down upon both sides of the continent as king. I’d take a piss to the east and a piss to the west and fill both oceans. But as soon as I turned up the road I’d missed a few minutes ago, I realized my plans were finished. Huge boulders littered the trail. Patches of ice in the shade were half a foot thick. I decided to push on ahead anyways and hope the steep road got better. It did not. I weaved up the trail, avoiding boulders and intensely focusing on not crashing. I needed full suspension, or just some hiking boots. I turned back after a kilometer and left the valley in defeat, adventureless. All I got was a taste. But when one road ends in a minefield of boulders, another smooth, hour long  dirt climb presents itself. I descended way back down to 6,000 feet and climbed Fourmile to Gold Hill, reaching the top as the sun began hitting the tops of the mountains back to the west. I flew downhill into town and let out a few screams of excitement and pure joy as I carved the corners at 45 miles an hour. I know this climb like the back of my ha–what the hell is THAT??!!

Ride number Two, a week later, was entirely different:

After a few thousand feet of climbing on Sunshine I realized the snow was coming down too heavily for me to ride way up in the mountains. I went back into town and rode south to Flagstaff. While I was up on Sunshine in the snow,I’d noticed the sun was still shining (ironic) over on Flag. I climbed to the top at around 30 minutes. I descended. I rode up again to the top again, picking off riders as I went. I climbed it one more time to make it three ascents. Then I did one more to make it four for good measure. I still felt fine but I was out of food, so after my fourth climb I descended into town for gas station hot chocolate and a special treat. The dark storm, emerging from the mountains, was billowing over the last couple hills and moving closer to Flagstaff with evening approaching. I got back up to the top of Flagstaff one more time and devoured the gas station apple pie in record time and with record enjoyment. I barreled down  to the base of the climb, and then, because six times is a good round number, I hammered up to the top once more, finally and suddenly feeling fatigued. My lungs were the first organs to go. The snow came down heavily during the last ten minutes of that sixth climb, so I wasted no time getting the hell down before the roads got slippery.

Because six is a good round number, like I said before, I took the long way home to make it as many hours. I struggled to hold my wattage above 300 so I could keep the average for the day above 250, because anything less than that is not a real ride. Hunger loomed as I pushed on, fully engulfed in darkness. With my legs shaking and mind numbed, I let out a blood curdling scream as I unleashed an all out sprint to a set of Christmas lights adorning a bush in the distance. I couldn’t get above 1,000 watts, meaning my legs were indeed shot and ready to be put out to pasture. I soft pedaled the last one minute home, now with six hours and 15,000 feet of climbing behind me and a house full of food in front of me. It was a lay-down-in-the-shower-afterwards type of ride, with my stomach being the only thing capable of lifting me up out of it. I felt sick and achey and I couldn’t stand for long without swaying. My entire body throbbed with fatigue. I was completely smashed. Beautiful mountain scenery and the excitement of exploration don’t hold a thing over utterly destroying oneself to the fullest extent. There are few feelings of contentedness that can match this. It’s a feeling that almost no one will get the pleasure of experiencing even once in their lives, which makes it all that more special.

Five and a half weeks off the bike was all I could handle with the weather continuing to hit the bottom 70’s and the hills beckoning so suggestively. I’d still been riding an easy 10 hours a week, just for something to do during lunch and to keep the weight down, but I managed to hold real training off until my birthday on the 16th. I gave myself a present by kicking off the 2013 season with a hard effort up Sunshine climb.  Going to the top of the steep part where I usually stop is a little under 40 minutes when I go hard, which I now know thanks to my newfound obsession with Strava. I never knew how long it took to climb Sunshine until Strava told me to climb it faster. It’s a good thing Strava was invented, because otherwise I certainly wouldn’t have stumbled upon this optimized method of training by doing every climb (every day) all out in an attempt to humble online strangers.

I’m attempting to carry on normal person behavior and activities throughout the winter and hopefully during the race season as well, because I’ve decided that it might stave off the obsession and resulting depression that comes with a life filled only with bicycle racing and training. This past week, with Michael The SenselessBoss coming into town to visit and train, I could think of nothing more normal person behavioral than having Thanksgiving with friends, hiking, going out for some dinners, drinking a couple beers out on Pearl Street, and going to a strip club.

