Serious Post about Training your Pelvic Floor

When I was in the Navy a fellow sailor once told me that he had never farted in front of a girl. This was because, he said in all earnestness, he had such good control of his butthole. Now I didn’t let it show, of course, but I was really, really jealous of his superior butthole control. I knew my butthole control was fair to middling at best. The worst part of it all, having such poor control of my butthole, I had to admit it was all my fault.

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You see, I had plenty of time to exercise the affected muscles, but I never did. While standing mid-watches I could easily have done several, if not several dozen, kegels and clinches. They’re easy to do and generally nobody even notices as long as you’re wearing pants at the time. So really, there was no excuse for having such a weak sphincter. I relied on my general good health and my youth and vigor to suppress all unwanted flatulence, but I can positively affirm it’s not enough to avoid embarrassing yourself while riding in the elevator down to the lobby with a couple of salesladies heading out to TGI Fridays for dinner.

I had a similar feeling of regret for not having trained just a couple of weeks ago. It was the second annual half marathon in my town. We don’t have marathons or even half ones in town very often and so it would seem like a no brainer to train and run in my own town’s race. But for some reason, I elected to be lazy, put off training, and didn’t run. I felt like I’d let down my town and some of the race organizers who I know, but most importantly, I had let down myself.

Now, I have been running pretty regularly, but not what you call training. I go out and run around 4 miles 4 or 5 times a week, maybe a little longer run on Saturday, but I’m just moving at an easy pace, not trying to hit a goal or maintain any kind of speed. I’m not putting my body under enough stress to force it to develop strength or endurance. I’m relying on my general good health and my youth and vigor to get me through these runs.

Previously in my youth I would’ve signed up for this half and slogged through it, but I’m old and wise enough now to know that’s not a good idea. Last year, when I was younger and more foolish, I did just that and came limping over the finish line with a sore hip and knee. I just hadn’t been running enough to take on 13 miles all at once.

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(Not me, but pretty close.)

So, I missed an opportunity to run a race in my own town because I had neglected to train. And it was all my fault. It seems easy, training is just pushing your body a little farther and faster than it wants to go, taking just enough of a break (which doesn’t mean inactivity) to let it recover, and then doing it again. Shouldn’t we all always be training? Junk miles are so much easier but they lead to embarrassment when the ladies from the local running club, who run purely for the social aspect and not for speed, are standing at the finish line cheering as you come in while already wearing their finisher medals. They’re giving you high fives and telling you “good job!” the same way you tell your first grader she did a good job on the picture of an African elephant(?) she drew with colored chalk.

Though I didn’t run this year I did volunteer. I worked an intersection and helped direct traffic. It was a little boring when there were gaps in the race and no one was coming by, but I found a way to make my time productive. Even while watching the other athletes go by I found a way to train. I must of done about 8 dozen kegels, and since I was wearing pants, hardly anyone noticed.

 

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Serious Post About Pooping Under a Bridge

My wife an I have an acquaintance who has an online presence that is, well, a little precious. His posts are always quite serious and introspective. Don’t get me wrong, he is a very good writer, but at the same time it’s a little eye rolling. I was reflecting on that and thinking about my own blog and realized people probably think the same thing about my posts. Not that they’re introspective or anything, but that I make an effort to be humorous. I’m sure that all three of you who read are all like, man, this guy thinks he is soooo funny. In light of that I will now only post serious articles meant to educate and challenge my readers. In other words, my blog is growing up and becoming an adult, so no more silliness.

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Last Sunday three miles into a six mile run I took a huge dump under a bridge. I hadn’t planned on taking a dump under a bridge when I started my run that afternoon, but that’s how it turned out. I’m generally pretty good about getting the train out on time first thing in the morning, but that morning the conductor wasn’t feeling it and so it didn’t happen until the first three miles of that run cleared the tracks.

