Tales of Ineptitude

It’s been a long gap between posts. I confess that I’ve struggled with the weight of responsibility that I feel obligated to carry as a recipient of the Liebster award. I’ve spent far too much time attempting to select 5 blogster recipients (as the award requires me to do). It was my intention not to post again until I completed that task.  But recent events demand that I do so.

Since my last post I have added to my already impressive collection of Really Stupid Things I Have Done.  What follows is a small sample

    1. At 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday I decide to do a sprint Tri. It starts at 9:30 a.m. This leaves no time for preparation or, for that matter, thought.  Which is fine because I will draw on my considerable race experience – in one previous sprint Tri.  The swim is in a pool.  I will wear my Tri shorts. Because it’s important to look your best. Because there’s OFFICIAL RACE PHOTOS. So I get the tap on the shoulder to start. The next group of swimmers are lined up on the deck next to my lane. I touch the wall at the end of the 25m and turn. Something feels odd. I feel…..different. After 10m or so I realize why. I forgot to tie up my Tri shorts; they’ve slipped half-way down my backside….I am forced to modify my stroke for the remainder of the swim to include the “reach back and yank” when I come off of the wall.2.
    2. YouTube is great. You can find video clips with tips on just about anything. Take, for example, the T1 transition. There a lots of very informative clips about how to improve your T1 time. SomeMost All of which I’ve watched. Which is why I decided to follow the tip to put my bike shoes on the bike for the T1 when I did the aforementioned sprint Tri. So I shuffle from the pool (left hand hoisting up my errant Tri shorts), do my T1 thing, and mount my bike. I put in my foot on top of right shoe and torque the pedal hard. I have forward momentum. So far so good. But I just can’t seem to get my left foot onto my left shoe. Damn thing is flopping all over the place. I push down hard on my right peddle again. The toe of my left shoe hits the pavement….ejecting my shoe.  I continue to peddle in stunned disbelief. This is NOT how it looked on the video clip. I am forced to execute a U-Turn back to the transition area to retrieve my shoe. A helpful spectator shouts “YOU’VE LOST YOUR SHOE”….. When I subsequently watch the video clip I realize that I neglected to perform the important step of securing the shoe with an elastic band.
    3. On Saturday I go out for what was to be a 100K ride with a couple of friends who are training for Ironman Canada. I guess I’ve put 200K or so on the P2 so I’m feeling pretty confident about my Tri bike handling skills. For those who know me this is a prelude to trauma.  About 45K into the ride we come to a 3′ wide section of road where the pavement was removed leaving a slight depression crater about 3″ deep.  For a split second I forget that I am NOT on a mountain bike.  So I jump it.  As I land, wobble, and skid a considerable distance on my left side along the pavement I am reminded that the Tri bikes handle differently than mountain bikes.
    4. Those little alcohol soaked pads that medical people use to disinfect your arm before they jab you with a needle?  DO NOT use them to disinfect large areas of road rash.  Particularly while standing in front of the bathroom mirror.  And you thought that your face could NEVER do the Maori war chant.
    5. Allow the mind to wander while in circumstances which are likely to lead to traumatic injury (see #3 above) three weeks before your target race.   I still have my butterflies and I always will.

Plan “B”

Well, there you have it.  This half-iron training thing is an interesting exercise in goal setting goal adjustment “aw, f**k it, who needs goals anyways”.

So there I was in mid-February with 3 and 1/2 months of training before my targeted race.  Feeling pretty good about myself?  Oh, yes, I sure was.  My 100M splits in the pool were 1:50-1:55 (which for me is spectacular).  I was diligently grinding out the miles on the trainer.   But my pride and joy was running.  I felt strong in the speed workouts.   I was cruising on my long runs.  Oh, I had delusions of grandeur my friends.  I was going to set PRs all over the place.  No longer was it about finishing the half-iron.  My new goal was to finish with an absurdly low time.

Then for 4 weeks or so my work blew a giant hole in my training schedule.   Then I got the flu.

So, by the end of March, my dreams of everlasting glory were replaced by a disquieting sense of impending collapse, failure and embarrassment.   My swim slipped back into 2:10 land.   My bike and I had become estranged.  And the running?  ie.  the one discipline that I excelled at?  the thing that was going to enable me to nail it after I barely survived the swim and huffed and chuffed my way through the bike?

Let me tell you about the running.

Back in January when I was planning my race schedule I signed up for what promised to be a nice, easy, 15K on March 31 which promised to be a little more than a training run.  Just a nice, casual, training run, see?

Then I got my Garmin 910.  And my subscription to a running magazine.  And a triathlon magazine, too.  Because I find that reading about athletic accomplishments is preferable to actually achieving them.  Less effort.  No risk of disappointment.  And a complete absence of chaffing and blisters.   But I digress.   The point to be made is that the combined effect of the subscription and the really essential piece of gear toy was to leave me with a hyper-inflated sense of my athletic abilities.  No longer content to jog along serenely at a comfortable pace for 15K, I would now HAVE A GOAL.   I would break a particular time and achieve a PR pace.

Race day.  It’s cold.  It’s raining.  The race is by the ocean.  It’s windy.  It’s 8 am.   Did I mention it was cold?  So, what do I do?  Why, I start in the lead group of course.  I’ve programed Mr. Garmin to display my average 1K pace in really big numbers.  The first 1 K is really fast.  Too fast as it turns out. Mr. Garmin, meet Mr. Groin Pull.  We remember him.  He’s our friend from the half marathon in February.  He’ll now be joining us for the duration of this cursed 15K.

