DFW Castles of Basketball Conflict

I've always been obsessed with basketball arenas. In particular, smaller arenas, or gyms. Growing up in Oklahoma City, I loved the big, fancy, new downtown arena, the Myriad. But my favorite place to watch a basketball game was Frederickson Fieldhouse, the 3,400 seat home of the Oklahoma City University Chiefs. The Fieldhouse was old and intimate, a cozy place to take in hoops on a cold winter evening.

Recently, I set about the task of compiling a list of our largest basketball arenas in the Dallas-Ft Worth Metroplex. I've also always had a strange fascination with seating capacities, not only for basketball venues, but for all sports edifices. We all know that the American Airlines Center is the largest basketball arena in town (FYI: I don't count the Deathstar as a basketball venue, even though it's hosted a Final Four and NBA All-Star game), but I wondered what the rest of the list would look like. I was surprised that such a list didn't exist on the internet, but now it does, thanks to the hard work of this reporter. If I've left an arena/gym off this list, please let me know--this will be an ever-changing list with new info, new arenas, or arenas being torn down.

I'm using seating capacity for basketball. The listed capacity may vary by a few seats, but these numbers are as close to the official numbers as I could find. And, of course, the capacity will fluctuate for hockey or concerts or rodeo. I hope you enjoy this early Christmas present.


American Airlines Center, Dallas -- 20,000
Ft Worth Convention Center Arena -- 13,500
Super Pit, UNT, Denton -- 10,032
Ed & Rae Schollmaier Arena, TCU, Ft Worth -- 8,500
Fair Park Coliseum, Dallas -- 8,500
Loos Fieldhouse, Addison -- 7,500
Curtis Cullwell Center, Garland -- 7,500
Ellis Davis Fieldhouse, Dallas -- 7,500
Dallas Convention Center Arena -- 7,400
Moody Coliseum, SMU, Dallas -- 7,000
College Park Center, UTA, Arlington -- 7,000
Dr Pepper Arena, Frisco -- 7,000
Allen Events Center -- 6,200
Will Rogers Coliseum, Ft Worth -- 6,000
Mesquite Arena -- 5,500
Wilkerson/Greines Center, Ft Worth -- 5,000
Pan Am Arena, Fair Park, Dallas -- 4,000
Billingsley Fieldhouse, Ft Worth -- 3,500
Activity Center, UTD, Richardson -- 3,200
Birdville Coliseum, Haltom City -- 3,000
Coppell High School Arena -- 2,600
Sandra Meadows Arena, Duncanville -- 2,000
Kitty Magee Arena, TWU, Denton -- 1,800
Burg Center, Dallas Baptist University -- 1,600
Sid Richardson Center, Texas Wesleyan, Ft Worth -- 1,500
Norris Auditorium, Arlington Baptist University -- 950
Maher Center, University of Dallas -- 812

The Minimalist

Traveling great distances on a bicycle has always fascinated me. As a kid, I'd jump on my three-speed and pretend that I was embarking on a long road trip through America. When I was twelve, I went to summer camp in Colorado with my cousin Douglas, and, in Telluride, we met a guy who was riding his loaded-down touring bike across the country. He regaled us with stories from his adventure, and we thought he was the greatest human alive.

In college, my cycling obsession focussed on racing instead of touring, and that's where the obsession remained for the next 30 years. In that time, though, I still held on to the fantasy of doing a long, relaxed-pace bike tour in a far-off land, exploring new roads and a different culture. However, the idea of doing a tour on a 40-pound touring bike with big bags surrounding the front and rear wheels didn't look or sound appealing. I wanted to do a tour on my racing bike, and carry as little as possible. I wanted to be "the Minimalist."

The Preparation

This summer, my life-long daydream became reality. Full-scale planning for this trip started more than a year ago. I decided to tour France. There is no better country in the world for a bicycle tour--the roads are pristine, the motorists respect cyclists, the terrain is varied, and the scenery is stunning. My first decision: what part of France to tour? I'd need to do a loop, starting and ending at the same airport. I ruled out the north of France, because the weather can be iffy, and I didn't want to carry a lot of wet-weather gear. I ruled out the Alps and the Pyrenees, because I've ridden both on previous car-based bike trips, and again, the weather can be iffy in the high mountains, which would require carrying more rain/cold weather gear. I considered Provence, but I've been there. I settled on the southwest part of France, because I could easily fly in and out of Toulouse, I could do a loop through a part of the country I'd never seen, and the weather was a good bet to be sunny and dry.

Once I had my starting/ending point settled, I got down to the business of designing the route. This was a lot of work. I wanted to stay on small backroads, I wanted to avoid larger cities, I wanted to see different regions, and I wanted to visit a few sites. For months I toyed with different paths, even changing the last two days of my course as late as the Sunday before the trip started. I decided that riding about 75 miles per day would be perfect--long enough each day to get me to a different region and to make me feel like I'd accomplished something, but not so long that it would wear me down physically. After much thought, I settled on a course that would run counter-clockwise from Toulouse, west towards the Atlantic coast, then north through the Bordeaux wine region, then east through the Limoges Valley and Limousin, turning to the south through the Massif Central, and finally back into Toulouse. The plan called for nine straight days in the saddle, and pedaling roughly 650 miles.

Originally, I thought I'd ride every day until I didn't feel like riding any longer, find a hotel, and stay the night in whatever town I ended up in. But I decided that I didn't want to be forced to sleep on a park bench in some small village, so I booked a hotel for each night along the way. Researching the hotels was time-consuming, but it was also a lot of fun.

Just as time-consuming was deciding what to carry with me. I wanted my racing bike to feel like my racing bike--I wanted it to be lightweight and nimble. So, I had to carry the bare minimum. The first order of business was to find a bag that would fit underneath my saddle. Not too small, of course, because I needed to carry a set of street clothes and shoes, some toiletries, other necessities, and some tools. I finally found a bag made by Revelate, a company based in Alaska, called the "Pika" bag. Here is what it looks like, fully loaded:

The bag is actually supposed to attach at the bottom to the seat post, but during test rides I discovered that the backs of my legs would hit the bag, so I had to improvise and attach it further down, just above the rear brake. Because of this, I also needed to cinch the lower-third of the bag with a velcro strap to make it as narrow as possible, or else the bag would hit the rear brake cable, causing the brakes to close on the rim.

Once I knew which bag I'd be using, I had to figure out what to pack. Each day on the bike I'd be wearing, of course, a cycling jersey (with three rear pockets for extra storage), cycling shorts, cycling shoes, gloves, a helmet, and sunglasses. In my saddle bag I packed:

-- One dry-fit t-shirt
-- One pair of dry-fit walking shorts
-- One pair of dry-fit underwear
-- Toms lightweight walking shoes
-- Small bag of toiletries, including small tube of sunscreen, small tube of chamois butter, small tube of toothpaste, floss, toothbrush, a razor, and small bottle of Wilderness Wash (a concentrated detergent to use to wash my bike clothes each day).
-- One extra tire. I'd carry two extra inner tubes in my jersey pocket, but I thought I'd be screwed if something on the road shredded a tire, so I folded up a Conti 4000 and stuck it in my saddle bag.
-- First aid kit (small, with tape, gauze, anti-bac ointment, etc) in case of a fall
-- French electric outlet adapter, along with my phone charger and Garmin charger
-- A lightweight Castelli rain jacket, that wadded up to nothing in a small stuff-sack
-- A small bike lock
-- A small micro-fiber towel
-- A couple of extra velcro ties, because you never know when you'll need an extra velcro tie
-- Small tube of Nuun electrolyte drink tablets

In my jersey pockets, I carried a bike tool (with wrenches and a chain tool), a flat tire repair kit (with a mini-pump, spare tubes, patch kit, tire irons, and valve adaptor), my passport, a credit card, some cash, and my phone. I carried the important items in a small, waterproof pouch.