Michael, my training buddy from Santa Yenez back in the winter of 2010, burned a few thousand pounds of dinosaur bones on his journey over from Iowa. Or Ohio. Or maybe Nebraska. One of those worthless states. Anyways, he got here mid day Thursday (Thanksgiving), right after I’d descended from climbing Sunshine to the top to see if the Strava gods would be kind that day. The Strava gods were not forgiving, so I decided to take out my anger on Michael, who, like I mentioned, had just been cooped up in a car for the past 92 hours or so. I met him at my apartment and I told him we’d do a flat route, impatiently hounding him to hurry up and get ready so we could get in three more quick hours before Thanksgiving dinner at Tim’s apartment. Side story: Tim and I planned on meeting in North Boulder for a ride about three weeks ago. On my way out there I saw someone up ahead of me so I started going faster so I could pass with a lot of speed. I always pass people going at least 15 mph faster than them to make them feel shamefully slow. As I was about to start my 300 meter sprint I noticed that the person I was coming up on was Tim. I was a bit confused since I thought he still lived down in South Boulder, so I wondered what he was doing here in my neck of the woods way up in Gunbarel. I pulled up beside him and said hello. He told me that the reason he’d moved north like me was because, as everyone knows, Gunbarel is THE happening place between Boulder and Longmont. There’s even rumor of Gunbarel hosting a stage of the USA Pro Challenge next year. I made that rumor. But back on track to the off-track story, Tim and I finished our ride that day and headed home to our respective refrigerators. It turned out that he lived on the same street as me. Then it turned out that he lived in the same apartment complex. And then, as he pulled up to his apartment, I realized he lived in the same building as me. This sort of thing happens in Gunbarel all the time. It has that small town feel where you bump into people you know, despite being a large, bustling epicenter of excitement, night life, new world-wide-setting trends, and cultural evolution.

And back to the other story: the howling wind on Thanksgiving didn’t agree with Michael’s sea-level, car-lagged, one ride a week legs. It didn’t agree with mine either, but I knew I’d have to ride pretty hard to make things difficult for Michael on my wheel. I punished us both, quickly jumping to my favorite, almost unsustainable pace.  I was pumping out enough watts to power a couple Easy Bake ovens, and I know this because I was able to monitor all my data with the five viewable fields on just one screen, and also navigate without getting lost, thanks to my new Garmin 800. The ultimate sign of a douche bag is when said bag does a product plug for a non-sponsor in order to look pro.

I began feeling the effort and my lack of fitness roughly four hours into the ride, so we slowed down a bit and rode two up. Michael kept talking and asking me questions, though, so I eventually sped up again so I didn’t have to talk. We arrived home pretty cracked and laid on the couch while Kim and Adelaide finished preparing their meals for the Thanksgiving feast. I threw together a salad in four minutes and rounded up one full pie and one mostly full pie I’d bought the night before; we walked the 50 feet around to the front side of the building to Tim and his girlfriend, Tina’s, apartment. Introductions were made, and forgotten within half a second, as my stomach grumbled and my legs bowed, bringing me to the soft carpeted floor in a puddle of limbs. The “Missfit Thanksgiving” has been going on for years, started by a group of friends that don’t even live in Boulder anymore. It always has a bunch of new people each year, accumulating new members and new dishes with every edition. I was invited last year by Tim, and the rules are that if you attend once you have a lifetime invitation. This was a relief because last year I ate about 1/4th of the food that 16 people brought, and wasn’t sure if I’d be allowed back.

The quantity of food I was able to consume this year was surprisingly wimpy compared to last year, and as I sit here typing this, hungrily sipping hot tea in an attempt to forget my sad stomach, I’m thoroughly upset with past Kennett for not forcing more down. Aside from the food, I’d say the highlight of the night was during Charades when Michael acted out Garfield by rubbing up on someone’s leg like a cat. The pedophile jokes from the law student and his girlfriend were pretty good too.

The next day was another big ride, though less intense thankfully, because my legs were pretty cooked from the day before. Michael, Tim, and I rode over to meet Matt in the slums of Boulder for a journey into the mountains of Coal Creek and then Golden Gate park, elevation 9,400 ft. Michael’s sea level legs held surprisingly strong in the high, crisp air. The sun’s brilliant rays treated us to an amazing late November day as we ground our way up 15% dirt grades in the thinning alpine forest.  Running strong on gas station cappuccino and sausage stuffing from the night before (uhhh…), I decided to burn off some extra energy on Sunshine by myself after we descended Boulder Canyon. I returned home ready to devour a goat or four. We unleashed our appetites upon the pantry of a house for which Kim was dog sitting.