Don’t you love the official race photos?  I love seeing the smiling, happy people who really seem to be enjoying themselves.  My race photo is taken at 13K.  I have just glanced at my Garmin for the 638th time since the race began.  I have watched my 1K pace decay with each passing kilometre.  I have just uttered my 638th consecutive F-bomb.  I am running on one leg.   I am a study in misery and goal reassessment.

Well, I finished.  I even eked out a PR.   And I learned a valuable lesson.  Plans get disrupted.  Accept it.  Adjust.  Move forward.  Work with what you’ve got.

And now, one and a half weeks later, after 3 physio treatments and a rehab program, I’m in Hawaii staying 10 minutes away from the location of the Honu Ironman 70.3 in June.  My running is still much less than 100%.  But I had a very productive 60K ride to Kona this week.  And even though I was overtired yesterday I forced myself to do the planned 3000m swim with the main set of 6 x 300 and, much to my surprise, my splits had dropped.

And this morning when we went out on a boat to see some of the local marine life, all of the time that I’ve put in at the pool in the last few months provided me with this incredible, completely unexpected benefit.  My underwater swimming stamina has improved considerably.  Which enabled me to dive down about 20′ and cruise for a brief while with a group of  six Manta Rays we encountered while snorkeling about 1/2 mile off the Kona coast.  It’s something I’ve always wanted to do and the half-iron training made it possible for me to get within 10 feet of these beautiful, graceful creatures. (and my legs aren’t really that white.  honest)

Sometimes Plan “B” turns out better than Plan “A”.  I guess you just need to be open to the possibility.

And as I was drafting this post I learned that I was nominated by ifyounevertri for the prestigious Liebster Award.   I will have more to say about this undeserved honour in a subsequent post, but for the moment let me say “thank you”.

I packed a stack of books to read.  I’ll try to do a better job of posting more about reading and less about running in the coming weeks.

Waterlogged ambitions

My relentless quest for aquatic self-improvement takes place on Monday.  Wednesday and Friday. and frequently Saturday.

I get up at 4:45 am.  Do the one eye open/one eye shut drive to the pool. Slurp coffee from my mug.  Get there.  Eat an energy bar. Change.  Read/attempt to decipher the morning workout on the white board.  Say Good Morning Grunt to my swim buddies.  Place my water bottle and assorted equipment at pool edge. Stand at the edge of the pool.  and look out along

lane seven.

The morning triathlon swim group sorts itself into four lanes, typically.  Lane eight is for the newbies.   Lane five is for the insanely fast.

To swim in lane seven is the swim workout equivalent of being a C+ student.   Not poor.  Not absent. Not sticking a pencil up your nose.  But not good.  and a far cry from excellent.  It is the refuge of the content, the technically challenged and the uninspired.  I suspect that my lane seven colleagues and I fall into the “technically challenged” category.

Sometimes as I’m swimming I can see the lane six’ers out of the corner of my right eye.  I might as well be dog paddling.   The six’ers finish each set before we do.   They hang out at the bulkhead for the customary between set chat/rest..  One guy drapes himself over the lane buoys and idly watches us while sucking on his water bottle.  I feel like a monkey at the zoo.  It’s humiliating…

Once in a while someone “jumps a lane”, to use the local vernacular.  This is usually only done after days weeks of agonizing over the decision.  It is not without risk.  To go from being the fastest in the slower lane to the slowest in the faster lane is to put your ego on the elevator and press the button for the basement.  Kinda like skipping a grade in elementary school.  This week, our lane seven fast guy jumped.  Which made me the “fast” person in lane seven (in this context, “fast” means not stationary).

Let’s get real.

I do the drills.  I catch-up, finger tip drag and shoulder drill.  I use pull-buoys.  Paddles.

I even did a set of 800 m with those infernal turtle things (imagine strapping clogs to your hands with elastic bands and you’ll get the picture)

And still, when I do freestyle I feel as if I’m using someone else’s legs.

It reminds me of my father’s story about his prostate surgery.  while under a spinal block.

“And so I’m lying there on my back.  I see the surgeon and the nurses walking around.  And I’m chatting away.  Then I see someone lift a pair of legs over my head…and I realize that, Hey, those are mine!”

Same thing for me.   Except that inhaling a gallon of pool water through the nose is not one of the medically known risks of prostate surgery.  (see below)

But, nope, all I get for all of this effort is a 100m split that hovers around 1:52.  and it’s not a pretty 1:52.  I feel like a one-lunged chain smoker when I finish.

Which is frustrating.  because I am a fish.  to my way of thinking there are two kinds of people on this planet.  those who love water.  and those who do not.  I am definitely in the former category.   I’ve been in rivers, lakes, oceans and pools.   Some warm, some glacial.  Swimsuit, board shorts, my own skin.   big waves, flat calm.  surf, swim, sail.  Doesn’t matter.  I am at home in the water.

And the thing is, some days I feel fast.  I feel fluid and sleek and rhythmic.  Then I look at the video my coach took of me on her cell phone.  Nope.  That thing thrashing through the water is not a head on collision between two synchronized swimmers.  It’s me.

The water has become my nemesis.   It’s like the aquatic part of the universe is determined to put me in my place.  anywhere.  at any time.

Think I’m joking?