I packed perfectly. Not once during my trip did I ever think "I wish had packed such-and such." I never had to use any of my insurance items (rain jacket, spare tire, first aid kit), but having them gave me great peace of mind.

To help keep me on course, I typed a set of turn-by-turn direction cards for each day, and laminated them so they'd be easy to pull out of my jersey pocket, and so they wouldn't fall apart from sweat or wet weather:

While these cards helped, it was my Garmin that was the real life-saver. I purchased the European Maps chip from Garmin, and loaded it onto my Edge 805. I then programmed each day's route into the Garmin, so each day I had the computer giving me turn-by-turn directions, which probably saved me from riding an extra one hundred miles. There is an intricate network of small highways throughout France, and knowing which road to take can get incredibly confusing. So, I had my Garmin, my direction cards, and my phone, just in case.

Executing the Plan

Being as prepared as I possibly could be, it was time to get the show on the road. My flight was from DFW to London, then London to Toulouse. I had a three hour layover in London, but apparently that's not long enough to get the bike off of one plane and onto another. My bike box missed the connection, so I arrived in Toulouse at 5pm on Thursday with only the small backpack I had carried on. Luckily, my bike made the next flight out of London, and got in at midnight. I grabbed it, and headed to the airport hotel, and went to sleep. The next morning, I ate breakfast, assembled my bike, left the bike box and my backpack with the concierge at the hotel, told the hotel folks I'd see them in nine days, and set off on my adventure.

I was giddy to actually be pedaling in France, and I couldn't wait to see how this journey would play out. Day One took me from Toulouse to Condom (yes, that's the name of the town), about 75 miles through hilly farmland. France would be experiencing an unusual heat wave during my trip--high temps each day near 100--but being from Texas, I was used to that. And, for the most part, my rides were done by 3pm, so I avoided the hottest part of each day.

I quickly fell into a routine that I'd repeat for the next week-and-a-half: Get up about 7:30 each morning, eat breakfast at the hotel, put on my bike clothes and pack my saddle bag, ride from about 9am until 3pm (stopping for lunch at some point), checking into the next night's hotel, washing my bike clothes in the sink and hanging them out to dry, taking a shower, resting for a bit in the hotel room, then putting on my street clothes and walking the town, finding a sidewalk cafe for a beer or two, walking some more looking for a restaurant, eating dinner, walking some more and taking pictures, then returning to the hotel to watch a little French television, eventually falling asleep around 11:30pm.

My street clothes held up well. I was able to wash my dry-fit underwear a few times, and my shirt and shorts never needed a wash because I was only wearing them in the evenings, so I wasn't sweating in them. I chose a dark blue shirt, just in case I spilled something on it so the stain wouldn't show for the remainder of the trip. My bike clothes held up well, too--they were clean and dry each morning (thanks to the heat wave). I chose a nondescript light blue jersey, and plain black shorts, because I wanted to blend in. I left my racing kit at home.

Day Two from Condom to Roquefort (55 miles, the shortest leg of the trip) included a stop at Notre Dame des Cyclists, a functioning Catholic church that is also a cycling museum. The long-time church pastor was a huge bike racing fan, and over the years all of the legends of the sport have donated something to the shrine.

That night in Roquefort, I stayed at the Saint Vincent Hotel, one of my favorite stops along the way. The couple that owned the hotel were also the chefs, and they served a terrific six-course dinner. My dinner date was their dog, whom I fed under the table when the owners weren't looking.

Day Three was a 74 mile ride from Roquefort to St Emilion. The first half of the ride was on flat roads through a forest, the second half of the ride on rolling roads through the vineyards of the Bordeaux wine country. St Emilion was beautiful and lively, perched up on a hilltop in the middle of endless miles of vineyards:

Day Four's ride was a spectacular, 86 mile route from St Emilion to Sarlat, which followed the Dordogne River to the wonderful town of Bergerac, then through a hilly final 40 miles to the medieval town of Sarlat. For 15 of these miles, I rode with a 60-something former racer from Bergerac named Marcel. He was fit and fast, and I was able to carry on a very rough conversation with him in French (thanks to daily lessons from Rosetta Stone for the past three months which had expanded my vocabulary to the point that I could kind of understand what most people were saying to me). We talked about the Tour de France, the region, and the bike. He told me he rode every day, and that's what kept him young. He told me to do the same. I told him that was the plan.

Day Four was so much fun--in many ways the perfect day--that once I got to Sarlat I rode straight to the old-town center, sat down at a cafe, and ordered a big beer to toast my efforts.

Walking around Sarlat that evening was a joy. Everywhere I turned, there were little side streets full of sidewalk cafes, like this:

Day Five took me from Sarlat to Uzerche, 69 miles through hilly countryside. Day Six was from Uzerche to Bort, the hilliest day of the trip--70 miles, with 6,000 feet of climbing. A common occurrence on this day was rounding a bend in the road and seeing something like this:

Day Seven was the day I was most looking forward to: 72 miles from Bort to Aurillac, through a national park full of extinct volcanoes. I climbed the Pas de Peyrol, over the Puy Mary volcano, and the scenery was breathtaking:

As you can see in the photos, the road is perfect. I was amazed at the high quality of the roads in France. Major highways or tiny country lanes, they are all immaculate. I didn't see a single pothole or crack. The country's infrastructure is amazing. Every road is a thin layer of a tarmac/tiny chip-seal combo, which makes for a smooth, worry-free ride. I wish we made our roads in America out of whatever they use in France. In addition to pristine roads, the motorists in France are extra-courteous to cyclists. In nine days, nobody ever honked at me, flipped me off, buzzed me, or threw anything at me. Cars would pass giving me a wide berth, and they always yielded to me. My theory is that the French grow up revering the bike, because their biggest sporting event is the Tour de France, and so some of their biggest national heroes are bike racers. They understand the sport, and they know how hard a cyclist is working, so they respect the effort. Bikes on the road are a way of life in France, and it was wonderful to never have to worry about being side-swiped by a car.

Surprisingly, Day Eight turned out to be the best ride of the trip. It was 81 miles from Aurillac to St Cirq Lapopie, a gentle, seemingly downhill course on empty roads through incredibly beautiful countryside. St Cirq Lapopie is possibly the most beautiful village I've ever seen, built into the side of a mountain overlooking a lush river valley. The town streets are steep and winding, lined with inviting cafes and shops. I couldn't have picked a better destination for my last night on the road:

Day Nine took me 82 miles from St Cirq Lapopie back to my starting point of Toulouse. It was a slightly sad ride, because I knew my adventure was coming to an end. When I got back to the airport hotel, I showered, packed my bike, and headed into the old-town part of Toulouse for one final dinner and immersion into the French culture. I found a bar and watched the first stage of the Tour de France on television--a strange feeling to know that as my tour was ending, their tour was starting.

