Staring at the Sea - By Derek.

Derek here.

Perhaps I want to beat myself, since yesterday, on my day off from training, I smoked a cigar while walking 9 holes with Jack at Nissequoge GC, then ate fried clam platter washed down with two pints of Blue Point and two Camels at Nick's Clam Bar, and five Oreos at home.

Not surprisingly, I feel a little shaky this morning as I stare at the Long Island sound and contemplate today's workout, my first "ocean" swim. Swimming in the ocean is like walking blindfolded in a bad neighborhood. I'll be going out beyond the roped off area, exposing my still soft underbelly to the curious, potentially hostile sea creatures below. The dangers are real and they are many. A crab could latch on to my nether regions. A man o war could ensnare me. A school of bluefish in a feeding frenzy could take off that last 10 pounds I need to lose in a matter of seconds. If I swim too far out, a Long Island guido on a jetski could run me over just to make his nasty fiance smile. If I swim too close to shore, a surf caster could hook me, reel me in, knock me in the head with a rock, dangle me by the ankles and post a picture of me on Noreast.com. A white fisherman would release me, at least. If one of our many pescaderos caught me I might not be so lucky, as they keep and eat everything they haul in.

So, I'm anxious, as well as frustrated, due to the fact that I got on the scale today and was back above 200. 201 to be exact. In triathlon terminology, that makes me a "Clydesdale". I don't want to be a Clydesdale. I don't want to pull wagons full of bad beer down muddy, rutted roads. I want to run free in the bluegrass with the thoroughbreds. After losing 27 pounds by counting calories on my Iphone with "Lose It" this year, I have run into a brick wall exactly at the 200, the Clydesdale line. Past of the point of the triathlon was to forget the counting and just train ridiculously hard so I could get down to 189, where I would no longer be technically overweight, by BMI standards. Since I last weighed myself on Friday morning (198.5), I swam 1.2 miles (Fri), biked 29 miles (Sat), and ran 5.3 miles to meet my sister for 45 minutes of tennis (Sun). The problem can be summed up in how I spent my 45 minutes between running and tennis: while waiting for a court I ordered and devoured a Nachos Grande from Salsa Salsa. Calories: uncountable. Result: Clydesdale.

If I'm going to beat Ted, and not beat Derek, this is going to have to change.