I’ve mentioned before but I live next to what we around here call corp land. When the Army Corp of Engineers built the reservoir in the early 70s there was a lot of surrounding land that they claimed. Roads run through that land and you can still run or hike down those old roads in a lot of places. Last Sunday I decided to run down Division Road which loops through a section of this corp land. This section of road has a number of bridges that cross over various streams and smaller rivers.

From my house to one of the bridges on Division Road it is three miles exactly. I ran to that point and decided to pause for just a moment and take in the nature surrounding me. There was no one else around and so I just stood and watched the water and listened to the birds. That was a mistake. As soon as I stopped I knew I had a runaway train to deal with. I tried to ignore it and actually took a couple of steps as if to start running, but it was a no go. The crossing gates were down and I was sure to collide with a locomotive if I proceeded.

I contemplated briefly about where to go, and I mean briefly, because things were happening pretty fast, if you know what I mean. I quickly ducked under the bridge, dropped my shorts, leaned back by supporting my weight on an overhead girder and did the deed, right out there in the open air, like a freakin’ coyote or raccoon.

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Well, that was done, but now I had to decide how to, um, clean myself. I swear to you I could not find any good size leaves. There were no sycamores or maples or anything like that around. All I saw were these little scrub bushes that had leaves about the size of my thumb nail. It was time to think outside the box. That’s when I saw a couple of sticks nearby. I picked up the thinner of the two, because, well, reasons, and proceeded to make an attempt and cleaning up. The stick broke off in my butt. I literally had a stick up my butt.

I pulled that out of there and made a second attempt with the larger stick. It didn’t break but I wasn’t sure how effective it was. That’s when my eyes fell to an old sock that was lying down by the water. Who knows whose sock that had been? Who knows how long it had been drifting around in that water until that fateful day it ended up on the bank? I sure don’t know. All I knew was it had once been white but was now a filthy dirty grey color, and it was turned inside out. I picked it up and it was wet and had mud caked to one side. I shook it off and made an honest effort to make myself whole.

That was done and so I could continue my run. Three more miles. I washed my hands off in the river and looked around just to see if anyone else had witnessed the spectacle. I couldn’t imagine what I would do if a camouflaged duck hunter had been sitting across the way. What a story he would tell.

I ran home feeling a lot lighter, probably because I wasn’t carrying as much dignity as I had started out with. But what else could I have done? I mean, what were my options?

Well, one option would’ve been not to blog about it so that three more people could read about it and thus lose even more of what little dignity I maintain, but what good would that do? This blog is meant to educate and enlighten my readers. What if another jogger needs to let a train leave the station half way into a run?

So, what have we learned? 1) The train may be delayed but it’s going to show up at some point 2)  You gotta do what you gotta do 3) Scout out where the big leaves are 4) Maybe use a stick? 5) An old wet dirty tube sock may not be a bad option.

There you have it, a humor free post about a very adult subject. I don’t know if there are any blogger awards for this type of serious subject matter but I anxiously await mine.

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Big Cycling News!

Good news, everyone! I know you’ve been waiting to hear this. I got the blu-ray player in the garage to connect to my wifi! And when I say I got it to connect I mean it just started working again.

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Of course you understand the implications of this unexpected reconnection of electronic devices. That’s right, I now have the entire Netflix library available to me while I ride. I’m no longer bound to talkies recorded onto the silver discs that the pioneers had to use to watch movies. For instance, I have ridden through several episodes of The Walking Dead over the last couple of weeks (Ooh, that Negan is so horrible, but so mesmerizing, I’m so confused).

Last night, while not riding my bike, I watched kind of a weird movie in the living room. It is called The Survivalist. Not exactly what I had in mind but not a bad movie, probably a little slow for most people. It was just a little on the artsy side. And be warned, there’s a couple of uncomfortable scenes so don’t watch with your mom unless you have a different kind of relationship with her than I have with mine. Anyways, as I’m apt to do while watching movies in my living room I Alta Vista’d it and was reading a little about the movie. It turns out that the girl in The Survivalist will be in a remake of Suspiria. Isn’t that weird? On my last post I was just telling you how I was watching Suspiria, the 1977 version. Now I learn there’s remake coming out.