I spent most of that last evening reflecting on the loop I'd just completed. The totals: nine straight days of riding, 664 miles, zero flats, zero crashes, zero mechanicals, zero physical problems, and an infinite number of beautiful roads, vistas, and memories.

The Verdict

My solo, minimalist bike tour of France was quite possibly the greatest thing I've ever done. I was really happy with my planning--day after day, the rides were perfect. The logistics (hotels, seeing the sites I wanted to, packing properly, daily food and drink, etc) all worked as well as could be expected. It's an incredible feeling to travel from one region to another each day under your own power, wondering what you might discover around the next corner as you explore new roads and new villages. I had never been to Europe by myself, and while traveling with friends or family is always great, doing this trip alone was equally enjoyable, and certainly added to the adventurous feeling of the undertaking.

It was refreshing to not see the inside of a car for 10 days. I was also happy with my legs each day--I never felt tired or sore. For a few months, I've been trying to do a lot of long, slower-paced training rides, and I think it paid off. I never woke up thinking "Oh crap, I'm dreading these 75 miles today because I'm worn out." Instead, I woke up each day thinking "I can't wait to get on the bike and see what kind of views and towns and people I'll experience today!"

The other thing that was minimal about this trip was the cost. I used airline miles for my plane ticket, I didn't have to rent a car or pay for gasoline, and, because I was staying in small towns, my hotel rooms (some of them really, really nice) averaged only about $100 per night. I could have made the trip even more affordable by camping each night, but that would have required hauling around a lot of camping equipment, which is not what I had in mind. Plus, it was nice each day to be able to wash my bike clothes, take a shower, and sleep in a bed--and I could do all of that by just carrying a credit card, which took up 1000 times less room than camping equipment.

Some of the best moments were the moments when I'd pull over in a small village, fill my water bottles at the fountain in the town square, and just sit and observe the flow of daily life in rural France. The French value a slower pace to their days, with longer meals that allow more time for conversation. In general, they seem to make more out of less--even the smallest homes are mostly well kept with colorful gardens and/or potted plants everywhere. They appreciate and take care of the history and beauty of their old buildings--probably gaining a greater sense of appreciation for those structures knowing that many have survived hundreds of years, not to mention World Wars. It's a different perspective.

I had dreamed about this trip since childhood, and I'm happy to report that it turned out even better than I had imagined. It was fun at the purest level, like being a kid again. A child usually first experiences the joy of freedom courtesy his or her bicycle, and the sense of adventure and play when exploring by bike can be just as enjoyable and just as liberating well into adulthood, as long as you're willing to break out of your comfort zone and take a few travel chances.

Vive le velo, and Vive la France!

Lucy

One of the many unfair things about the world is the relatively short life span of a dog. The average time man's best friend gets on this earth is 12 years. I'm not asking for 75 years, like a human, but 12? C'mon, God! For as much joy as they bring us, and as much joy as they get out of being here, dogs get a raw deal when it comes to life expectancy.

My dog, Lucy, passed away this weekend. She lived to be 15, so I guess I'll take that. She beat the average. But I would have liked another 15 with her.

She had been extremely healthy for most of her life, but in November she tore the ligaments in her left knee. I worried about surgery on a dog that old, and my vet advised me to wait a few weeks to see if she would adapt to the injury while we managed the pain with meds. By mid-January, amazingly, she was almost back to normal. We were taking our daily walks, she was doing everything she normally did around the house (with the exception of going up and down stairs). Life was, for the most part, regular again.

Just as I thought we had gotten past the knee injury something hit us out of left field: seizures. The first one happened early last Wednesday morning. In her bed, which is right next to mine, she started groaning. When I turned on the light, she was stretched out and shaking. She had wet her bed, too. Then she sat there, seemingly in shock. The next morning, there was another one—it happened in my arms, as I was carrying her down the stairs (like I had each morning since her injury). The next day, I took her to the vet.

Lucy was an Australian Cattle Dog (known as a Heeler in these parts). They are a smart, robust breed. They are almost never sick, but because they are so active and don’t know how to slow down, they are prone to injury. Lucy was always on the go, physically and mentally. Some dogs sleep all day, but Lucy seemed to abhor sleep. Instead, she relished being on guard at all times, watching over me and her home. She wanted to be around me at all times. When I would leave the house, she’d look at me as if to say “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re about to betray me by leaving again!” Then, like all dogs, when I would come home she acted as if it was the single greatest thing to ever happen to any dog—and she reacted this way all 10,235 times I walked though the front door.

The last thing Lucy ever wanted to do was run away from home. I could leave the front door open for a week and she wouldn’t even think about fleeing. Once, my neighbor was keeping her for me because I was going to be gone all day. While in my neighbor’s back yard, Lucy dug under the fence, escaped down the alley, turned the corner, came back up the street, walked to my house, and sat on the front step until I came home. How many dogs would do that?

Lucy was a runner. Not a distance runner, but a sprinter. In her younger years, I must have heard “that’s the fastest dog I’ve ever seen” at least a thousand times as I was playing fetch with her at the park. One year at work we held the “Ticket’s Fastest Dog” contest on the track at Lone Star Park. Lucy won. What made Lucy’s victory even more impressive was the fact that upon hearing the starting gun she turned and started licking the face of the girl who was holding her, giving the other dogs a big head start, which she soon closed down. That was her first and last official race, so she retired undefeated, 1-0.

I probably should have entered her in some of those agility contests, although I worried about her having too much athletic success too soon and it ruining her, like Michelle Wei. Not only did she have great speed, but she could cut on a dime, a la Barry Sanders, and she had a vertical of about six feet. She was also a swimmer—I took her to Galveston a lot, where I’d throw a tennis ball as far out into the water as I could, and she’d retrieve it, diving over and under the breakers to get to it. She could do that all day.

Something happened one day which showed me that Lucy always had my back—literally—and it’s one of my best memories of her. We drove to her favorite place, the park. I opened the car door and she jumped out, as always, and started running around and sniffing things. I leaned into the car to get her ball out of the backseat. When I turned back around to face the park, there was a giant Rottweiler standing right in front of me. He seemed friendly enough, but before I could process what he wanted, Lucy came out of nowhere, at warp speed, and got between me and the Rottweiler—then went for the neck of the Rottweiler to drive him back and away from me. The Rottweiler, who probably weighed 100 pounds to Lucy’s 40, turned and ran away. Job done, she came back over to me and stood guard to make sure nobody else messed with her owner. I always felt safe with Lucy around.

Lucy was a rescue dog. Friends of mine had found her as a puppy, in the rain, on Skillman, at night, with no collar or chip. They couldn’t keep her, and since I had just moved into my first house, and had a yard, and loved dogs, I decided to take her. I would like to think I gave her a good life. I was home from work most days late morning, so we spent afternoons and evenings together. She ate well. She had a soft place to sit in every room. She got to run at the park or go for walks every day. She played in the ocean and hiked in the mountains. I think it was good ride.

Because of her age, I should have been more prepared for the end. I wasn’t. I had convinced myself that Lucy was so healthy that she would live to be 18, maybe 20, especially since she had adapted so well to her knee injury. But, in reality, she was dealing with not only a bad knee, but arthritis in her spine, failing vision and hearing, and, in the end, something that was lurking in her system that finally manifested in seizures. Ultimately, it was just too much, even for a tough, resilient old girl like her.

