tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7576673424434262632024-03-12T19:32:05.165-04:00Snail Male & The Fast WorldStephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.comBlogger69125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-49240147154518588052015-11-18T10:08:00.001-05:002015-11-18T10:09:32.884-05:00The Indoctrination is Nearly Complete. The Dogs Win.<br />
You know you are hook, line & sinker in deep with your West Highland terrier(s) when you find yourself stepping into the garage to grind your coffee, so the noise doesn't startle the little white stuffies.<br />
<br />
After our first 6 months together, I'm thrilled to report all is going well with the two and we love having them in our lives. <br />
<br />
Is there a dark side? Well, truth be told, I was thinking about this the other day as they dragged me up our street - a life-sized arcade, launching squirrels across the road at random times - that I am not sure we will ever "solve" this Squirrel Thing. It makes me feel like I am living in a Frank Frazetta painting. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-68ixMHHeNQQ/VkyTvWmlt4I/AAAAAAAABz8/g8-mSu7BiMs/s1600/TMP-frazetta_westa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-68ixMHHeNQQ/VkyTvWmlt4I/AAAAAAAABz8/g8-mSu7BiMs/s400/TMP-frazetta_westa.jpg" width="286" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Just hold tight and be sure to breathe from the diaphragm... the squirrel is sure to vanish eventually</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I expect that the sooner I embrace this, the better. To that end, I am looking forward to our first snowfall, when I will try laying down on a Crazy Carpet and let them pull me to their hearts' content. Note to self: remember my son's GoPro camera for that...StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-26049741488116336622015-08-19T19:00:00.000-04:002015-08-19T19:34:58.111-04:00What One Person Learned from Two Dogs in Three Weeks- After years of running races and triathlons - some of them quite long
and some fairly quickly, I'd come to think of myself as a "runner." I
now know, after finding myself tethered to a running West Highland Terrier (westie), I am, in
fact, not.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a0SmsKi2984/VdUJn1CydXI/AAAAAAAABxI/z0QM0txtK-0/s1600/11817226_10153630289519714_3314859620703965668_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a0SmsKi2984/VdUJn1CydXI/AAAAAAAABxI/z0QM0txtK-0/s400/11817226_10153630289519714_3314859620703965668_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"<i>Donut</i>" - photo copyright Andrea Chow</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
- That fundamental human skill - where we learn to holler "Off!" -
is best taught by the westie command action of jumping onto things
humans once considered special. <br />
- Two individual leashes are
simply in the temporary state of being what we call "untangled." Their
natural condition is a tightly coiled knot, linking a hapless walker
with two westies intermingling like coy in<span class="text_exposed_show"> a restaurant aquarium.</span><br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<br />
- An 1800 sq. ft. house has over 1700 sq. ft. of
additional space in which a westie can nap than its owners originally
allowed for. This is not entirely a problem, given the incredible
Swiffer-like quality of westies' coats.<br />
- If I yelled as
loudly as our two westies bark I'd be hoarse. If I ate as relentlessly
as they could I'd weigh as much as a horse. <br />
- Squirrels must
have either an agenda or a perverted sense of humour, considering how
rarely they stop and bob their tails around for 15 minutes unless
westies are barking at them.<br />
- A walking westie's ability to
hoover anything off the ground without breaking stride is on par with
its resolve to clamp its jaws shut when humans try to find out what was
sucked in. <br />
- A fence may be built to dog-proofed standards, but
can only be certified once a westie has wedged, stuck, jammed, wiggled,
shaken, pryed and thrust its snout along every centimetre of its length
and seams, countless times a day, for several weeks. Just to be sure.
Because, you never know when something might want to get in. Or out.<br />
--<br />
Yes, I know - two articles ago I was ranting about dog owners ignorantly blocking pathways. Now the shoe is on the other foot - we've adopted two Westie rescues. Life, it would seem, is not lived linearly. <br />
</div>
StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-58291379944916489362015-05-25T12:04:00.001-04:002015-05-25T12:07:01.941-04:00Furthermore... I May Experience Anxiety<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Q8keal1nl0c/VWNHrVo7eoI/AAAAAAAABmE/KSAugC407n4/s1600/NCCvelodromeMilton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Q8keal1nl0c/VWNHrVo7eoI/AAAAAAAABmE/KSAugC407n4/s400/NCCvelodromeMilton.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">My new perspective on cycling comes from the ground floor. After four months of riding Milton's National Cycling Centre velodrome, I see this part of the Ontario Cycling Associations membership insurance waver in a new light:</span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<i><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">4.