Exhibit “A”:

a few weeks back I am standing in court.  at my real life job. as a taxidermist. or an author of Lithuanian children’s books.  my suit is light gray.  i look professional.  for those who know me this is nothing if not astonishing.  I bend over to pull something from my briefcase.  and the dam breaks.  the floodgates open.  my nasal sinuses briefly, but spectacularly, release a flow of pool water at the rate of the Amazon River in flood.   onto my shoes.  and my pants.  and my tie.  and my shirt.  I am not a man.  I am Niagara Falls on legs.

This is the final indignity.

I’ve had it.  I’m going to get into lane six if it kills me.  I’m gonna stay up until 2 am watching swim videos on YouTube.

Because I’m doing my first open water swim in less than 3 months.  this is no longer about doing well in the swim.  it’s about surviving to do the bike.

Reading

I considered writing about Poser: my life in twenty-three yoga poses by Claire Dederer but I’ve decided to leave that for another post.  It’s a brilliant book.  It is an honest, funny, real life account of a young mother who takes up yoga after suffering a back injury from breast feeding.   It is about the perils of pursuing good at the expense of happiness.  It’s about life.

But that’s for another day.  Today I’d like to say a few words about the bookstore where I found Claire Dederer’s book, Village Books in Bellingham, Washington.

I don’t live in Bellingham.  I live about an hour’s drive to the north.  in Canada.  But I will happily do that drive, including the border line-up and U.S. customs scrutiny, to browse at Village Books.

VB is located in old brick building.  It is connected to the Colophon Cafe.  So you can buy, read, eat a bowl of the incredible corn chowder and drink coffee.

Small independent independent bookstores are a breed apart.  Their collections are usually eclectic.  The spaces they inhabit often small, cozy and….literary.

I can’t really describe it.  I guess it’s like this.  For me the joy of reading is more than just…. reading.  Reading a book is a tactile experience.  It is about that distinctive book smell.  And the crisp sound a page makes when you turn it.  It’s about curling up in a chair next to the fire on a rainy autumn night. It’s about going into a bookstore, wandering and browsing, exploring, reading the titles, touching the covers, feeling the weight, and weighing your choices.  Being excited.  Anticipating just how good a read this book will be.   Thinking about the possibility that something written in the pages of this book may change your life, or how you see your life.

Village Books holds the promise of all of those things.  It is a place for people who love books.  It is the antithesis of the e-reader and the large chain bookstore.  I hope that independent bookstores like VB continue to occupy their incredibly important niche.   The small and local niche.

Ouch, that hurt…

Every so often my chosen profession makes it necessary for me to withdraw from all social contact, enter periods of prolonged sleep deprivation and slip the confines of normalcy.   Such has been the last month of my life.   Last week I emerged into the light, pale, fatigued, and blinking.  With days to prepare for the 2012 Ft. Langley Historic Half Marathon.

This is a succinct, but poignant, summary of my suffering.

The sign up

This is the high water mark for me for the races that I enter.   My ‘sign ups’ aka ‘dissociative episodes’ usually take place in the evening, in the comfort of my home, fueled by ambition alcohol.   A few keystrokes,  another dent in the credit card, and look-at-me-i-am-registered-aren’t-i-cool.   The Fort Langley Historic Half race is no exception.  I think I sign up because it’s “Historic” and I am intoxicated.

The warm and fuzzy post-sign up feeling generally lasts until a few nights before the race.  Then I begin to have nightmares.  My sub-conscious plays out the myriad ways in which I may experience utter failure and humiliation – these usually feature mid-race loss of control of one or more bodily functions.

Curiously the Fort Langley Historic Half takes place in Fort Langley.  The town of Fort Langley is a bucolic village located on the banks of the Fraser River about 45 minutes outside of Vancouver.   Confusingly there is also a “Fort Langley” adjacent to/within the town of Fort Langley.   I learn that Fort Langley (the fort) is a “National Historic Site of Canada”.   According to Parks Canada,

Fort Langley is the exact location where, a century and a half ago, a huge fur trade organization called the Hudson’s Bay Company established a small post to trade with the First Nations of the West Coast. The enterprise grew, evolved, and influenced history, leading to the creation of the colony of British Columbia.

The “Fort” consists of reconstructed buildings encircled by a wooden palisade on the location of the former Hudson’s Bay Trading Post.

the Fort

Historically I imagine that the purpose of the palisade was to protect the inhabitants from the “First Nations of the West Coast”.   Now it serves the more practical purpose of protecting the reconstructed buildings from the nocturnal marauding of local adolescents.

Pre-race warm up

I love this stage.  This is the part where I am convinced that I will run a sub 1:15 race.   So I drink coffee….lots of coffee.

570 people are registered for the half marathon.  Another 400 odd people are registered for the 5k and the 10k.  Each of the participants is accompanied by at least 1 family member/friend/stranger.

This means that there are over 1000 people waiting in line to use the 2 bathrooms in the Fort and the 3 porta-potties outside.  The line ups will be shorter at the 2012 Summer Olympics.

I take the “historic” in the race title to heart.  I venture outside the fort and relieve myself against the palisade.  I imagine that this is what the Hudson’s Bay Company fur traders did 150 years ago.  I am reenacting history.  I feel proud to be Canadian.

The Start

As we mill about in the starting chute I spot a woman dressed in period costume.   Dispensing Gatorade.  I feel uneasy.