Watching her demise over the last five days was awful. This best friend of mine, who had always been so alert and full of energy, was suddenly struggling to do everything. It’s one of the things about being human or animal that really sucks: having a will to live, but having a body that disagrees. Sometimes the will to live wins a battle here and there, but ultimately, the failing body always wins the war.

Lucy spent her last weekend at home. Her health was going south in a hurry. The seizures were taking their toll. On Sunday, I had to make the difficult decision to put her down. An owner is caught in that terrible middle of wanting to wait long enough to see if the pet will improve, but not waiting so long as to prolong the pet's agony. I hope I got it right, for her sake.

I was able to spend the last 36 hours of her life by her side. I rarely got more than an arm's length from her. I didn't shower, I ordered delivery meals, and I slept next to her. We had one last weekend together to say our goodbyes. Her vet, Manny, graciously made a house call on Sunday evening to put her to sleep. She went quietly and peacefully, and in her own bed in her own home. Her final few hours were hard to watch, but at least I was with her, my hand never leaving her soft black and grey coat.

I was by her side when she took her final breath. I didn't think I'd be able to handle that moment, but I'm really glad I was with her. There was a beauty to seeing her misery brought to an end.

I’m going to miss her incredibly. She was my constant companion for 15 years. She never got mad at me, never ran away, never disappointed me. She was a loyal, wonderful dog. I will probably never have children, so Lucy was the closest thing to a child that I will ever know. I loved her completely. I cried a lot over the weekend, and more today as I came home from work for the first time to a house with no Lucy. As I walk around and see the places where she used to sit, sleep, eat, and greet, I find myself longing to see her come into the room one last time.

In her final days, I held her and petted her as much as I could. After a seizure, I would spoon her to comfort her. She always had my back, and I hope she knew that I always had hers, too—right to the end.

A Long Day

After finishing the Buffalo Springs Half Ironman last June, I swore I would never even think about doing a full Ironman.

Last Sunday, I did a full Ironman.

One of the great things God gives us is the ability to forget trauma. That day at Buffalo Springs was traumatic. I pushed too hard on the bike, and paid for it on the run. Like LeBron, I had massive cramps that brought me to a halt. I had to walk much of the half-marathon. I didn't see how anyone could do a full Ironman. But, gradually, I started to forget about how rough an experience it had been. I kept swimming, riding, and running. And then, last fall, I signed up for Ironman Coeur d'Alene (IMCDA) in Idaho, which would roll around June 29th of 2014. Plenty of time to train, and to forget.

I've got several buddies who have raced IMCDA, and they all loved it. They were right to rave about it--the town and course are beautiful. The organization is top-notch. The volunteers--4,000 of them--are hard working and ridiculously friendly.

The Ironman distance has always fascinated me. It was born from a barroom argument in Hawaii in 1977 over who were the better athletes: swimmers, cyclists, or runners. So, one man decided that the next year, 1978, they would hold a race that combined the distances and routes of the Waikiki Rough Water Swim Race (2.4 miles), the Around Oahu Bike Race (112 miles), and the Honolulu Marathon (26.2 miles). They would race the courses for those events consecutively, in that order, and if you could finish, you would be called an Ironman. A handful of men raced that first Ironman, and Gordon Haller won in just under 12 hours. The event and sport quickly grew from there, and is experiencing its biggest-ever growth spurt today. Since first reading about the Ironman in one of my bike magazines (after famous cyclist John Howard won the race in 1981), I've always wondered if I could finish the distance. Since I've been riding all of my life, running marathons the last seven years, and swimming the last two years, and since I'm not getting any younger, and since I had forgotten about the pain of Buffalo Springs, I decided the time was right for me to tackle the Ironman.

IMCDA is not the easiest Ironman course, with 5,000 feet of climbing on the bike leg, and four long hills on the run. But the weather is almost always good, and that was the most important factor for me, since, like LeBron (he and I are very similar athletically, in case you haven't noticed), my body doesn't function well in the heat, even though I train in Texas. I hate to think how bad I'd be in the heat if I trained in Alaska all the time.

Race day morning, the temps were perfect. It was going to be a cloudy day, with 50's and 60's in the forecast. However, when I woke up, I could hear the wind howling. I looked out the window, and the flags were stiff. I got down to the race start, on the shores of Lake Coeur d'Alene, and the normally placid lake looked like an ocean with it's choppy conditions.

The swim is not my strength. I was hoping to finish the 2.4 miles in about 1 hour, 30 minutes. The gun went off, and the racers, all wearing wetsuits to protect from the 60 degree water, were funneled through a start shoot and into the drink. I tried not to think about how much it was going to suck, and instead just get on with the task at hand. If, at any time during the race, you stop to think about the enormity of the event, you can't handle it. You have to break it down to small races within the race. I just kept trying to swim to the next buoy, or the next turn.

The swim was tough for the good swimmers, and really tough for us slower swimmers. Going into the wind took forever--the water so choppy that it felt like you were getting nowhere. Plus, the rough water made for chaos. There were swimmers getting disoriented and going the wrong way, swimmers stopping to hang onto the kayaks to gather their wits, and swimmers (like me) who were getting surprised by big waves and accidentally swallowing part of the lake. I exited the water after 1:48--I was swimming for almost two hours! I was already well behind my projected pace for the race. I was so happy to get out of the water, though, I could have vomited.

The bike leg wasn't any easier, even though it's my comfort zone. The winds were brutal. I was almost blown off the road three different times by 30 mph cross-gusts on the descents. There were long, uphill stretches straight into the wind, which killed a lot of hopes, including mine. At mile 80, I faced my first big crisis: I wanted to quit. I had all of my excuses ready. I was way behind on my projected bike time, and overall race time. I was getting worn down and demoralized by the wind and climbs, and I couldn't imagine still having to run a marathon. I was going to do a U-turn and ride back into town and notify an official that I was done. I argued with myself for 10 minutes, and, in the end, I made a gentleman's agreement with myself, deciding I would at least complete the bike leg and see how I felt. So I did--finishing about 45 minutes slower than I thought I would, which I didn't like, but I wasn't able to do anything about it.

In the transition area, I made another deal with myself: run the first two miles of the marathon, and see how you feel. If it's bad, you can then quit. So I started running, and I felt OK. I ran two more miles, then two more. I was running very slowly, but I was running. My friend Grant, a veteran triathlete, told me once to "just keep running, because your slowest run is faster than your fastest walk." I kept thinking about that, and kept running. Instead of thinking about running 26.2 miles, I took it one mile at a time, just telling myself to run to each aid station (which were one mile apart along the run course), and then spend a minute walking through the station, partly for a rest, and partly to make sure I ate and drank enough. (Each aid station is packed with volunteers offering you water, sports drink, gels, bars, chips, pretzels, chicken broth, bananas, cookies--all to help fuel your body, and I ate all of it).

By the halfway point of the run, I was dead. I again had to talk myself out of quitting. I eventually figured that I'd come this far, done all of the training, and would probably never do another one of these stupid events again, so I might as well finish, even if I have to walk the rest of the way. My goal time was long gone, but I didn't care--I just wanted to finish. Besides, I had purchased an Ironman t-shirt the day before, and so I had to finish or I could never wear that shirt! Funny, the little things we come up with to keep us going.