Furthermore, I am aware:</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"></span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<i><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">a) That
injuries sustained can be severe;</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"></span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<i><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">b) That <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I may experience anxiety </b>while
challenging myself during the sport of cycling and the activities, events and
programs;</span></i></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"> While looking forward to the Pan Am / Parapan American Games this summer, I am even more anxious to tackle my fear of heights when the velodrome re-opens in September. Hopefully my flying 200m times will be the only things tumbling down.</span></div>
<div class="Default" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<br /></div>
StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-68947908283391072502015-03-21T13:14:00.000-04:002015-03-21T13:14:37.519-04:00For Runners: A New Twist on Dog Leashes
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>An
Invention for Tumbling Runners - The Bowser Bomb</b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hC6qo6k_Azc/VQ2l2vSYV7I/AAAAAAAABgY/-7zJafBZdys/s1600/rant-o-meterPISSED.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hC6qo6k_Azc/VQ2l2vSYV7I/AAAAAAAABgY/-7zJafBZdys/s1600/rant-o-meterPISSED.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">To
paraphrase Lance:<i> It's not about the dog.</i></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EsugS-p6TTM/VQ2ltkUDwwI/AAAAAAAABgQ/F7wzR_oLgCk/s1600/BB_ClipArt_02_assembly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EsugS-p6TTM/VQ2ltkUDwwI/AAAAAAAABgQ/F7wzR_oLgCk/s1600/BB_ClipArt_02_assembly.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> It
isn't often that we see the words "pedestrian" and
"explosives" in the same sentence - usually for good reason
- but in this case we can make an exception. By <i>pedestrians</i> I
refer only to<i> dog walkers of the ignorant sort</i>, and the
<i>explosives</i> are not so much <i>Hollywood blockbuster finale </i>as
<i>firecrackers</i>. Really big firecrackers. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Before
we get into the pyrotechnics, let's set the stage by considering the
players in this drama:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>You</b>
- the human who wants to run on a reasonably safe and pleasant route
outdoors.*</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>The
Dog</b> – an unpredictable, free-spirited quadruped that chases
vehicles, fetches balls, and snatches morsels of food from the tip of
its nose quicker than you can say <i>Jack Russell!</i> (that last one
being no mean feat, I assure you, having tried it myself countless
times- and all of them at just that one party, if memory serves). </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>The</b>
<b>Dog Walker</b> – judging by its distinguishing features and largely
erect, bipedal posture – a member of that sub-set of humans that
serves dogs by picking up their poop and standing around idly while
their animal smells things.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> <b>The
Leash</b> – any cable, string, rope, chain, or ribbon-like
<span style="font-family: Times-Roman, Times New Roman, serif;">contrivance</span>
that tethers dog, walker, and runner into a Bermuda triangle of
comical, hazardous, high-stepping dances that often result in injury,
most likely to the runner. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The
Problem</b> </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">– </span>The runner does not wish to dance; there is no music and
the footwear is all wrong.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Avoiding
this nonsense seems simple on the surface: if the walker and/or dog
could just move to any other spot<i> </i>on the face of <i>the entire
earth</i> - often just a teensy step to either side of where they are
right now - it might negate the dog/leash hazard and all parties
could go about their business unimpeded. We're just talking about
enough clearance for a human to squeeze through, with reasonably safe
footing, in an area normally roomy enough to accommodate everyone
(assuming they were conscious).<i> </i></span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The
Solution</b> </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">– </span> an invention I've perfected </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">– </span> at least in my mind, from
the comfort of bed as I lie awake summoning the gumption to head out
for early morning runs </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">– </span> that runners can use to "manipulate the
dog walker's spatial coordinates" (ie. physically move them),
clearing just enough space to pass safely. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">The
only criteria I reckon we'd need is for it to be something that would
stun more than harm, and be sufficiently light and compact to
discreetly clip onto a hydration belt. Result: the <i>Bowser Bomb</i>.
</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><u>The
Simple 4-Step Bowser Bomb Process:</u></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> 1)
On approaching the miscreant dog walker, make all reasonable efforts
to get its attention (clapping, clearing the throat, a quick toot
from a hand-held Klaxon) thus giving it the opportunity to take the
right action before things quickly escalate. This also affords you
some measure of legal protection should questions of <i>due process</i>
arise. Typically, unless you are downwind from a fire hydrant, the
dog will notice you but its innate dearth of cat-level smarts means
it will lack the executive thinking skills to figure out how to
change the course of fate on its own. Plus it will be sizing you up
on its own instinctive PE (<i>play vs. edibility</i>) scale.