A friend and I had talked about riding the entirety of the Katy Trail this weekend, but it didn’t pan out. We’ll, or at least I, will find another weekend to do it. It’s been a goal of mine to ride the entire 237.7 miles from start to finish. My friend has done it before, so it’s no big deal to him, but it’s still a bucket list item for me. I guess that’s why I’ve gotten back on the bike recently. I want to be ready when the time comes. It may not be smart to do the run in the late fall or winter, but hey, what else you gonna do? Or, I could wait until Spring. We’ll see.

I recognize that at some point I have to get the bike off the trainer, out of the garage, and on the road, but it’s such a hassle putting all those extension cords together for my blu-ray player. If I don’t get on the road soon I will have forgotten how to ride a bike, which everyone knows can be done.

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Actual picture of me riding my bike for the first time in a long time.

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On the Bike Again

Wow, it has been a long time since I rode a bike. The last recorded instance of me pedaling a bicycle was June 30, 2017. The time before that was December 3rd, 2016. Now, I know what you’re saying. “You’re not a real cyclist.” And, “You’re not a real triathlete.” I tend to agree with you. I am more of a pretend triathlete. As a matter of fact this whole summer passed and I didn’t even do one triathlon. Most of the summer I had the MR340 on my mind.

I also laid off running this year. I’ve ran relatively few miles since my last marathon in November 2016. In some ways I’m regretting it. It’s been tough getting back up to speed. When my easy pace was an 8:30 mile and now an 8:30 feels like a 10K pace it’s easy to doubt your strategy of taking a long break.

Do I even need to say swimming has been nil?

I said earlier I hadn’t been on a bike since June. Well, that was until today. I have picked up running again over the last two or three weeks and have been running six days a week. But today I just wasn’t feeling it and my knees were sore, so I set up the trainer and I rode for an hour. It was just an easy spin but I still ended up drenched in sweat as I’m ought to do when I ride in the garage.

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Pictured above is my set up in the garage. I know, it looks pretty messy from that angle. I did just reorganize my peg board last weekend so cut me a little slack. I was watching a movie called Suspiria. It’s a 1977 horror movie. I got it because it’s an Italian move but it was all in English, so I’m not sure what’s going on there. I’ve watched quite a few Italian movies from my bike. Not recently of course, but last year I did. These include a number of Federico Fellini films. I’m sure there are some ‘normal’ Italian movies but I gravitate to the ones on the artsy-fartsy side. They’re usually pretty boring. You have to remind yourself that you are experiencing culture. Suspiria is pretty tame by today’s horror movie standards. I have a few minutes left so I’ll definitely have to get back on the trainer this week to see if our heroine survives the mysterious happenings at ballet school.

Just like while hitchhiking through the galaxy, whenever you ride the trainer you want to have a towel handy. That’s of course to soak up the copious amounts of sweat that pour off you. My towel is there on the handle bars. You may be tempted to ride topless but that is a mistake because then the sweat will have many more drip points and you don’t want all that salty brine dripping all over your bike.

With that thought I will say ciao. Or as Fellini would say with an abundance of wind noise and and some nudes painted silver in the background, good-bye.

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Opinions Are Like Doughnut Holes, Everybody Likes Them

I’m not sure I got that saying right, but as I was out running this morning I realized I had some opinions. And I very much like my opinions, so I guess in a way the title is correct; everybody likes their own opinions.

I’d like to tell you about a couple of my own opinions.

I live in a small town in west central Missouri. It’s a nice little town of 9,000. I guess given the history of the area and the history of Missouri you’re apt to see confederate flags flying from peoples’ houses around here. On our town square there is a statue of two soldiers, one Union and the other confederate. The inscription reads something like, “They fought bravely.” Now, don’t get the wrong impression, it’s not like every single house flies the confederate flag around here. There’s really just a few that I can think of on my various routes, but they’re there.