Day three of the mini training camp involved calling in a fresher pair of legs: Liam, my fastest work colleague who was most likely ready for some revenge after I’d taken him up Sunshine for a “sort of” hard effort the week before. He was also ready to take revenge on Michael, for Michael had stormed past him for the win, stamping out Liam’s chance at glory in the Tour of Galena last spring. We went up Sunshine, down Poorman, and ventured up a NASTY dirt climb, called Logan Mill, which snaked its way up the side of a steep ridge, shadowing Sugarloaf Mt. Road. Michael attacked early on the steep slopes and I followed, knowing his legs were already cracked and the only reason he was attacking was because he’d soon be paper-boying up the steep brute. He went again when I got on his wheel. Then again. And then one more vicious time before I countered, finally dropping him. Earlier I’d been suffering pretty badly doing 250 watts. Now I was surging at 500 up this damn gravel climb with nowhere to go except pain and suffering. I eased up to let the other guys catch back up, hoping I’d won the penis contest and we’d ride civilized to the top. Not so. Liam came around with venom in his eyes and crushed the next 15 minutes to the false summit, with me never being able to close the 30 second gap. Why the hell were we riding so hard when we were so tired? One might as well ask what I’d do for a Klondike Bar.

We got somewhat lost after regrouping at the top, despite all having GPS devices. We ended up having to rely on directions from a chance van passing by, which pointed us the right way to the closest paved road–just 500 meters around the bend. The problem with reading a GPS machine is that you have to be able to see straight, which I’m not sure any of us were capable of doing at that point.

For dinner, Michael and I treated ourselves to some pho Vietnamese soup, which is one of the best recovery foods you could ask for: rice noodles, liquid, salt, hot sauce, and MSG.  For dessert: Boom frozen yogurt. Somehow we mustered the energy to head out to Pearl Street instead of retreating home to the couches.

The next day was similar, though Michael took an easy coffee shop day and I rode with a new training partner, Jon Moro, for the first couple hours of my day.  As the hours ticked by, I realized I was feeling better and better, somehow not even feeling fatigue or pain in my legs at all. It was eerily bizarre. I stopped to re-calibrate my Powertap in case it was off, which it was not. I felt amazingly good considering it was the fourth day on in a row. In fact, I now felt better after 18 hours of training since Thursday than I did when I started this block. It was really strange, something that I’ve never experienced before. At the top of the final climb I let out a few screams and roars as I tore the last shreds of muscle from my legs in a sprint. For dinner: delicious, delicious Indian food from Curry & Kebob, which was quite possibly the tastiest thing I’d eaten all year. Hunger makes the best sauce. Tragically, we got there four minutes before they opened.  Our stomaches couldn’t wait that long so we bought breadsticks from Little Cesar’s Pizza next door and greedily devoured them with marinara sauce in Michael’s car, temporarily forgetting about the locked doors of the Indian place. More frozen yogurt for dessert.

Monday morning hit me hard. I’d promised Michael a hike sometime that weekend, so we got up early and scrambled our way to the top of the Flatirons before I had to go to work and Michael began his voyage back to Iowa. Michael is afraid of heights, so I found a small cliff for us to clamber over, with me having to haul him up by the arm for the last pitch. It began snowing lightly on the way down.  The air was filled with thick clouds and chills that hadn’t been present the past week. We’d ended our training camp just in time, making it down on shaky legs into town and to the warmth of breakfast burritos at the Walnut Cafe.  Michael ordered a hot chocolate that was absolutely loaded with whipped cream, which was soon covering his face when our stunningly large-breasted waitress came back with our food.  Some of his absent mindedness must have wore off on me because I lost my debit card, a pair of gloves, and a hat that weekend. Pretty minor mishaps compared to what Michael managed to do on his drive home–mix up his piss jar with his drinking bottle.

Later that day I was so tired sitting at my desk that I was having difficulty holding my eyes open, despite being four cups of coffee deep. I’d written something on the back of my hand in pen earlier and while I was washing my hands in the bathroom I was careful to not let the water soak through my palm to the back of my hand and erase what I’d written.  Then I realized water usually isn’t able to pass through a hand like it can with a piece of paper. Body and mind are in shambles. Must have done something right.