Remember, unlike its walker, it can't help itself; it's just a dog.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> 2)
At this point, assuming the walker continues in its state of passive
disregard (or active contempt - it all amounts to the same thing) and
you are faced with stopping and turning around, jumping over the
quivering leash, or blazing an ankle-twisting detour, it's time to
discreetly reach for your BB. Just like a gel packet, place the BB's
tab in your teeth and tear off the trigger, <i>being sure to not
swallow the contents out of habit. </i>You can now lob the BB toward
the walker, confident in your anonymity because, of course, its
concussive force should render the walkers' short term memory <i>kaput</i>.
In a perfect world the BB will soar close to the walker without
making actual skin contact (superficial burns) and commence its
"release of influential energy" (explode). If you've
correctly matched your BB volume to the walker's general girth the
results will be swift and sublime: the walker will experience a brief
flight away from the BB's "event zone," simultaneously
becoming limp all over. This not only cushions its landing, in the
way a drunk driver usually survives collisions unharmed, but more
importantly the leash is usually released, dropping to the ground and
clearing the way as... </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> 3)
... the runner strides over the grounded leash and continues running,
safe and unimpeded. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> 4)
More often than not the dog will be so impressed by this turn of
events that it will just stare in slack-jawed wonderment before
returning to smelling things. Should it choose to chase you, it will
be more to gambol about and thank you for its new-found freedom than
to take a chunk from your calf. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">If
it's a good day for the walker, it will not lose complete
consciousness, and, instead, spring back to its feet within the half
hour, likely not remembering a thing.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I'd
imagine the BB will be most effective in one-owner/one-leash/one-dog
confrontations. Clearly, something packing more firepower is needed
to handle multi-leash dog walking services and the poly-dog clusters
of stroller-pushing latte-sippers clotting up pathways in leisurely
<i>klatches</i> that call to mind those ridiculous giant human
doilies formed by suicidal parachutists linking arms in mid-air; the
problem here is in the risk of running injuries when the ordnance
size approaches what's used in mining and mountain highway
construction. Runners might develop scoliosis if loaded down with BBs
for large groups - the weight penalties alone would harmfully skew
training plans. More pre-dawn tossing and turning will be needed to
solve this one. If I can't sleep, at least I can dream.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">*
<i>Bowser Bomb</i> not intended for indoor use.</span></div>
<br />StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-89544368658350539702015-02-20T21:15:00.000-05:002015-02-20T21:18:05.920-05:00Baby It's Cold Outside<span style="font-size: large;">My Take:<b> <u>The Felixometer</u></b></span> - <span style="font-size: large;">the domestic cat as thermometer.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S95pymQlHuo/VOfo8ny1RZI/AAAAAAAABfY/3VeGaEhXg60/s1600/felixometer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S95pymQlHuo/VOfo8ny1RZI/AAAAAAAABfY/3VeGaEhXg60/s1600/felixometer.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Must be old age - it seems very hard to justify the amount of time/hassle getting girded against the cold for a run these recent days, when wind chills drop south of -30 degrees C. Thank heavens for the new Milton velodrome; I've been able to take in a few of the Drop In lapping sessions since getting certified, and it is a thrill & a half. This week our 6:30am morning ride was spiced up with the local media interviewing some Canadian cycling royalty, as Olympic medalists Steve Bauer and Curt Harnett took many journalists around the boards for a taste of the thrills in store.<br />
I'm beginning to think we can tone down the publicity for a while: time slots are filling so fast that pretty much every session is sold out as soon as it goes online. Good problem to have, I suppose!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-W2gQ4rYwvYE/VOfpk08jlqI/AAAAAAAABfg/d1y0BmVMExs/s1600/me-n-Kurt_Velodrome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-W2gQ4rYwvYE/VOfpk08jlqI/AAAAAAAABfg/d1y0BmVMExs/s1600/me-n-Kurt_Velodrome.jpg" height="236" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As Harnett waxes on for the cameras, I'm either pulling away or about to be lapped...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-68232084268042022952014-12-28T13:11:00.000-05:002014-12-28T13:14:11.192-05:00NSFW Santa & Our Shameless Suburban Side Show<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With the holidays now upon us, it's
really hitting home how much I miss our former neighbour, Troy. Like
most decent community members, he was always quick with a smile and a
wave; he kept his property in good order; his kids were never too
loud past midnight. Troy was pretty quiet, too - he even switched off
his Harley at the top of our street, silently coasting past our homes
and into his garage like he was on a giant chromed mouse.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Our new neighbours are great folks,
too - really sweet people - but they can never quite make me smile
the way Troy inadvertently did every Christmas season. He usually
opted for a tasteful wreath, a couple of colourful floods, some
cut-out paper snowflakes on his windows; nothing too showy or...