I spent my formative years in Ohio and Kansas, and growing up in those states I don’t ever remember seeing confederate flags. The only exposure I really had to the confederate flag was on the Dukes of Hazzard, which oddly enough, for a boy my age, was never one of my favorite shows. I always considered myself a Yankee and felt proud to be from a part of the country that fought to mend the Union, if not to ensure that all men lived free in these United States.

That’s not to say that I come from a long line of progressive woke liberals. Far from it. However, I always got the sense from the adults in my life that you ought to treat everyone the same. And it always seemed wrong to me that one man could own another man like a horse or a dog.

So when I see the confederate flag flying at a house I can’t help but think there’s someone who lives there who does not believe that all men are created equal. It’s just because of what that flag stood for not all that long ago in our nation’s history. And so I’m not a big fan of the confederate flag, but since I believe in freedom of expression, I support the right of those folks who may or may not believe the way I do when it comes to equality to fly those flags. However, I don’t believe any government entity, town, county, state, anything, should fly the confederate flag. It’s an insult and the confederacy lost. Take it down.

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I assume this pic is a joke but I thought it was funny.

I feel the same way about the nazi flag. It’s particularly disgraceful to fly the nazi flag. What person in their right mind and who is not a degenerate bigot could hoist that banner?

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old nazis, neo-nazis. What’s the difference?

So now I probably have a bunch of leftists saying, “Alright, I kinda like this guy.” But keep reading.

There’s this group right now running around in their ninja pajamas calling themselves the “antifa”, and supposedly they are anti-fascists. I can’t hardly say “antifa,” I have to call the them “fascist antifa.” Don’t dare have an opinion that isn’t theirs. They won’t like it, and I won’t say they resort to violence because violence seems to be one of their first options, and they will try to make you shut up. They really have a hard time with people who think thoughts that aren’t their own. They’re Orwell’s Thought Police.

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fascist antifa

So when I see the fascist antifa clashing with the nazis I have the same question I have when the Broncos play the Steelers. Can’t they both lose?

I suppose both sides use the slippery slope argument, that if we allow them to make their argument or fly their flag or have their little march then the next thing we’ll be doing is putting people in shackles and selling them at auctions or strapping them down in a chair so that they can undergo the Ludovico Technique. It’s all kind of ridiculous.

What about the monuments? What about that confederate soldier on the square in my town? This gets a little more complicated for me. I don’t believe everything is black and white. In a lot of arguments I see shades of grey and that is not a popular position to hold. We all have to be for or against something, no middle ground, apparently. I guess my thought is this; If we start taking down monuments because the dude was a big jerk a lot of the time, where does it stop? Julius Caesar was a murderous slave-trading bastard if ever there was one, but should we topple all his statues? Who doesn’t get sick when they hear of isis destroying ancient statues? I don’t know. I can certainly see the point in removing the confederate soldier. Sure, he fought bravely. He fought so bravely to keep my forebears in chains. By all means, let’s honor his bravery. (Italics indicate sarcasm. I know leftists have a hard time detecting that.)

caesar

The inventor of the Caesar Salad, the Caesar cut, the Orange Julius, and the C-section. Hail Caesar!

“There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.”

That is my opinion and that is the opinion shared by my man St. Paul when he wrote to the Galatians.

He had a lot of opinions that I like:

“Owe no man anything, but to love one another.”

“As much as it depends on you, live at peace with all men.”

And let’s not forget the words of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ: “Do unto others…”

How would you like it if your neighbor flew the banner that represented the people who considered you mere property?

So there you have it, my doughnut hole.

PS. I know this is snarky but I failed to capitalize certain words throughout this post on purpose. All the other typos are the result of my neglectfulness and ignorance.

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MR340 (Missouri River, 340 Miles)

Well, it hasn’t been quite a year since I last posted, so not too bad.

Let’s get up to date. In my last post I said I was going to do the Dogwood Canyon trail run, and then the Bass Pro Marathon. I did in fact run both those events. Last summer starting in July and going all the way to the marathon in November I actually trained. I know! Weird, right? I used the Hanson’s training program. You can look it up.