The race announcer tells us that there will be pace runners.  They have signs to hold up, e.g. “2:15, 2:00, 1:45..”.   And we shall know them by their bunny ears.   I see them.   They are jumping up and down.   And they are wearing bunny ears.   Now my pre-race anxiety will feature visions of me being effortlessly passed by smiling rabbit-eared runners.   My unease deepens.

But I am calmed by the knowledge that I have a competitive advantage.  I drove the race course yesterday.  I know what to expect.

The race starts.

Start to 5K

At the 3 km mark I realize that the route I so carefully drove along yesterday is not, in fact, the actual race route.   In fact, the actual race route will be quite different than what I expected.   I learn later that the elevation profile bears a remarkable resemblance to an ascent/descent of Mt. Everest:

Is this a cruel joke?

I begin to cry.

5K to 10K

I did not know that a closed loop course could be entirely uphill.

At about 9 km my mind begins to resumes wandering.   I think about the Franklin Expedition.  Sir John Franklin leads a British expedition into the Canadian Arctic in the 1850s to navigate the Northwest Passage.   The expedition vanishes.     Searchers subsequently locate the graves of a handful of crew members.   Autopsies conducted in the 1980s reveal high levels of lead.   According to one theory, the expedition was doomed because the lead soldering used to seal the tinned food supplied to prevent scurvy caused lead poisoning.  Hallucinations and memory loss are symptoms of lead poisoning.

I think that the Hudson’s Bay Company surveyors who laid out the roads we are running on were eating the same canned goods as the Franklin Expedition.  Or they were drunk.  or both.  Because these “roads” go practically in every direction – except straight.  And apparently fur trading demands that a route be either ascending, or descending, but never flat.

10K to 15K

I read somewhere that the best race strategy is to conserve your energy while going uphill, then switch to long strides on the down slope to catch and pass your competitors.   The people running behind me have clearly adopted this strategy.   I am passed by old men and children as my legs seize up.

I seriously consider going “DNF” when I see yet another defecating cow in a yet another farmer’s field.

15K to finish

According to my cleverly devised pre-race strategy this is now the “5K race pace” part for me.   My leg muscles feel like rusty steel cables.  I am doing the survivor shuffle.   I sense the presence of one of those rabbit-eared pace runners.  I’ll be damned if I will be passed by an overgrown bunny.  I quicken my penguin-like gait.

rip….ouch.

Groin pull at 17K.

I will now run the remainder of the race on my right leg.   All that I lack is an eye-patch and a parrot on my shoulder.

And yet, when I look at my watch at 19K I note that I am on pace for a 1:35 finish.  I will gut it out.  I will limp/hobble/jump-skip for all that I am worth to hit that mark.

I pass the 20K sign.   But not the finish line.   This, I soon realize, is because a half-marathon does not conveniently end at 20K.  It’s a 21.1K race.  I will spend the next 1.1 K contemplating my calculation error while running uphill – wheezing, gasping and grimacing every step of the way.

After 1 hour and 41 minutes of misery I am struck by this thought: I have just experienced the running leg of the half-iron.  minus the bike and the swim.

From now on, my training will be fueled by fear.

Reading

Honestly, I’ve been reading a lot.   Sadly, it’s been a steady diet of work related stuff.  Nothing I’d care to share or recommend.  That is about to change now that I finally have a few days off.

But I did discover a great piece of music which was recommended by a friend.   I’m probably one of the last people to hear about it.  But if you haven’t listened to it, check out “The Ballad of Love and Hate” by the Avett Brothers.  I identify with “Hate”.   If you aren’t even the tiniest bit move by this song, take a good hard look at your soul.

The lighter side of megalomania

I am a training tool. By which I mean that I am a tool. for training.

I am now so experienced confident drunk with my own self-importance that I thought that the world could benefit from my training tips.

1. Eat at least 2 bowls of butter chicken. Greedily. With lots of sticky white rice to meet your daily annual recommended starch intake. Wait no more than 2 hours. Then do your 1 hour run with at least 20 minutes of tempo. You rock!

2. Buy gear. Lots of gear. Hang around with experienced triathletes (ie. people with high paying jobs). Look at their gear. Listen to them talk about new gear. Look at how much faster/leaner/cooler they look in their new gear. Order the Garmin 910XT. Who cares if you don’t have a clue what makes it better than the existing models. Just talking about the fact that you’ve ordered one will produce the desired training effect. Buy a new bike trainer. Get a fluid one. Cause that sounds faster. And buy the lime green one. Get a Tri bike. Trust me. You will feel faster and stronger. And you will feel like you belong….until your first race. But, hey, that’s not for months, so let the good times roll.

3. Use gel packs. I’m not kidding. They work. And the contents are gooey so there is this whole 9 and 1/2 weeks/Mickey Rourke/food porn thing going when you are smearing this chocolate flavoured espresso goop all over your face while running in an urban setting. But, hey, you look good. Think those people you run past coming out of Starbucks with their double-frappawhatever-no whip-goat’s milk-gluten free-lattes are getting their caffeine from a foil pouch?

4. Wear tights. At all times. You will feel faster. And even if you don’t you will enjoy the sexual pleasure physical comfort that comes from having all of your body parts below the waist kept snug and warm.