deliberately obscene. But the final three, hilarious years he lived
across the street from us, he set up an inflatable lawn display
featuring a Santa character methodically rising and lowering inside
his chimney in a glacially-paced game of peek-a-boo with a Rudolph
the Red-Nosed Reindeer figure facing him. This hardly merited a
second glance, unless, given the right meteorological conditions,
this slo-mo <i>pas de deux</i> got animated in ways far more
enchanting than its designers ever could have imagined.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When weather turned sour and the
breezes kicked up, it became a family tradition for us to gather
around our front window, cradling hot cocoas, blankets on our laps
and Bing Crosby on the stereo, and watch Troy's display metamorphose
before our eyes. As divine good luck would have it, Troy's air-filled
icons were aligned to the prevailing nor'westers that sometimes came barreling down our street. These gave Rudolph almighty slaps on his
back, folding him forward. Each time Santa emerged from his huge
bricked sheath, the flailing reindeer would crumple straight into
Santa's waiting arms and groin. With just the right gusts this
pneumatic love fest would then commence bucking rhythmically,
transforming this innocent commingling into a raunchy tussle.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With the dutiful indifference of a porn
star, the smiling red-nosed playmate would plunge down on his master,
hammering at his waistline briefly, teasingly, before Santa waggled back down his chimney lest an unseen Mrs. Claus should catch them<i>
in flagrante delicto</i>. On a good day the wind and their stamina
would last well into the evening, sending us off to bed with visions
of things far different than sugar plums dancing in our heads, as we
tried to fall asleep while laughing out loud.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxHC3C3G6QAoY0uX37z6TBJXJlEX41ld-sH_Ybn9fvGZ9NRxLjuum27BgXNm9IBLqb1aF4D-pcBkohcZ7snWA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Not an actual recording of Troy's lawn. Animated for your perverse pleasure with Adobe Photoshop & Premiere </i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Each morning we'd wake to the same
sight – deflated fabric lay scattered across Troy's yard, barely
hinting at the sexual bacchanalia that sizzled on this snowy lawn the
night before. Collapsed across the privet as if sleeping off a
bender, the jolly old elf's frozen grin and Rudolph's tumescent schnoz
suggested both were in a state of perpetual arousal, eagerly dreaming of the next chance to consummate their elicit paring.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Troy may never know what happened each
time he plugged in that little puttering compressor of his, but we
thank our lucky stars it filled his streetfront porn stars with the
Spirit of Christmas Perversion.</div>
StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-84209372907799187552014-10-24T13:39:00.000-04:002014-10-28T07:00:43.942-04:00Marathon Training Interruptus & my Great Wall adventure<div lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> Most
sane people don't deliberately insert a two-week break in their
marathon training programs; certainly not without expecting some
tears come race day. But if this hiatus comes early enough in the
plan perhaps it is not the end of the world - especially if it takes
you <i>to </i>the ends of your world.</span></div>
<div lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> I
needed to be in Beijing for a couple of weeks over July and August to
supervise an animated co-production with a partner university. Our generous hosts ensured we were ushered around to some
classic city sites and our small crew of student interns had the times of our lives. But
Beijing's notorious smog meant that my running gear remained stowed
for the most part, the Air Quality Index seemingly always hovering
between 180-300. Besides a brief blue-sky window of opportunity one
day when I snuck in a few short kilometers around the campus, the sum
total of my workouts was confined to elbowing aside elders gumming up
the stairs to the emperors' Summer Palace, pedaling around Kunming
Lake aboard a paddle-boat that felt tethered to the dock, and
wandering the endless hallways in the capital city's warren of subway
lines.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MYTNaT5XNmQ/VEqJ44GGD9I/AAAAAAAABcQ/yT6xgf3HP_o/s1600/Beijing_AQI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MYTNaT5XNmQ/VEqJ44GGD9I/AAAAAAAABcQ/yT6xgf3HP_o/s1600/Beijing_AQI.jpg" height="75" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Beijing - time to lay low</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZY6tVNfa9T0/VEqJ73b2uUI/AAAAAAAABcY/xp9dirpsZ1w/s1600/Burlington_AQI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZY6tVNfa9T0/VEqJ73b2uUI/AAAAAAAABcY/xp9dirpsZ1w/s1600/Burlington_AQI.jpg" height="82" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Meanwhile, back at the ranch in lucky old Canada...</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> I