I passed the time on the run by checking out the scenery, and it was breathtaking (or, perhaps it was the running that was taking my breath). I saw an incredible sunset over the lake. That's how long I was out on the course--I saw the entire day pass, all while racing.

During the second half of the marathon, I was still running, save for a few pee breaks, and some walking up the big hills. I ran 90% of the 26.2, but it still took me 5:30, so you can imagine how slowly I was running. I must have looked really, really ugly. I thought I could run the marathon leg in about 4:30, so again, I fell short of my goal, but again, I wasn't counting on the rough conditions on the swim and bike legs.

I finally made it to the finishing straight, and the crowds were amazing--it was like I was winning the race. There were thousands of people lining both sides of the road in downtown CDA, and they were loud (and, by this time of the evening, also drunk). As I crossed the finish line (after 14 hours!), I heard the race announcer say "Craig Miller from Dallas, Texas, you are an Ironman!" Pretty cool moment.

Looking back, I honestly don't know how I did it. That event is a testament to the human spirit. On the run, I was passed by 68 year old men and 62 year old women (everyone's age is written on their calf so other racers will know who is in their age group). But, I was passing 30 year old guys who looked to be in better shape than me. You never know what the body can do when the mind decides to push it.

There were almost 2500 starters at IMCDA this year, and about 500 didn't finish (a high DNF rate of 20%), I'm guessing because of the harsh conditions. My time was right in the middle, ranking about 1100th. I was about two hours slower than I thought I'd be, but I finished.

My long-time racing buddy Dave sent me this quote after the day was done, from Calvin Coolidge, which sums up the spirit of the Ironman:

"Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent."

Television Sports Viewing Value Chart

As billions listened to our radio program this morning, I unveiled my TV Sports Viewing Value Chart, which turned out to be highly controversial. The idea was born from a Corby tweet, wondering about the sanity of anyone choosing to watch an early-season Rangers/Astros (Astros!) game instead of the Final Round of the Masters. I agreed with his sentiment, adding that, in my view, only Ron Washington had a valid excuse for not watching the Masters. Tackling this sports problem meant retreating to my laboratory to develop the following chart. If you follow this chart, you will be a well-rounded sports fan. If you often find yourself in violation of this chart, you may need to reassess your life (Dr. Carlton Maxwell is an outstanding Sports Psychologist, and he's accepting new clients as I write this).

This chart is similar to a Poker Hand Value Chart. Please do you best to abide by it, and please report any violators of the chart to the proper authorities. You may not have much crossover between sporting events, because of the seasonal schedules. However, if you find yourself with a Masters vs Rangers problem on your hands, consult the chart.

Royal Flush

The Super Bowl. The highest sporting event hand possible, it trumps all other contests. This should be obvious.

Straight Flush

All other championship events in major team sports: World Series, NBA Finals, Stanley Cup, NCAA Football and Basketball (the deeper the series goes, the higher the hand--in other words, a Game Seven always trumps a Game Three). Also note that, based on popularity, NFL events rank higher than the others, with MLB and NBA being even, and NHL events ranking fourth--this system applies throughout the chart).

Four of a Kind

Anything else down the team sport playoff ladder: AFC/NFC Championships, followed by earlier rounds; ALCS/NLCS, followed by earlier playoff rounds; NBA/NHL Conference Finals, followed by earlier rounds, Final Four football and basketball, followed by earlier rounds.

Full House

Cowboys regular season game. Applicable in these parts only. The Cowboys are so big (insert joke here) and play so few regular season games, that each one is a major event. The only exception is if it's a meaningless, late-season game when they are resting all of their starters for the playoffs (insert joke here).

Regular Flush

Golf Major, Final Round; Ryder Cup; Big regular season college or NFL game (OU vs TX, NE vs DEN, etc).

Straight

Regular season "playoff push" game--usually only in the last month of a season, for NBA, NFL, NHL, MLB, major college sports.

Three of a Kind

Tennis Grand Slam Final, Daytona 500, Indy 500, Horse Racing Triple Crown event, Tour de France, European Soccer League important match. Any slightly more fringe sport--the major events in these sports should always trump basic regular season action in the major sports.

Two Pair

Regular season, non-playoff push, Mavs, Rangers, Stars games; also regular season, non-important college football action. Games against teams like the Sixers, Astros and Panthers are worth less than games against the Thunder, Red Sox and Blues.

One Pair

Non-major golf event, tennis event, NASCAR race, etc. Schedule-fodder events.

High Card

Regular season college basketball.

Crap Hand

High school sports, Little League World Series.

Wild Cards

Olympics, World Cup. These events are so big, and held every four years, that they don't really fit into the chart. So, you are free to watch them above or below any other sporting events, with impunity.


This is the official end of the chart. Godspeed.

Special Author's Note: This chart is to be taken in a general sense. I understand that there will be "special occasion" games that may cause the value of the hand to change a bit. For example: Corby wearing a mohawk may make a Mavs regular season game more interesting than the Columbus/Pitt NHL playoff pairing. I am willing to give in certain situations, but, IN GENERAL, this chart should be followed as closely as possible to ensure optimum sports-viewing health.

My Tour de France

There is no place I would rather be than riding my bicycle on the backroads of France--specifically on the legendary roads of the French Alps, where the Tour de France is often won or lost. There is nothing quite like pedaling along a perfect ribbon of smooth blacktop as it takes you up above the tree line to a majestic vista, and knowing that Coppi, Merckx, and Hinault did the exact same thing (only a bit faster) on their way to Tour glory.

I've made six cycling-specific trips to France, starting 20 years ago in 1993. There are many great touring companies that put together these kinds of expeditions, but I prefer to book my own. I've almost always gone with my best bud, Dave, and we like the freedom of planning our own trip. There are a couple of keys to doing this: 1) as soon as the Tour de France route is revealed, make your hotel/apartment reservations, and 2) make sure you know what days you'll want to watch the race and then plan accordingly around the other stages so that the race doesn't interfere with your rides.

This year, we flew into Geneva and rented a station wagon big enough to fit both bikes and our luggage. The Geneva airport has a luggage check, which is a great place to store your bike boxes so that you don't have to lug them around for a week. We drove south 90 minutes to Grenoble, and rented an apartment in the middle of town for the first three nights. I like booking apartments through sites like VRBO.com--it's usually cheaper than a hotel, and you feel more at home.

Our first ride left from Grenoble. We went north through the Chartreuse region of France, climbing the Col de Porte, the Col du Cucheron, and the Col du Granier. These are not the high mountains of the Alps, but they are tough climbs, with each averaging 6%-8% in steepness and anywhere from 5k to 15k in length. We then descended into the valley and rode back into Grenoble. Day One totals: 64 miles, 4:30 saddle time, 7100 feet of climbing.

The next day we drove south to the Vercors region of France. We did a loop that included climbing the Col de Carri, the Col de la Bataille, and the Col de la Machine. The last couple of kilometers of the Machine were spectacular:

Day Two totals: 50 miles, 3:30, 5700 ft climbing.