5. Use Daily Mile or a similar online tool for public humiliation encouragement (see the sidebar). Remember, you are logging your workouts to impress the legions of fellow aspiring athletes who will hang off of your every word and who will swoon in admiration with each posting of the miles/kilometres that you are stacking up. And the best part is YOU DON’T NEED TO TELL THE TRUTH. No one will know that you didn’t really bash off a 5000 m swim in 1:15, followed by a 85K ride and a 25K run…before lunch. Remember, fiction makes you faster.

I will continue to post my newly discovered training tips from time to time. No need to thank me for sharing.

January is the cruelest month

Good thing I didn’t make a new year’s resolution that I would avoid doing stupid things. Because I would’ve smashed that resolution into tiny fragments during the first month weeks days of 2012. And, so, I’m off to a good start. Thus far I can report that I

a. felt so good when doing the long hill workout during the weekly half-marathon/marathon clinic that when I found myself ahead of the pack but behind and out of sight of the speedy runners, I took the leader’s instructions to “go left on Panorama” literally. and so I turned left and kept going. until after 15 minutes of running up the mountain into the woods without seeing another soul it occurred to me that maybe, just MAYBE, I was off route. so I turned around. and when I was eventually found by a “search party” of one I had managed to grind out an extra 1.5 K of hill work because I’d missed the downhill turn that the other 100 odd people in the group managed to make.

b. gulped back a large double espresso and half a litre of a sports drink before the start of the aptly named “Chilly Chase” 15K run survival shuffle over the weekend without considering the fact that a run which takes place amidst miles of empty, frozen, exposed farmer’s fields would not provide boundless opportunities for mid-race relief;

c. took a ‘shortcut’ down the snow/ice covered steps before the start of the icy 15 K run (see item b.) rather than the longer but safer path to the start of the race. Which, of course, resulted in a slip and tumble down the stairs, a scraped palm, and a nearly broken ankle;

d. wore brand new socks which were marketed as ‘warmer and drier’ during the 15K (see item b.). and were neither. but were excellent at rubbing the skin off of my ankle; and

e. almost skipped the 15K (see item b.) because it had snowed and the roads were icy, but then decided at the last minute to give it a shot, which meant I almost missed the moment of running alone along a quiet rural road through the fields mid-race when a flock of Canada geese flew over me as we all followed the same trajectory toward the morning sun rising out of the mist. And almost missed the feeling of accomplishment that I had from hauling my ass out of bed on a cold, icy Sunday morning to do a run I could easily have skipped.

Sometimes the stupidest things are the things you almost did.

You mean that there's FREE CHILI?!

All I ask for is a moment….

***WARNING***

This post is the product of a particularly prolonged and intense session of new-year-type navel gazing on the part of the author.

Reader discretion advised.

Obsessive-compulsive (noun) – relating to, characterized by, or affected with recurring obsessions and compulsions

Obsessive (adjective) – excessive, often to an unreasonable degree

Compulsive (adjective) – having the power to compel

Compel (verb) – to drive or urge forcefully or irresistibly

I like things, and people, that have the power to drive me forcefully or irresistibly to act….well…excessively. I mean, who doesn’t?

Ever get drunk? You’re in the club.

Ever become a parent? You’re in too.

Ever fall in love? You’re in the club. And you get a lifetime membership.

Ever run naked down a city street on a dare from one one of your drunken friends on a hot summer night in the pouring rain while belting out a Tom Waits’ song at the top of your lungs? Sorry, that position has been filled.

Ever trained for a triathlon/ironman/marathon/any friggin’ race after you’ve passed the age of 30? In.

Why do we do it? Self-gratification? Addiction? A complete lack of any inhibition?

My guess is that depending on the particular obsession/compulsion it’s all, or none, of the above.   But although there is much that is good about OCing one’s way through life, the OC life has its limits.  As I immerse myself in the deep, cold waters of triath-a-mania (yep.  took me a few days to come up with that one) I can see how easy it is to plunge into (metaphor) the training schedule, dive into (oh, another one) the gear buying,  reach and pull for the PRs.

But here’s the thing.  You don’t get very far unless you take the time to breathe.

Swimming to Cambodia

Many years ago I saw a film called Swimming to Cambodia.  The film consists of a monologue delivered by  Spalding Gray.   It’s about Gray’s experiences in Thailand while he played a small role in the film The Killing Fields.  The part of the film that stuck with me was Gray’s account of his holy grail-like quest for the Perfect Moment.  The moment that allows him to transcend the day to day worries and preoccupations and to be, well, in the moment.

So here’s my internet-blogging-worse-than-amateur-philosopher (yeah, we all come out of the WordPress woodwork around the new year, don’t we) theory. Life is should be about Perfect Moments.   What is a Perfect Moment and how do you recognize it?  I can’t define it, but you’ll know it when you have one.

And what is a Perfect Moment for you may not be for someone else.  You may be elevated to a state of transcendental bliss as you stand in the Mojave desert watching the sun set over the mountains while the hot wind rushes past your face….another person may want to escape to the nearest air conditioned bar to sip a cold drink.  Maybe it’s looking across a crowded room, catching the gaze of the person who captured your heart, and listening as your world falls silent except for the sound of your heartbeat….when another person sees only a crowd.

Here’s the thing about Perfect Moments.  You can strive for, search for, and prepare for one.  And never achieve it. Or you can have one when you least expect it.   Or you can have one but not know it until after it is over.  A Perfect Moment is rare.  It has to be.  Otherwise it would be merely ordinary.