was, in the words of a desperate billiards player, due for a run (pun
not intended, but apt). </span>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> As if someone heard me, the following day we were shuttled 120 kms NE of Beijing to Gubei –
a picturesque town that developers term 'The Water City' but
displaced residents know better as 'The Site Where Graft and Secret Consortiums Uprooted Our Families.' This is a gateway to Simatai, one of
the more rugged segments of China's Great Wall. We arrived at the
outskirts of the village mid-morning expecting the usual throngs of
tourists and instead found ourselves in a ghost town; a beautiful,
newly-built replica of Ming<b> </b>dynasty architecture that was
largely uninhabited. Store fronts were still being cleared of
building debris, wire pigtails sprouted from the walls of
freshly-hewn stone. Vines obediently wound their way up to the first
of many looms waiting to train their paths, while everywhere signs
were still being screwed onto posts. Our accidental timing put us in
a trough ahead of the waves of humanity that soon would crest this
village's meandering walkways. For now, though, we had this
amazing, silent space all to ourselves. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lcd4-JoCcDQ/VEqKxbEplUI/AAAAAAAABcg/h_BA1lD81mE/s1600/IMG_1350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lcd4-JoCcDQ/VEqKxbEplUI/AAAAAAAABcg/h_BA1lD81mE/s1600/IMG_1350.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"> Always
in the distance, through the day's hot haze, we could see the Great
Wall's iconic watchtowers taking form as we walked closer. The ragged
path they traced along the ridge top seemed to get steeper and more
unlikely by the minute. One could not help but think, How? Even more
to the point: <i>Why</i>?! In deference to those in our party who
were disinclined to inclines, we took the cable car that rose halfway
up the massive ridge to the north. Once there, an empty trail snaked
its way up to the eighth of a dozen or so watchtowers. As a group we
weren't fast, but I mentally checked off hill work on my list of
overdue workouts. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5bjZEk1Imf4/VEqLNtxEFLI/AAAAAAAABco/F0G-CREi4vg/s1600/IMG_1375.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5bjZEk1Imf4/VEqLNtxEFLI/AAAAAAAABco/F0G-CREi4vg/s1600/IMG_1375.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> The
wall itself was, of course, amazing – something everyone should
experience if they ever get the chance. This region's vistas, clouded
by Beijing's residual smog, were layered with rugged edges like
dragon's teeth. The wall's undulations made California's Marin County
fire roads look like a kiddie ride; were I part of a Mongolian horde
looking up at these sheer man-made cliffs, I would definitely throw in the towel
and head back for a home-cooked meal. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EoJ7x6Q5eOQ/VEqadlM2VLI/AAAAAAAABeY/JFJdTQBvqiY/s1600/IMG_1509.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EoJ7x6Q5eOQ/VEqadlM2VLI/AAAAAAAABeY/JFJdTQBvqiY/s1600/IMG_1509.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></span></div>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PRv9Ahq5I_4/VEqV_H1hw9I/AAAAAAAABdg/ipGZ2yBVNkw/s1600/IMG_1448.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PRv9Ahq5I_4/VEqV_H1hw9I/AAAAAAAABdg/ipGZ2yBVNkw/s1600/IMG_1448.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"> Pillage
and plunder was the last thing on my mind as I doffed my hiking
clothes (run shorts underneath!) and with a quick salute to my
students I launched myself eastward, rising further still into the
hazy sky. As soon as I passed through the first watchtower I was
suddenly, absolutely alone, not a soul in sight anywhere... so of
course I kept running! The centuries-old cobbles kept my attention
for the most part, but as I slowed on some of the steeper sections
(onto all fours on one set of stairs) I could look out at the vistas
and marvel at their natural beauty and at the sheer audacity behind
this ribbon of rocks and bricks I was using. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2vX3nnirYWU/VEqWFDmGCiI/AAAAAAAABdo/x3xU0vIvI1E/s1600/IMG_1438.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2vX3nnirYWU/VEqWFDmGCiI/AAAAAAAABdo/x3xU0vIvI1E/s1600/IMG_1438.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uZvAa35Pu1M/VEqX_7_YHGI/AAAAAAAABdw/vX4-DEerUPY/s1600/IMG_1474.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uZvAa35Pu1M/VEqX_7_YHGI/AAAAAAAABdw/vX4-DEerUPY/s1600/IMG_1474.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></span></div>
</div>
<div lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> Here