The trail run was in October and I didn’t do too bad (for me). It’s a great couple of runs swag wise, and very substantial participation medals. It’s actually a very nice event in all other aspects as well. If you can get in I would recommend it. Sign up early, it fills up fast.

The marathon was in November and it was my best marathon yet. So here’s the thing. I was training to run eight minute miles the whole race, but about 2 weeks before the race I saw that my Boston qualifying pace was about 7:50. I was all like, dang! That’s not too far off. So new plan, run 7:50s.

Things went really well up until mile 19 and then the wheels fell off. I just couldn’t hold on and got slower and slower. I ended up running some slower miles there at the end, but I didn’t feel like I was dead or anything. I missed Boston by ten minutes, but probably effectively missed getting in by fifteen minutes. Either way, at 3 hours 35 minutes it was my best marathon yet, so I guess training pays off.

Now for the real reason for the post. My wife suggested I write this down so that I would remember what happened. I thought this blog was as good a place as any.

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Last week, August 8-11, 2017, I participated in the MR340. What’s that? Well, it’s a paddling race from Kansas City to St. Charles, 340 miles across the state of Missouri via the Missouri River. You can paddle a canoe, kayak, stand-up paddle board, or peddle boat. Nothing with oars, sails, or motors of course. I was in the solo men’s division, but there are tandem and other divisions as well. I paddled a 16′ Perception Vizcaya kayak.

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As faithful readers of this blog you know that I go on ad nauseam about completing an Ironman race, but know this, the MR340 was the toughest race I’ve ever completed. It was painful and required way more patience and grit than any other race or training day I’ve ever experienced. Now, I trained way more for the Ironman race, so I know that made a difference. I mean, I had been in a kayak maybe 10 times before embarking on this trip. But my Ironman was over in about 13 hours and 50 minutes. The MR340 took me 75 friggin’ hours!

So how’d it go?

At 7Am on Tuesday, 8/8/17 we took off from Kaw Point in Kansas City. It’s a little spit of land where the Kansas meets the Missouri and if you look closely you can see the footprints left by Lewis and Clark when they landed there.

About 8 hours and 51 miles later I stopped at the first check point, Lexington, MO. You’re not required to stop, but you do have to check in via text as you go by. My ground crew (my wife) met me there, fed me, rubbed my shoulders, and sent me on my way. The plan was to rest about 15 minutes and that’s what I did.

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The next stop was Waverly, MO, 23 miles downstream, and again my wife met me there, gave me my supplies, fed me, and sent me on my way.

Let me insert this here. That first day on the water I thought I was going to have a medical emergency. Why? Well, I couldn’t get my blasted bladder to empty. When you’re in a kayak for 8 hours or so, you inevitably have to piss. The plan, which is pretty common, and something I’d actually practiced, was to pee in a Powerade bottle. Oh my goodness, I cannot convey to you how painful it got trying to pee that day! My bladder so wanted the urine to flow but the other parts of my body just wouldn’t let it go. The flesh was willing but my mind was all like, we don’t pee sitting down in a kayak with our ding dong stuck into a Orange Blast Powerade bottle. I really thought I was going to have to find a place to land and pee standing up. I finally got it figured out and after that first day peeing in a bottle became second nature. In fact, when I got back I had a little trouble going in a toilet. Well, almost.

At a little after midnight I arrived in Miami another 32 miles downstream from Waverly. At this point I’m just a little ahead of schedule. I was supposed to sleep in Miami. I arrived wet. It hadn’t rained or anything, but just from paddling all those miles and the water dripping off my paddle had gotten me pretty damp. And that night was unseasonably cool. It was probably in the sixties that night, which for Missouri in August is very cool. I tried to dry myself the best I could around the fire they had going, but at some point I gave it up and tried to sleep. By design I didn’t bring much. I had a towel and a mylar blanket. I used my life vest as a pillow. I laid down on the ground and I think I had just fallen asleep when these knuckleheads (I mean that in the kindest way) started airing up mattresses right beside me with these battery operated pumps. Grrr! So now I’m awake, and still cold, so I’m all like, screw it! might as well get back on the water. It’s about 3AM.