A Perfect Moment is beautiful, awe inspiring, life affirming and often tinged with sadness.  Because the moment is fleeting.   And it will probably never be experienced again.  The 5 minutes you wish you could get back?  you never will.

Obsession-compulsion is but one, uncertain, path to take in the quest for a PM.   And triathlon, well, any distance sport, is fertile ground for the pursuit.  Endorphins my friends.  Hormones and neurotransmitters.   Although I’d prefer to believe that those moments of perfect clarity and serenity have more to do with our unique capacity to be awestruck by love, beauty and harmony with ourselves and the world/people around us than with a biologically driven chemical cocktail.   Think about that morning run when you hit your stride, are in perfect rhythm, and dawn is breaking over the ocean/mountains/desert.   That 1st early morning swim of the year in the outdoor pool when the steam is rising from the surface of the water as you break the surface.  The last part of the race which you trained days weeks months for, visualized, dreamed about, obsessed about….as you break into a sprint and finish strong.

Isn’t that what life should be?  A collection of rare, but perfect, moments which should be treasured, celebrated,  nourished and and remembered.  And while many of us like to think that our universe is triathlon and we are the centre of it, let’s all take a breath.  bend our heads.  look deep into our navels.  exhale.  and relax.  never mind the belly button lint.  FOCUS.   time is a finite commodity for you.  spend it wisely.

So, as I celebrate yet one more personal trip around the sun this week, I hope that you’ll permit me to express the hope that in 2012 as we all obsess about our compulsions and be compulsive about our obsessions, we each experience more PMs than PRs.

I have my own collection of Perfect Moments.  Some I can share.  Some I can will not.  What about others?  What was a PM for you?  It doesn’t have to be anything to do with triathlons or races.  Life’s much bigger than that.  birth of child?  your daughter’s wedding?  watching the sunset on a sailboat?  My guess is that there is a pretty interesting and diverse collection out there, so let’s hear about yours.

Reading

Manhood for Amateurs by Michael Chabon

What a wonderful collection of essays on friendship, fatherhood, marriage, mortality, and foreskins.  Michael Chabon’s autobiographical slices of childhood, parenthood and manhood are sometimes comic, sometimes poignant.  But always thought-provoking.   In an essay entitled “Normal Time”  Chabon reflects on his “worst and most wonderous” delusion, his vague but unquestioned certainty about the nature and course of his life:

I am forty-five years old. By even the most conservative estimate, it has been nearly a quarter of a century since I climbed eagerly aboard this one-way rocket to Death in Adulthood and left the planet of my childhood forever in my starry wake.  I know this.  My grandparents, my boyhood bedroom furniture, a miniature schnauzer of admirable character named Fritz…..I will never see see any of those or a million other things again.  And yet always lurking somewhere in the back of my mind is the unshakeable, even foundational knowledge – for which certainty is too conscious a term – that at some unspecified future date, by unspecified means, I will return to those people and to those locales.  That I am going back…..

There is no Normal Time, or rather, this is it, with all its accidents and discontinuities.  With a breathtaking sequence , our last child leaves home, gets married, has children, and then you fall and break your leg, and the next thing you know, you’re approaching the point at which space curves back on itself or doesn’t.  The end, unless the end, too, is a delusion.  After that, either way, there is no time at all, and you’re never going back again.

Cover of "Manhood for Amateurs: The Pleas...

I’m sure that this isn’t a sign, but….

Alright.  I will admit at the outset that this post gets no points for artistic merit, general interest or holiday cheer.  Let’s file this under the category of whining.   There’ll be a few of these over the coming months I suspect.

And so this week my “holiday” workout schedule consists of the following:

Monday Dec 26 – 2400 m swim.    Check.

Tuesday Dec 27 – 40 minute run.   Check.

Wednesday Dec 28 – 2400 m swim.  Check

Life is good.  Not so long ago the idea of a swim workout over 1500 m turned my bowels into jelly.    And two months ago a 40 minute run felt like my LSD.    And look at me now!  I’m sliding through these workouts like that old hot knife through butter.  Even after consuming far too much turkey, desert and bread-that-i-baked-which-looked-like-food-porn-but-tasted-like-sawdust. Put on your Oakleys kids or you’ll be blinded by the sunlight that is shining out of my ass!

oakleys

Of course, the irony is that when you think that you’re at the top, there is only one direction to go.  Down.  Think you’re good?  Think you’re cool?  Think you’ve got it licked?  Wait.  What’s that sound?  It’s the universe.  Opening up a big old can of whupass.

So today’s new term, courtesy of the Centers for Disease Control is “viral gastroenteritis”.   The symptoms of which include vomiting, abdominal cramps, and fever.

And today’s scheduled workout was a nice hilly 50 minute run.  And it so it was that last night about an hour after consuming a chunk of raw tuna (sashimi grade) and barbequing a nice piece of salmon I threw on my running gear to head out the door into the 52nd straight day of pouring rain in Vancouver.   But before I did I bent over to tie up my shoes.  Uh, oh.  I haven’t felt like that since I rounded up a small herd of tequila shots on a Mexico vacation some years back.  which resulted in me sitting on the steps of a swimming pool around midnight.  in my underwear.  but I digress.

For a moment I gave myself the “don’t be a wimp, get out there and run through it” speech.  Fortunately cooler heads prevailed – mine.  As a result of making this rather wise decision I spent the next few hours regurgitating my dinner in the comfort of my warm, dry, tastefully decorated bathroom rather than on some poor family’s lawn.