I just bought a hoard of goodies. All of them are completely unnecessary for my survival, though entirely necessary to make me happy for at least the three minutes of excitement they give me before the novelty wears off and I go back online searching for more. Shipped from all across the country, built all across China, my self-given gifts arrived one by one at my doorstep in large brown cardboard boxes, waiting for me when I got home from working hard to make money to buy these things.  I’d take pictures of all my stuff and parade them proudly for all of you to see, but I don’t have a camera…yet.  In the mean time I’ll do a quick recap of what I got:

One front Mavic Open Pro wheel with an Ultegra hub. Super heavy duty 32 spoke for training.
One rear Mavic Open Pro wheel with a Garmin Pro Powertap.
One Garmin 800 GPS/bike computer
One Craft winter cycling jacket–bright neon yellow. Pro
One set of Craft long winter bibs with a chamois. Black
One set of Louie Garneau leg warmers because I’ve been using the same leg warmers since 2006
10 tubes
Two sets of cleats
One Whipperman Chain–Why? Only because Whipperman makes the best chains. They never brake extremely quickly or cause poor shifting. Ever.
Two rolls of rim tape
Two sets of brake cartridges
One pair of Louie Garneau shoe covers
One bottle of Simple Green bike degreaser/cleaner (this is a first)
One pair of Sennheiser headphones
One phone charger because I lost my other one

I assume some of you may think to yourself, “Yeah! Kennett needs all this stuff because most of his non team-issued gear looks like it was used to clean shark diarrhea.” (For some reason I imagine sharks having jagged diarrhea just like their teeth). Well, if you said that then thank you for agreeing with me. I DO deserve this! And more. Much, much more. I’m actually just getting my spending spree started. In order for the Garmin to work with my laptop, which is a 2007 MacBook, I had to upgrade to the new (for 2009) Leopard Mac OS X 10.6 operating system for $20. And to make the Leopard operating system work with my computer’s low memory I had to buy 2GB of RAM for an additional $50, plus tax. It’s a never-ending process of consuming for consumption’s sake. The more you have the more upkeep and accessories you need to buy in order to make your things work.  In the sporting world, the simplistic life of a runner must be very minimalisticly-satisfying…until you add in the thousands of dollars incurred by knee surgeries and other medical costs.

Driven by the all-powerful Profit, consumption is pushed on us through advertising, which draws on our instincts to compete with our peers and hoard when times are good, which is always. How does one go about combating this? How do we deny literally hundreds of years-worth of hunting and gathering as much food and resources as possible in order to survive the lean months of winter?  One very simple solution is to not have enough money to buy anything because no matter how frugal you are, if you have money you will spend it on useless junk. Even if you don’t have money you still end up consuming, albeit less, endless piles of plastic and 72-ounce insulated mugs of corn syrup from AMPM. In America, even the poor consume like frenzied porcupines at a quill shop. (If I could draw I’d make a comic of a bunch of porcupines at K-Mart during Black Friday fighting for small boxes with a big banner hanging from the ceiling saying, “75% OFF ALL 1800’s STYLE PENS.”)

Suicide might curb spending, but everyone I know who’s tried it hasn’t gotten back to me yet so I can’t be sure. Even when we’re dead we find ways to amass new stuff. Gotta have that Team Carbon SL casket with asymmetrical handles, which increases power-transfer for your pallbearers so you don’t get dropped–pun intended.

My grandfather died a few weeks ago and one of my longest-time friends and mentors is struggling with his fight against cancer. I’ve been thinking quite a bit about death lately and how sickening it is when you realize that you’ll never see or talk to that person again. Decades of existence vanish in a lost heartbeat. Legacies had been foreign to me.  Why would anyone care about what’s left behind when they’re dead? A dead person cares not. I’ve realized that a legacy is a crutch for the still-living, soon-to-be-dead. The emptiness of death is scary enough without the past being empty too.  Leaving something behind gives life a purpose. A legacy lets you enter death with a night light, even if it’s us that really need one when you’re gone.

During times of tragedy it’s strange how your brain switches from normal thought, like daydreaming about winning a stage of Redlands or wondering how you got this strange rash, to suddenly remembering the somberness of the deceased, a sick friend, the silenced screams of Darfur. As your mind drifts back to food you feel guilty for not thinking about your grandfather. At least I do. I’m upset by my own lack of compassion. The last time I shed a tear was 2007. How callous and uncaring have I become? Even in everyday life I often feel like an alien observing the abnormalities of humans for a book I’m planning on publishing back on my home planet. I drift through the grocery store without speaking.  I make eye contact once in a while and smile at the pretty girls, but otherwise I’m in my complete own world. We all do this. Why? Why don’t we talk to strangers? We’re all human after all.  And when we do talk to them why do we leap to meaningless small talk and fake, toothy smiles?  We treat each other like half beings,  mirrors, and we impatiently wait for our turn to talk. Instead, what if we all thought of each other as our closest family members and friends? I wouldn’t flip that driver off who buzzed me, instead I’d just smile and shake my head, knowing that they did it on purpose as a friendly joke. They’d slow down and open the window and we’d exchange a few smiling curse words and laugh. They’d speed up and I’d jump behind the car’s draft with them slowly ramping it up to 50 until I’d get dropped and wave goodbye. And still probably flip them off, but in a friendly way.  Just a complete stranger, somehow knowing exactly who I am and what I’m about.