So I get some dude to help me carry my boat down the ramp and I launch. Now I’m heading toward Glasgow, 36 more miles away.

Paddling the river in the dead of night is something you should do, or not. It’s up to you. More on that later. Honestly, this first night of paddling wasn’t bad because we had so much moon.

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I got to Glasgow and now I don’t remember what time because like an idiot I went and deleted my check in/out texts. It was probably mid morning. My wife met me at Glasgow again and because I slept so poorly the night (morning) before I slept a little in the van. My wife said I slept an hour and a half. It didn’t seem that long. So I load up and I’m off again.

This was the leg I dreaded the most. Fifty-six miles to a place called Cooper’s Landing. This was going to be my longest leg. This is where things really started getting painful. Anyone who asks me about the race always mentions how shot my arms must be, but it’s actually your shoulders that bear the brunt. My neck and shoulders are still sore. I paddled and paddled and paddled that day (Wednesday). There’s bluffs along the river in this section and at one point there was a guy and his wife sitting on their porch perched upon one of those bluffs and he’d yell down with a police bullhorn, “Hello, where are you from?” I yell back, “Clinton Missouri.” He seemed bored with that answer and then wished me good luck or something.

I stopped very briefly at a boat ramp to turn my lights on, otherwise I was in the boat until Cooper’s.

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Night fell on the way and we had way less moon this night. There was one freaky part where I’m paddling along and I can tell something’s not quite right but I can’t make anything out. Next thing I know I ground out on sand. Full and complete stop. Five or six other boats come up to that area and just stop, looking around and trying to figure out what’s down river. No one is worried about rapids or waterfalls or anything exciting like that, but there are these things called wing dykes that the Army Corps of Engineers build out into the river to force the water into the channel. They’re made out of large rock with jagged edges and have been known to sink kayaks and canoes. Finally we see some other boats hugging the right bank and getting through, so we all make a 90 degree turn, head over to the bank and make our way down (that’s after I poled my way off that sand bar or whatever it was).

I make it to Cooper’s at about midnight. My wife was supposed to meet me at this stop but I told her to never mind since I was so late. Again, I slept on the ground between my space blankets. I slept a little better this night.

I’ll mention that at Cooper’s Landing, a private camp ground, there is a Thai restaurant, just in case you’re ever paddling the Missouri and get a hankerin for some Thai. Also, I met a guy there who was building a dugout canoe.

Again, about 3:30AM I decide to get out of there. As luck would have it another guy was getting ready to leave as well. He had two, shall we say, mature ladies with him, who I found out later were his mother and mother-in-law. I figured he was going to need help carrying his boat, so I suggested we help each other. He agreed. Once in the water he asked if I wanted to paddle with him. I said sure, but I’m very slow. He said no problem.

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This was Anthony’s 5th time doing the MR340 and he was a much better paddler than I. He told me about a trip he and his brother took down to Lake Pontchartrain just to paddle across it. As impressive as that was, the most impressive thing I learned about Anthony was that he is a HEART TRANSPLANT RECIPIENT! What the heck? I truly didn’t know heart transplant recipients could be active. He told me the whole story and it was fascinating. I won’t repeat it here but it was amazing.

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At any rate, Anthony and I stuck together all day Thursday. We stopped in Jefferson City, 26 miles down from Cooper’s, for just a bit. My wife met me there and I got a Chic-Fil-A sandwich. We’re off again, next stop, Hermann, 46 miles away.

Getting to Herman was another brutal leg. I was just so worn out. I can’t even blame the weather. We had great weather the whole trip (just one spot of rain). It wasn’t hot or anything. I was just in way over my head.

On the way to Hermann we passed a barge coming upstream. Once we got by him we noticed a three-man kayak had capsized in its wake. We paddled over to see what we could do to help. They seemed to have it in hand so we continued on.