And so, here I am, at 2:30 a.m. whining.   And suspiciously eyeing the bottles of NUUN tablets on my kitchen counter.  Because my attempts at following the advice to replace electrolytes while suffering through the vomit-fest have, thus far, been sadly, if not spectacularly,  misguided. I missed my run.  I will probably miss my swim this morning.  I will not be heading out of town into the mountains to do the cross-country skiiing I had planned for the weekend.  And I will likely be spending new year’s ever sipping chicken broth.

And this might not be so bad if I wasn’t scheduled to start 5:15 am swim club workouts and a half-marathon clinic next week.  My level of apprehension about these, which was already considerable, has just ratcheted up a few notches.

So if anyone has any sage words of advice for a beginner triathlete trying to get back on track quickly don’t hesitate to weigh in.  But you’re probably all getting ready for new year’s parties.  or workouts.  or skiing.  or surfing.   Spare a thought for those of us in our running clothes shivering under a blanket on the couch.    And have safe Happy New Year everyone.   2012 promises to be a fascinating year.

Reading

Although I’m sure that it would be entertaining to write a book review in my dehydrated sleep-deprived state I think that I will resist the temptation until my thoughts are a little clearer rational.   I’m juggling a few interesting books at the moment and the great thing about playing the sick role is that I get to catch up on my reading….I’m going back to bed.

Really Stupid Things I’ve Done – Part I

going for a morning run by the river can never be a stupid thing

In the interest of pursuing my goal of complete candour in this blog I wish to discuss the 5 stupidest things I’ve done in the past month 48 hours.  In the short time since I decided to a) train for a half-iron and b) humiliate myself by blogging about it I have discovered that my capacity to make really dumb mistakes is practically limitless.  If not for my fragile self-esteem and my limited ability to tolerate criticism,  scrutiny and just plain old sass,  I would devote a blog entirely to this topic.   The posts would practically write themselves.

How many aspiring triathletes have

1.  Embarked on the regularly scheduled Sunday long slow distance run a) on a route comprised of many long steep hills, b) within 4 hours after a 2000 m swim workout, and (especially) c) after inhaling a very thick slice of the sister-in-law’s mother’s christmas cake ( the crack cocaine of the holiday season).  only to suffer crippling gastrointestinal complaints mid-route.  and come to appreciate the truth and beauty of that memorable line uttered by Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz: “there’s no place like home”.

2. Exited the indoor public swimming pool, done the 25 metre perp walk past the moms with kids.  then had to walk all the way back again to get their water bottle.  And on the return route when some one of the moms turns and smiles at you in a way that makes you say to yourself “yeah, you’re a stud, buddy”.  or “guess I’m not as unfit flabby as I thought I was” or “thank god she can’t see my back hair”.

Then the next day when grabbing their speedo swimsuit from its accustomed place – draped over the faucet on the bathtub (aka “the swimming gear storage receptacle”) – realized with horror that only a thin film of microfibre remains over the posterior aspect of the 3 month  year old garment.   And that, in essence, you have been strolling about at the pool in a swimsuit which affords your ass with about as much coverage as a piece of tissue.  Wet tissue.   And then how many of you have found it necessary to do your swim workouts at a completely different pool  in a completely different city?

3. Contacted the president of their provincial/state triathlon for the purpose of seeking advice approval in an e-mail littered with references to the sport of triathalon.

4. Attended their local triathlon club’s annual christmas party and when asked about the goal for next season explain that you’d like to finish survive your first half-iron before the post-race lunch is over and the food is all gone.   Then find out when the awards for 2011 are handed out there is guy who is at least your age if not older who pulled off a sub 5 hour finish in his first half-iron and followed this up with a sub 10 hour finish in his first ironman in his rookie season.  And you wonder how much alcohol tequila it will take to reignite your enthusiasm for this harebrained quest of yours.

5.  Moved to the suburbs and found yourselves envying the neighbours on the cul-de-sac who all drive really cool and very large pickup trucks. And have these incredible light displays that you’ve always imagined you could do if only you lived in the suburbs with ready access to a Canadian Tire store.  And how many of you spend the better part of a cold, damp Sunday afternoon placing 200 + christmas lights on a very sickly looking immature maple tree with the limbs that can barely support a leaf or two, and when the moment of triumph is at hand step forward with the extension cord only to discover that the female end of the extension cord will not fit the female end of the string of lights.  which is at the bottom of the tree.  and the male end is 25′ up the tree on an exposed limb……dreams die hard my friend.

Reading

I took my first tentative step into what I now know to be “the blogosphere” 3 short weeks ago.   In the 24 hour period which followed the posting of my first post my thoughts/emotions swung violently from one extreme to another.   From the, “damn, that’s good.  I will find the fame, fortune and product endorsements which have thus far eluded me” to the “damn, that’s just plain bullshi execrable, I have humiliated myself electronically.   Crap, suppose my friends boss reads this.”

Fortunately, I found solace in the blogs/posts/comments of the (apparently) many bloggers who also suffer from “night terrors” on the first evening week after launching a post.  There are some terrific writers out there.  I’ll mention a few examples.  mj monahan whose post about the Obsessive-Compulsive guide to blogging reassured me that I am not alone. And taught me the value of great writing  the strikethrough.   And like any kid with a new toy I intend to use it until the wheels fall off. see http://mjmonaghan.wordpress.com.