The following day would be our first high-mountain experience of the trip, driving to Bourg d'Oisans and climbing the legendary Alpe d'Huez. This was a Monday, and the Tour de France would be here on Thursday, so the road was packed with spectators camping out for the race, and with cyclists riding up the climb. This made for a high-energy experience. The Alpe is a hard, hard climb. It's 15k at a steady 8%, and it never gives you a break. At the top, we then had to climb the Col de Serenne, which was to be used in the Tour for the first time this year. It's short, but very steep, and the descent was treacherous. Once in the valley, we then climbed to Les Duex Alpes, where Marco Pantani made his famous ascent to win the '98 Tour. Day Three totals: 50 miles, 4:15, 7100 feet.

That evening we made the scenic drive southwest to the tiny hamlet of Barcelonnette. This was my favorite town of the trip--a quaint old-town square, nice restaurants, and beautiful mountains in every direction. The next morning we rode from our hotel in Barcelonnette to the Col de la Bonettte, which is the highest paved road in Europe. It was a long climb, 25 kilometers, and steep, but the views all of the way up were incredible. It's the most spectacular climb I've ever done. I could ride this climb every day for the rest of my life and be content. At the top, you have a 360 degree view of the snow-capped peaks of the French and Italian Alps. Speaking of snow, for the last 5k we were pedaling past huge snow banks--in July!

From the top of the Bonette, we descended back into Barcelonnette and then rode up the Pra Loup climb, which is famous in Tour de France lore for being the last place that Eddy Merckx wore the yellow jersey. France's Bernard Thevenet dropped Merckx halfway up, taking yellow and winning the '75 Tour. It's such a legendary Tour moment that it's still commemorated throughout the region.

Day Four totals: 54 miles, 4:20, 7040 feet of climbing. You may notice that these rides are taking a long, long time. Riding 50 miles in North Texas might only take 2:30 or 3:00, but with these long, steep climbs, your saddle time increases dramatically. For those of you who ride in the Dallas area, you're probably familiar with Loving Hill--well, imagine Loving Hill being 12 miles long. That's what the climbs are like in the Alps. If you're planning a trip like this, make sure you train hard. If you aren't in shape, it can be a miserable experience. I was smarter with my gearing this trip, too. My first trip, in '93, I rode a 53x42 up front, and an 11-21 in the back--that's right, an easiest gear of 42x21, which is insane. This trip, I had a 53x39 up front, and a 12-29 in back, which was great. The 29 came in handy.

Day Five was an off day from riding. It was the day we would watch the Tour de France. We picked the Stage 17 time trial, giving us a chance to see each rider individually against the clock. Through work, I was able to get us each a press pass, which gave us incredible access to the riders in the start and finish areas. We were able to tour the pits before the race, seeing each team's bus and set-up area, and see each team's riders warming up on their trainers three feet in front of us. I'm planning on writing a separate blog post on my day at the race, complete with a ton of photos from the start/finish areas, sometime next week.

At the finish area, we ran into our hero, Greg LeMond--the first (and now officially the only) American winner of the Tour. LeMond was my biggest inspiration when I was getting into the sport in the early 80's, and it was a thrill to see him again.

That evening after the race, we drove north a couple of hours to Bourg Saint Maurice, a ski village near the Italian border, and moved into an apartment overlooking the city center. It rained the next morning, but that afternoon we were able to ride up the Cormet de Roselend, a stunning climb which gave us a view of Mont Blanc on the way up. We descended back into town, and ducked into a bar to have a beer and watch the Alpe d'Huez stage on TV with a bunch of locals, which was a blast! A Frenchman, Christophe Riblon, won the stage, and the locals went crazy--it was cool to see.

Day Six totals: 25 miles, 2:00, 3730 feet.

The next day we climbed two monsters: La Plagne, where Stephen Roche saved his '87 Tour win, and Courchevel. Each climb was relentless--a steady 8%. La Plagne was kind of scenic, but Courchevel was not. The only cool thing about Courchevel was seeing the airport at the top of the mountain and it's crazy-short runway:

Day Seven totals: 61 miles, 5:00, 9800 feet.

Finally, our last day of the trip, and our biggest ride. Dave was tuckered from the previous six days of climbing almost 41,000 feet, so he decided to drive the team support car behind me for the final ride--a 100 mile monster of a day. I had planned this ride months ago, and had been thinking about this ride for 30 years. The queen stage of the Tour de France has often been contested over three "hors de categorie" climbs, meaning the climbs are so tough that they are "beyond category," as though the human mind cannot comprehend their difficulty. It may be a romantic way for the Tour to dress them up, but trust me, they are beasts. For 30 years, I've watched the Tour riders tackle courses like this, and I've always wondered if I could do it. I finally got my chance.

Like Dave, I was a bit tired from the previous week of riding, but I felt OK, and was more-than-excited about the challenge. I climbed aboard my carbon mistress at 8am that morning, and started climbing the north side of the Col de Madeleine. It's 25k in length, and averages 7%. It's also breathtakingly beautiful. I had perfect weather for this ride, and the morning sun bathed the mountain in a brilliant light. Two kilometers from the top, I ran into an unlikely traffic jam: a giant heard of cattle being driven down the road. It was such a unique experience that I didn't mind my momentum up the climb coming to halt.

After cresting the top of the Madeleine, I plunged to the valley below and started the brutal climb of the Col de la Croix de Fer--a 30k climb that seems to go on forever. By the summit, I had been on the bike for over five hours, and I was hungry. I stopped at the small cafe at the top, ate a sandwich and slammed a Coke, and started downhill. The descent was down the Glandon, which was fast and fun. Now, all that was left to do was climb the south side of the Madeleine, and then descend back to the start village of La Lechere. The south side of the Madeleine is "only" 20k, but it's 8%-10% the entire way. It's a quad-buster, and my quads were already spent. I told myself I'd get up that climb no matter what it took. It wasn't my fastest climb ever, and I started cramping near the top, but I made it. I was thrilled at the top. I had a big smile on my face all the way down to the finish.

It was my best cycling experience ever, and the best day of my life. The ride totaled exactly 100 miles (my first century ride in Europe), 8:40 in the saddle (my longest ride ever, time-wise), and 15,900 feet of climbing! I had perfect weather, great support from Dave, and I felt strong the whole way. I had trained a lot for this trip through the spring and summer, and it paid off. At age 47, I felt better on the climbs than I've ever felt before. I wasn't exactly floating up them, but I wasn't struggling, either. I was moving at a pretty good clip, or as good of a clip as you can up a 10% grade.

Trip totals for the week: 404 miles, 32 hours in the saddle, and 57,000 feet of climbing (or, two times up Mt Everest!).

The trip was a success. Our goal was to sleep, ride, eat, and repeat. We did just that.

Regarding the 100th Tour de France: I thought it was a good race, but not a great one. There were some interesting individual stages, but Chris Froome made the overall race a formality. He was far-and-away the strongest. I like what I hear out of Froome in interviews, but as a rider, I think he's a spaz. He has these crazy accelerations when he doesn't need to, he rides with his elbows pointed straight out, and when he bonks he waves his hand like crazy to the team car instead of playing poker. But there is no denying that he's a badass, and he controlled this year's race almost by himself, as his Sky team was not nearly as strong as it was in support of Wiggins last year.

And, despite the terrible publicity around the sport recently, the crowds were still huge. Fans seem to just want to experience the culture and the cult of the sport. The fans love riding their bikes, and they love being around the race, and nothing else seems to matter. TV ratings in France were higher than they've been in 20 years. This 100th Tour did a great job of paying tribute to the past, and the fans ate it up.

