Chuckie V, waar is de tijd. Begin jaren '90 was hij het enfant terrible van de triatlon sport. Hij leefde in zijn auto of in een tentje en trok zo van wedstrijd naar wedstrijd. Hij won overigens Ironman Canada.
Tegenwoordig heeft hij een eigen webblog en dit wil ik jullie niet onthouden. ik vind het echt hilarisch. Tis wel in't Engels maar zo ziet ge ook eens hoe het er onder de toppers aan toe gaat. Veel leesplezier.
Swim GearYears ago, when I used to swim with the
Masters group at Scott Carpenter Pool in Boulder, Colorado, I stayed in the slower lanes, not just because I was slow, but because I knew it would allow me to focus on form, rather than fitness. Swimming is almost entirely about good form. Terry Laughlin writes in
Total Immersion that swimming fast is 70% form and just 30% fitness, and I concur, though his percentages may be skewed and favor fitness too much.
Eventually, though, my form got pretty good---I'd take fewer strokes across the 50-meter pool than anyone but a 5' 8" fish named Andy Carlson---and I no longer needed to stick to the slower lanes to remain focused upon it.
But a funny thing happened as I moved "up" a few lanes. The guys---and to be sure, they were all guys---were not so worried about their form. They seemed more concerned with racing one another on a daily basis. It seems that good ol' testosterone mixes well in water! I did an about-face and returned to the intermediate lanes, closer to my friends in lane five and six: Gertrude, Ester, Eugene and Mabel.
The coach, however, saw things differently. She commanded that I get in the faster lanes.
"You're only cheating yourself!" she exclaimed.
"Then it shouldn't matter to you!" I replied.
"Plus, I don't like these guys," I whined, pointing to the likes of Wes Hobson, Nate Llerandi, Mark Allen, Scott Molina, Scott Tinley, Garrett McCarthy, Wolfgang Dietrich, Mike Pigg, Christian Bustos, Darren Wood, Greg Welch, and Fish-Boy himself, Andy Carlson.
A raucous laughter ensued, as did quite a few heavy-handed splashes from their lane.
I'd have no choice. I had to swim with the sharks.
Most these guys were sharks, particularly Wolfgang, Nate, Garrett, Wes, and Fish-Boy. I knew I could handle Welchie, Mark, Mike, Christian, Darren, Scott and Scott in this fish-eat-fish water world of ours.
As we readied for the next set, our third "main set" of the 90-minute workout (this one consisting of ten 250-meter efforts), I lined up where I thought I belonged. In back.
Surprisingly, it was comfortable back there. A maelstrom of tidal proportions virtually whisked me along, as though I were riding a wave. The toughest thing was the flip-turns, when a wall of water suddenly had to change directions. My swim cap came off in my very first turn, just as I came off the back. I looked up and I was nowhere near Tinley, who'd left just five seconds before me at the start. Worst of all, Fish-Boy was already bearing down on me on the other side of the lane. So much for comfort.
I held it together by kicking like I've never kicked before, a 16-beat, maybe a 64-beat kick, and soon caught Tinley and stayed on his feet. Fish-Boy passed us both soon after, bilaterally breathing as he went.
The thing I couldn't help but noticing was that every single guy in the lane, other than me and Fish-Boy, was wearing "speed suits", pull-buoys and paddles. And these weren't your average swim paddles either. They looked like kick-boards strapped to each guy's hand! Jane, the swim coach, never mentioned it was to be a "pull set" because, apparently, it wasn't intended as such.
So, then, why all the gear?
Why, ego, of course!
Tinley was the biggest offender as he used TWO flotation buoys between his legs! His feet barely touched water, and on those feet were a pair of Zoomers---those ugly amputated flippers that look as though a (real) shark got to them. His paddles, when placed side to side, barely fit the width of the lane. The guy was practically crawling atop the water as he "swam"!
When the set was done, I gathered my last few remaining breaths and my last few remaining brain cells and inquired about the gear. Nobody responded, but Fish-Boy shot me a furtive glance in favor of what I was implying. I liked him immediately. Plus, he wore drag....a drag suit, that is.
It seems these guys knew that in order to swim near Fish-Boy---who, at one time, happened to be an Olympic Trails swimmer---they needed to pull out all stops. That meant everything ever invented for water propulsion, save for maybe a torpedo strapped to their torsos. Pool regulations at Scott Carpenter Park don't allow for underwater missiles or nuclear warheads or Jet Skis.
Despite this, I showed up ready and armed the very next day. The previous night, I decided I wanted to show the guys how absolutely ridiculous they looked, in addition to attempting something I always wanted to try: a world record for the 1,500 meter distance. I was serious. Seriously.
On me was a 12mm thick wetsuit and a pair of paddles, each of which were roughly the size of a surfboard (long-boards), along with a set of flippers that would put any shark to shame if we were to race. Hell, I couldn't even walk in them! I also donned a neoprene swim cap---you know the kind: the ones with a chinstrap---so it wouldn't fly off in my first turn. Plus, it added some extra buoyancy to that unusually large cranium of mine. Then, I started my watch, dove in, and began my quest.
Lap after lap, I flew by Fish-Boy and left him reeling in my wake. After the thirty lengths, I stopped my watch, tore my wetsuit and swim cap off (I was practically in flames!) and glanced at my Timex:
14:59.62
Damn, no world record. Not even close. My first thought was how the hell do those Aussie dudes swim this fast without the proper gear?! I had a lot of time to give it some more thought as the others wouldn't reach the wall for another few minutes, and as I stood there bent at the waist, I wondered if the International Olympic Committee would ever allow me to compete in the finals of the 1,500 dressed like I was. It would be quite the spectacle, I suppose, but I think maybe I'd have been fairly competitive, especially if I spent a little time focusing on form-work during my preparation.
Terwijl half wielertoeristend Vlaanderen de kasseien en klimmetjes van de Ronde opzocht, zochten Marco Velo, Wim en ikzelf het iets dichter bij huis, namelijk in Gellik, waar de gepensioneerdenbond de Maaslandse Pijl organiseerde. Veel volk was er niet. Lag het aan het weer of was in het verleden de opkomst ook niet groter, wie zal het zeggen.
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Gezonder en langer leven door een biertje te drinken na een voetbalwedstrijd: het zal velen als muziek in de oren klinken. Maar het is ook de verrassende conclusie van een Europees medisch onderzoek, dat The Daily Telegraph publiceert. 