And Leanne Shirtliffe’s blog Ironic Mom is the double long espresso of witty writing.

Having said that.  I have not abandoned my love of books.  Curling up in front of a warm fire with your laptop just doesn’t really measure up.

Ordinary People

Oh, what a sight is Mrs. Turner cutting her grass, and how, like an ornament, she shines – Carol Shields

This is Kitsilano Pool, or as it’s affectionately known to local Vancouver swimmers of laps, “Kits Pool”.   It is a 135 metre public outdoor pool overlooking the ocean which, in turn, is framed by the north shore mountains.  To walk out onto the deck at 7 am on a warm summer morning is, well….summer’s 7 months away, this pool is closed, and as you can see from the photo I took this week the swimming conditions are far from ideal.   And you’re not permitted to run either.

So  the other day I’m in the indoor pool that I frequent.  Slogging my way through yet another 2000 metre workout.  Which is the swim distance for the half iron I’m targeting.  And I’m feeling pretty good, right?  My pull finally feels smooth.  I feel like I’m slicing through the water….when in reality I’m bulldozing.   I do a set of 8 x 100m.   And try as I might I can’t get my splits below 2:10 for love or money.   And that’s with 20 second rests.  Which means I’m probably on pace for a 46 minute swim.

So this got me thinking.

I am not a large man.   But neither am I a small man.   Basically what it comes down to is this;  I am less than 6′ tall and I am not stocky.  I am what you might call ‘wiry’.  I like the sound of that.  Better than ‘slight’.

I mention this because it may seen that I have a large head.  Not enormous, but large.  I have the head of a man who is more than 6′ tall and built like an NFL linebacker.    With winter approaching most men shop for a toque.  Me?  i look for a yurt.

English: Yurt in Pennington

I am invariably shocked when I see myself in a photograph.  WTF?  It looks like someone Photoshopped Rush Limbaugh’s head

Rush Limbaugh booking photo from his arrest in...

Exhibit "A"

onto Moby’s body

Moby

Exhibit "B"

You see my concern.

What on earth does this have to do with triathlons?

It’s all about natural selection, of course.   Permit me for a moment to take a few items from the vast repository of knowledge I acquired on this subject from my grade 9 biology class.  Where I learned about Charles Darwin.  And natural selection.  And how to equip a banana with a condom.

Peeled, whole, and longitudinal section

Decisions, decisions

But I digress.

Individuals better suited to their environments are more likely to survive than those who are not and the former are more likely to pass on their inheritable traits to future generations.  So, at some blind corner on the evolutionary road a smallish early human passed on the “big head on a wiry body” trait.   And it stuck.   What possible advantage does this trait provide?   Huh?  A superior ability to be cast as extra-terrestrial extra in a made for T.V. movie?

Which brings me to YouTube.  As we all know by now, YouTube is the most valuable collection of examples of good, bad and just plain stupid human behaviour in existence.  And, my friends, if you want tips on how to train for a tri swim, YouTube is a good place to start.   And if you should find yourself diverted by video of a septuagenariun hippee doing the limbo while slathered in hemp-based lube, well, so what?  conventional thinking is just not your thing.

Again, I digress.

So it was that with all the enthusiasm that those new to the sport of triathlon bring that I mined YouTube for helpful tips and advice on swimming.  And I learned this.  Swimming efficiently requires the use of one’s hand, during the pull, to create a tunnel in the water that one then follows with the body.   actually the head, followed by the body.

Which presents two problems for me.  First, the aforementioned head size issue.  But second…I have small hands….which, of course, means….that I have small hands…and nothing more.   For  me trying the “use-the-hands-to-create-the-tunnel-in-the-water-for-your-body-to-slip-effortlessly-through” approach is like being asked to push a 747 into a garden hose.

A boy in a children's swimming pool.

Why me?

Which brings me to me to my point.

Some of us are older.  Some of us are overweight.  Some of us are single moms with kids and jobs and too many demands on our time.  Some of us have sensitive ITBs.  Some of us are constantly fighting URIs.  or IBS.  Some of us struggle with depression or other mental health issues.   Some of us lost a job, are just scraping by and can barely afford the registration fee let alone $5K for the fancy tri bike.  And some of us (well, maybe only one of us) have big heads and small hands

But we are all in this thing together.   We do up our laces and head out the door, or pull down the googles and jump in the water, because we each have a point to prove.  if only to ourselves.  we are strong.  at the broken places.

Reading

Mrs. Turner Cutting the Grass by Carol Shields

This is a wonderful short story by a gifted writer who also wrote Larry’s Party – which ought to be required reading for every man over the age of 40.

The story opens with Mrs. Turner – magnificently ordinary with her red-grey frizzy hair and unfashionable shorts which do not disguise her aged, unappealing thighs – cutting the grass at her home in Winnipeg on a hot day in June.  She is easy to ridicule.  Her young neighbours regard her as an Enemy of the Environment.   Schoolgirls see her as “an-old-person-who-lacks-the-insight-to-know-she-is-physically-repulsive”

And I am ashamed to admit that I fell into the trap of judging Mrs. Turner to be guilty of being ordinary, dull and unsophisticated.

And then Carol Shields turns the tables.   And it is the people who judge Mrs. Turner, including the reader, who are subjected to scrutiny.   And in the process I was reminded, as if I should need it, that people who appear to be ordinary are often anything but.

A good read.

carol shields: collected stories
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