Fans of any sport just want to be thrilled. Football fans and baseball fans and cycling fans get overwhelmed by the spectacle of their sports, and it makes them forget the seedy side of things. Whatever thrills you, whatever gets you through the day. Bike racing still thrills me, and nothing makes me happier than riding my bike. This trip did both, and it was the best trip of my life.

Boston

Six weeks ago, I received my official Boston Marathon "Runner Passport," complete with my race number. I registered for 2013 edition of the world's oldest annual marathon last September, at the time thinking I would run. I had qualified for the fourth year in a row, and you can never be sure if or when you'll qualify again, so I thought I should take advantage of it.

But as fall turned into winter, I realized that I was burned out on running marathons, and I decided to skip Boston '13. I needed a break--I had run 10 marathons since I took up the sport in 2007, and I had run five in the previous 14 months. To say I was lacking motivation would be a huge understatement. To keep myself in some kind of running shape, I ran a couple of days each week, but nothing long, and all of it unstructured. After six straight years of constantly being on a training program, I started running only when I felt like it, and always without a watch--and I was so unmotivated to run, it was hard to even do that.

But when I got my race packet in the mail in March, I was hit by a huge wave of desire. Just seeing my bib number--7496--and reading the runner's race bible, I got all fired up to run Boston again. I planned a four week crash-training program, and was ready to go to Beantown on limited training, just to keep my modest streak (I had run the last three) alive. I wanted to again be a part of the greatest race in the world.

My enthusiasm was short-lived, however, as later that week my plan was snuffed out. At work, we weren't sure if we were going to be able to pull off our "Musers Tour of Texas" road trip due to a number of logistical issues. But near the end of March, we got word that our trip was all-systems go, and we would be departing Dallas on April 15th, the morning of the running of the 117th Boston Marathon. Oh well, maybe next year, I thought. I wasn't properly trained anyway, so it probably would have been ugly. It was just as well that I couldn't go.

I had no idea how lucky I was that work had interfered with play.



During day one of our road trip, we stopped in Dublin, TX. We were touring the quaint Ben Hogan Museum, when Gordon got a news alert on his phone. He interrupted our tour guide by delivering the chilling line "there have been two explosions at the finish line of the Boston Marathon." My heart stopped for a second, and I got sick to my stomach. I first thought about how close I came to running this year--thank God I was in a small town in Central Texas instead. Then I immediately thought about all of my friends that were running Boston. My stomach got a little worse. I tried to do the math, wondering about each one of them, hoping that they had finished ahead of the blasts, or hoping that they were still out on course negotiating the Newton Hills.

Right away, I called my friend Matt, whose wife Melissa was running her first Boston. He said they were fine, but that they had been at the exact site of the explosions five minutes before the bombs went off. He was waiting for his wife at the finish line, holding their two year old daughter and standing with his brother and sister-in-law. If Melissa had been five minutes slower...

One by one, I called and texted everyone I could think of who was running Boston that day. One by one, I got good news in return. After a while, only one of my friends was unaccounted for, and he remained so for several hours. Finally, his son called me tell me that pops was OK--what a relief.

Then I thought back to last year, and my wife's attempt to qualify for Boston. She missed by just a few minutes--at the time we were both disappointed, but in hindsight, that miss may have turned out to be the best thing to ever happen to either of us. Had she qualified, she certainly would have run this year, and I certainly would have gone to support her. I've gone to watch her in other marathons before, and I like to jump all over the course and see her as many times as I can. Knowing myself, I would have certainly tried to be right at the finish to see her cross the line. I would have positioned myself on the west side of the street, where the bombs went off, because it's less congested than the east side. It's very possible that she would have been finishing right around the time of the blasts. It's possible that I would have been standing right where those monsters placed those backpacks.

The finish line. That familiar blue and yellow paint job on Boylston Street is perhaps the most iconic spot in the running world. Every runner dreams of qualifying for Boston, and every runner dreams of crossing that line. For many, that moment, that spot, is the fulfillment of a life-long ambition. I've experienced such joy at that finish line, from my own when I completed my first Boston in 2010, to the tears of joy streaming down the cheeks of strangers around me as they embraced their loved ones. To see that finish line splattered with blood and shrapnel didn't make any sense.

The finish line at Boston is a symbol of human sacrifice and achievement. It's crowded with family and friends of runners, waiting to share the moment--family and friends who understand the sacrifice and achievement. It's crowded with volunteers who spend 10 hours standing there, putting medals around the necks and blankets around the shoulders of weary finishers--volunteers who understand the sacrifice and the achievement. Family, friends, and volunteers who suddenly found themselves targeted by two brothers who thought that mass-murder was somehow their calling.



After watching the moving images from Boston last week, from the heroic efforts at the finish line of those helping to save lives, to the incredibly moving singing of the National Anthem at the Bruins game, it's made me want to be a part of that great race again. One of the many wonderful things about the endurance sports community is the sense of charity and comradery within its ranks. Untold millions (maybe billions?) have been raised by runners and cyclists and swimmers to help a myriad of charitable causes. The running world has pledged to help the victims of the bombings, and pledged to make next year's 118th running of Boston a statement event.

Patriots' Day in Boston is a true celebration of this country. 25,000 run the marathon, another million cheer from the roadside, another million cram the local bars and parks, and it seems like another million cram Fenway for the annual Red Sox day game. It's a special day to be a part of. But to race again, I'll have to qualify again, which is part of the beauty of the Boston Marathon. And next year's race promises to be the most beautiful of them all. So, excuse me while I go for a run. Lack of motivation is no longer a problem.

God's Finest Work

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a running back. Most kids want to be the quarterback, but not me. 100 yard rushing games were much more magical to me than 300 yard passing games. A touchdown run seemed way more difficult than throwing a touchdown pass. A 1,000 yard rushing season, whether at the high school, college or pro level, was the individual sports number that impressed me the most. There is nothing more beautiful than seeing a running back take a pitch, hit the seam, accelerate, and jet down the sideline. Perhaps growing up in Oklahoma during the halcyon days of the wishbone fostered my love for the running back position, but whatever the reason, I consider myself a running back connoisseur--which entitles me to write this blog post and there is nothing that you, the reader, can do about it.

(Note: While RB's were, and are, my ultimate, I also reserve a special place in my football heart for the running quarterback--I like those guys even more than a pure passer. A special tip of the cap to Jack Mildren, Steve Davis, Thomas Lott, J.C. Watts, Jamelle Hollieway and Charles Thompson, as well as non-Sooners like James Street, Dee Dowis and that freak Johnny Football.)

Who is the greatest running back ever? Few questions in sports generate a heated debate like this one. Ask this question of any football fan, and you could hear any one of 20-30 different names in response. I've always believed that Barry Sanders was the best. I've never seen anyone quite like him. He holds the college single season record (2,628--think about that!) which included five straight 200 yard games. In the NFL, he set the record for consecutive 100 yard games with 14, and had he not retired way too early, he would have easily become the NFL's all-time leading rusher. He gained most of his NFL yardage without the benefit of being on a great team, or having a great quarterback or great offensive line--heck, Sanders rarely even had a fullback to clear the way for him. He did everything on his own.