Until then I’ll continue caring only about myself, and drift through a full world solo, buying momentary happiness to stave off the deaths of the few people I know. Wow I really need to start training again.

In a few generations our way of life will have become a struggle known now to only those who inhabit the third world.  Our exploits over the past two centuries will be our demise as we suffocate on our own filth–the aftermath of easy living and no foresight.  As we enter the beginning of the 21st century, terrorism, the question of whether or not gay marriage is okay with God,  a bad economy, and taxes seem to be our primary areas of focus and worry.  The widening gap between rich and poor nations is a non issue–the rich and poor gap is only an issue for us when it’s between Americans being able to own one car or four cars.  The problems of the third world (civil wars, massive refugee camps, lack of drinking water and food, and rampant disease–many of it curable with cheap but unattainable drugs) are not discussed, because the guilt of knowing we’re responsible for it would be too much for the average person to cope with or even understand.  The principles of cause and effect are lost on the average idiot.  The dirt-poor billions that inhabit the slums of the third world and the day-time TV charity commercials of the first, are the victims of a greedy, unchecked and insatiable appetite of capitalism–a system in which the word excess does not apply, and progress means psychotic rates of consumption at whatever cost to the rest of the world, including the environment, which, in a way, will be able to fight back unlike the poor.

We can no longer use the term natural disaster.  There’s very little nature left on the earth; the impacts of climate change have already begun and the fallout won’t be going away any time soon, no matter what we do.  We’ll be alive to see most of it happen, an our kids will be alive by the end of the century when things will be even worse.  Over their lives they’ll see the sea level rise between 1 and 2+ meters, which begs the question: how many times will we rebuild doomed cities?  Probably not many times once $100 billion storms roll through every year.  With warming ocean temperatures and stronger hurricanes reaching farther north, storms like Sandy will become normal, not “storms of the century,” like Sandy has already been dubbed.  Combine these hurricanes with a sea-level-rise of just one meter and huge areas on the East Coast will be drowned in Nature’s uninhabitable payback.  Much of New York City is only a few feet above sea level as it is now.

Sea level rise will displace hundreds of millions of people, causing refuge numbers the likes of which have never been seen.  With world population spiking out of control-especially in the poorest places–the least fortunate humans will be left to die of disease, famine, war, and lack of drinking water in numbers much larger than today.  We’ll be busy with our own problems, as we are now too.  The first world has already begun its decline into the third, and the third will reach a new level of misery.

Acidification of the oceans due to increased CO2 will destroy what’s left of the coral reefs within 50 years.  Mass extinctions will ensue. The oceans will become a graveyard once and for all.

Drought, flooding, and a surge of pests and invasive species will throttle not only nature, but agriculture, causing more starvation. A lack of oil to produce the fertilizer needed to grow crops will further this starvation.  Disputes over the lack of natural resources, food,  and the decreasing availability of habitable land will cause world and civil war without any discernible sides.  This is, of course, already going on in the third world. It will soon be our turn.

One American uses the electric energy resources of 390 Ethiopians.  With our lavish lifestyles, each of us single-handily produces as much CO2 as 170 Nigerians or 170 Nepalese.  We may be the worst, but no developed nation can shy away from this guilt.  Not only have we enslaved the third world into cheaply producing our goods and stealing their resources with force, but we’ve also destroyed our way of life as well by plundering the world in which we live.

I feel guilty.  But not that guilty.  Not guilty enough to do anything that will really matter.   I do little things, like refusing to use plastic produce bags at the grocery store.  I pile all my loose apples, tomatoes, and kale on the conveyor belt as the people behind me furl their brows with impatience.  Not using plastic bags is a tiny, insignificant thing especially when compared to the thousands of miles I travel every year by jet, releasing thousands of pounds of CO2 high up in the atmosphere.  My moral compass points to the most convenient north.

Even if you don’t own a car, don’t eat meat, live in a tiny apartment, leave the heat and air conditioning off, compost, recycle, vote Green Party, and donate money to charities, your way of life is still completely unsustainable, destructive, greedy, and overly-contributive to greenhouse gases when compared to the world average. There aren’t enough resources for seven billion people to live like even the poorest Americans, and yet we’re a nation that prides itself on equality, which would be quite laughable except for the fact that this is all extremely depressing.