I was using my Ironman backpack as my deck bag and another paddler saw it and asked me about it. He said his wife had done the same race the same year I did. I thought that was a pretty big coincidence. Then he asked me which one was harder because he’d been having that argument with his wife. Well, I relayed to him my thoughts as articulated above.

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We get to Hermann and again I stop just long enough to eat and re-supply. And now we’re off and the plan was to make it to Washington, 30 miles away. It gets dark along the way and looks like maybe it could rain. We get to Washington sometime after midnight and I get my bunk all ready for sleeping. The volunteer gives us the weather and it sounds like a storm is coming. Anthony suggests we press on to Klondike, 12 miles away. At this point I am literally dead. Literally. I had to be resurrected. Well, I was mostly dead. But, heeding the advice of the well seasoned paddler I load back up and we’re off to Klondike. Unfortunately we didn’t beat the storm.

Long story short, we got stormed on and we confronted a barge and in the dead of night with no moon it was just a little disconcerting. I mostly didn’t want to get ran over by a sand barge. Now back on Wednesday or early Thursday I would have welcomed it because then my race would’ve been over, but I was too close to the end now. The barge was just passing the ramp and Klondike when we encountered it and then the rain started pouring down.

We made it up the ramp and here I have a bit of good luck. Anthony’s uncle met him there with a camper trailer. They invited me to sleep in the camper and I happily accepted. However, we didn’t sleep very long. Anthony told his uncle to set an alarm for 2 hours (he’s kind of a hard ass).

At about 5 AM we’re off again. This is where Anthony and I parted ways. He wanted to set a personal best and I just wanted to survive. He took off down the river and I just kept cranking away at my normal slow pace. I met and talked with a couple other fellows along the way but mostly just paddled alone on into St. Charles. That last leg was a mere 27 miles.

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Officially I landed at St. Charles at 10:07 AM on Friday, 8/11. 75 hours and 7 minutes. For perspective, the fastest guys will finish in around 40 hours. You have 88 hours to complete the race. My wife met me there and took me over to the hotel room where I was finally able to wash off all the funk. Man, I don’t think I’ve stunk so bad. It’s a very special kind of funk. BO mixed with river water. It’s pretty bad.

So there you go, my MR340. People have been more interested in this race than anything else I’ve ever done. I think there must be something enchanting about the river, I don’t know. Today a fellow named Andrew McCrea interviewed me for his radio show, American Countryside. It may or may not air sometime in September and could be available at AmericanCountryside.com. You know how these things go, he may not use it but I was flattered to be asked to record the interview.

People keep asking me if I’ll do it again. The answer is no, not solo. I might consider doing it in a tandem kayak or a canoe, but no more solo runs. I got that out of my system.

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It really is a neat event. All of the paddlers share a sense of camaraderie as do all the ground crews. You get the sense that the ground crews are having just as much fun as the paddlers (and why wouldn’t they?). It’s kind of a party all the way down the river, but with more pain. And as always the volunteers are great! Can’t say enough about them. A big shout out to my wife and Mike and Sue, my father- and mother-in-law. My wife was my ground crew and Mike and Sue minded the kids and all of their activities while we were making our way across Missouri. I couldn’t have done it without them.

Do I recommend you try the MR340? Heck yeah! Do it! Why not?

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So You Can Post From Your Phone?

I’ve actually seen this option for a long time on the app, but who wants to type that many words with your thumbs?

Anywho…I’m doing the Dogwood Canyon Trail Run in a couple of weeks. It’s 25K the first day and 15K the next (or the other way around), so nothing horrible, but I’m told the trail offers a lot of challenges like hills that go up and hills that go down and creek crossings and everything else the Ozarks south of Branson has to offer.

In November I’m planning to do the Bass Pro Marathon in Springfield. The guy that owns Bass Pro owns the Dogwood Canyon nature area.

Ok, more to come. Maybe I’ll get back into this blogging thing.

Me at the entrance of a replica Scandinavian church in Moorhead MN wearing my Ironman 70.3 KS shirt.

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