(Note: Because I believe Sanders to be the best does not mean that I think everyone else sucked. If you want to argue that Jim Brown, O.J. Simpson (awkward), Gale Sayers, Eric Dickerson, Earl Campbell, Emmitt Smith, Marshall Faulk, L.T., Marcus Allen, Tony Dorsett--or any of the guys I'm about to mention--are the best ever, I don't really have a problem with it. You would be wrong, but I don't really have a problem with it.)

One of the things I look for in a back is the thrill factor--that feeling of great anticipation you get before the snap, just hoping that he gets the ball because something really exciting could happen. Franco Harris had zero thrill factor. John Riggins, Larry Csonka, Otis Anderson, George Rogers--all great backs, but guys who barely moved the needle for me. Luckily, as kid who loved OU, I always had a thrill-back to root for. Greg Pruitt, Joe Washington, Billy Sims--all had a huge thrill factor. Marcus Dupree may truly have been the greatest that never was--a massive thrill every time he touched the ball.

And then there was Sweetness. Walter Payton was a god. If you want to argue that he was the greatest ever, you have a pretty good argument. Great speed, great strength, great moves, great numbers. If you don't have Payton in your top two or three running backs of all-time, then you are making a big mistake. He is the second-most perfect back that God ever created.

Which brings me to the guy that I consider the closest to perfection at the position that I've ever seen: Adrian Peterson. Sanders was the best, but he wasn't the perfect back--he was 5'8. Payton was 5'10. Peterson is the perfect size: 6'1, 217. Big enough to scare the hell out of defenders, but light enough to possess 4.3 speed. Only Bo Jackson (6'1, 227) and Herschel Walker (6'1, 225) compare to Peterson in terms of size/speed perfection, but neither of those backs had Adrian's moves. Dickerson was 6'3, 220--perhaps an inch or two too tall, hindering his ability to "get small" and somewhat limiting his shiftiness. No back has ever thrilled me like A.D (All Day, for those who don't know and think I made a typo). I don't believe we've ever seen anyone with his size, his speed, his vision, his moves, his toughness and his work ethic. Ever.

Peterson can run straight over you, or he can take one arm and throw you out of his way. He can run around you, either by freezing you with a great stutter-step or by changing direction on a dime. He can run away from you by using his great acceleration at the line of scrimmage, or by using his blazing speed in the open field. There are no limits to the ways in which he can get his yardage. His one weakness, which showed early in his career, was the fumble, but over the last three years he appears to have corrected that problem.

Peterson's 2012 season was the stuff of legend, and probably the greatest season by a running back in NFL history. With apologies to '73 Simpson, '77 Payton, '84 Dickerson, '97 Sanders,'06 Tomlinson, and '09 Johnson, '12 Peterson beats them all. 2,097 yards (an astounding 6.0 yards per carry!) eight months after tearing his MCL and ACL on a team that has zero passing threat is such a remarkable feat it defies all football logic. Had Peterson rushed for 1,000 yards this season, I would have considered that an incredible comeback. But to double that? You have to be kidding me.

His very first carry in a big game in college was a 44 yard run against Texas--you could tell that Peterson was extra-special. 1,925 yards as a true freshman and (at the time) the closest a frosh had ever come to winning the Heisman Trophy. Kids everywhere wanted to wear #28.

(Note: A.D., Dickerson, and Faulk made high 20 numbers for RB's cool. 26, 27, 28, and 29 were always a bit of a wasteland for great backs, who usually wore low 20's or low 30's. High 30's never, ever look good on a running back. Traditionally, the best running back numbers have been 20, 22, 24, 32, 33, 34. In college, I've also always loved a running back who wore a single digit--it makes them look fast. And, oddly, I liked it that Charles White wore 12 at USC--somehow he made that ultimate QB number look cool as a RB. It should also be noted that 49 is the worst possible legally-allowed number for a running back.)

In addition to authoring the greatest-ever season by a running back, Peterson also holds the NFL record for most yards in one game (297). With 8,849 career yards at age 27, A.D. has a chance, if he remains healthy (big if for any running back) to come close to Emmitt's all-time mark. He would have to average about 1,300 yards for seven more seasons--not out of the question given his physical gifts and his work ethic. Even if he never threatens Emmitt's mark, he's already cemented himself as the best back of his era, and one of the best of all-time.

No running back has ever come close to giving me the thrills that A.D. has. I would like us all to hit our knees and thank the sweet Lord for creating the perfect running back. Amen.

The First Last Man

Standing at the back of the field, looking down Main St., I couldn't even see the start line. The gun sounded, officially kicking off the Dallas Marathon and Half Marathon, but my race didn't begin for another 17 minutes. That's how long it took for me to finally get to the start line and set off on my "Last Man Running" adventure.

I had the task of trying to pass as many runners as I could, with The Cotton Patch Cafe donating $4 to the Scottish Rite Hospital for every runner I caught. I had no idea how the race would go. Would it be easy? Would it be a beating? Would I pass 1,000, 3,000 or 5,000 runners? We play the hypothetical game a lot on our radio show, and this was like getting to act out a hypothetical.

My training had been sketchy, as I outlined in my previous blog post. The weather on race morning didn't help--almost 70 degrees, 90% humidity, and a decent south wind (runners like 50 degrees, low humidity, and no wind). But I was excited. And nervous. And ready.

My biggest fear was fighting my way through the logjam of runners on the road ahead of me. I thought I might be able to hold a 7:00 per mile pace, but my first mile was 8:15. It was impossible to go any faster because of the congestion. I started jumping up on the sidewalks, or curbs, or running in the gutter--anything I could do to make some headway. I always took the wide side of the road on turns because it was open--I took the longer route, running zero tangents the entire day, but it helped me gain ground. There were so many runners (about 10,000 running the half marathon alone, with thousands more running the full and relay) that the crowds never really thinned out until mile 10 or 11. I could never get into a rhythm or a flow--I would run hard for 50 feet, then have to stop, then run sideways across the street to an open spot in the road, then jump up on the sidewalk, then back to the road, then slow down, then speed up again. It was taxing. But I was also making progress.

At the finish, I checked my watch. I had run a 1:38--a little slower than I thought I could run, but considering the crowds and weather and my poor training, I was pleased. But I still had no idea how many people I had passed. It wasn't until Dallas Marathon officials checked the computer results (based on the timing chips each runner wore) to determine that I had passed 9,000 runners!

The Cotton Patch Cafe had pledged $4 per runner passed, up to $25,000, because in their estimation I would pass a maximum of 6,000 runners. But when I exceeded their estimates, they decided to honor the $4 per runner number anyway, and they ended up writing a check to the Scottish Rite Hospital for $37,500! I can't thank the Cotton Patch Cafe enough. They have been such a great sponsor of the Scottish Rite Hospital over the years, and they went above and beyond with their donation yesterday. Make sure you grab a bite this week at a Cotton Patch Cafe near you, and thank them for their generosity and for supporting "The Last Man Running."

In the end, it was an honor to be the first "Last Man," something the Dallas Marathon is planning on making an annual part of the race. It was a thrill to know that I was making a lot of money for a great cause, and it was a thrill to hear all of the support from the other runners and the spectators as I made my way through the throng. Sure, it was a stressful, and it was warm and humid, and it was at times frustrating. But I hate to ever complain about a run. One of the great things about this sport is that so many people race for a cause, running for those who can't. There is a great fundraising spirit in the endurance sports community.

Knowing you're helping a great cause makes it easier to toe the start line, especially if you're the last man to get there.