I was stretching my legs on one of the most stunning. iconic pathways
the world has ever known, and for this brief time I had it all to
myself. Or so I thought. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Just as I came to the 12<sup>th</sup>
watchtower, I saw that the far doorway was barricaded, signs up
warning of dangers ahead. I had reached the end of the line, beyond
which the famous Heavenly Ladder, Sky Bridge, and Fairy Tower snaked
their way precipitously higher. </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yukZCrh4oDc/VEqOBivXJ6I/AAAAAAAABdQ/NjmV7QyxZBc/s1600/img_2599.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yukZCrh4oDc/VEqOBivXJ6I/AAAAAAAABdQ/NjmV7QyxZBc/s1600/img_2599.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hikers more intrepid than me have perished beyond here, so the gummint said <i>No more!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Just as I reached the barricade,
thinking I would rest a minute in my solitude, taking in this
profound communion between nature and human history, a man's voice
not more than a metre behind me called for me to stop. I wheeled
around, my spiritual reverie shattered, and saw a soldier squatting
behind an archway. He </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">apparently </span> was stationed here to prevent people like me from going further - if we had plans to do so. Which I didn't.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ekr-s9FoaY4/VEqYAngxeAI/AAAAAAAABd8/xVJbz6H8A9E/s1600/IMG_1488.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ekr-s9FoaY4/VEqYAngxeAI/AAAAAAAABd8/xVJbz6H8A9E/s1600/IMG_1488.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">Judging by both of our reactions, neither
expected the other – him because I ran up, on silent shoes, likely
not panting quite as much as some of the tourists he so rarely sees,
and me because, well, I thought I was having a Private Bloody Moment
To Myself. Skipping anything intelligent, I blurted out in
my finest King's English, <i>Oh... hi!, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">turned
on my heels, and headed back to the rest of the world.</span></span><span style="font-size: small; font-style: normal;"> On
the plus side, I see it as good that I surprised him – he had no
chance to pick up the Kalashnikov that apparently more than one
trekker has seen soldiers brandishing at this lofty </span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>cul de
sac</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. That would be something:
</span><i>Sorry sir, I am obliged to shoot you if you insist on going
further. We do not want you to risk hurting yourself.</i></span></div>
StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-5129820821708651732014-06-07T17:47:00.000-04:002014-06-07T17:55:40.970-04:00mmmmm... That 'New Track' Smell...Not only is our region blessed with <a href="http://snail-male.blogspot.ca/2010/11/next-door-to-heaven.html" target="_blank">some terrific trail running</a> just beyond our subdivision, but now a nearby public high school has laid down an 8-lane run track. It is so new that when I went for an exploratory run this past week I found its red top coat had just finished curing, and I was one of the first to ever run on it; the chalk lines for the as-yet-unpainted stripes had been just laid down.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hLmyhnf1Szs/U5NFq2F1HrI/AAAAAAAABVU/rvHlc1Flspg/s1600/0605141158-00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hLmyhnf1Szs/U5NFq2F1HrI/AAAAAAAABVU/rvHlc1Flspg/s1600/0605141158-00.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Eight lanes, no waiting -- and no excuses not to do speed work...</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BIWPC6ZF7-I/U5NFr8sZ1eI/AAAAAAAABVc/fYm450G0dj0/s1600/0605141158-01.jpg" height="300" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>sure, it's quiet now; in time the dog walkers, the skateboarders, the tottering old coots, and arm-swinging, Fuel-belt toting inside-lane yakkers will discover it. Until then: an awesome public space!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kjJc8XGT5Ak/U5NFr1jyotI/AAAAAAAABVg/uURdsCdYUso/s1600/0605141159-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kjJc8XGT5Ak/U5NFr1jyotI/AAAAAAAABVg/uURdsCdYUso/s1600/0605141159-01.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fRsnN5ve7j8/U5NFsINHkMI/AAAAAAAABVo/lUoRE5m3wJk/s1600/0605141200-00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fRsnN5ve7j8/U5NFsINHkMI/AAAAAAAABVo/lUoRE5m3wJk/s1600/0605141200-00.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>crunchy on the outside, cushy-squishy underneath!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I quickly laced up and set off around the pristine, primer-coloured oval, feeling quite studly through my first eight, ten strides. As I got up to 'speed' (which for me, entails 'quotation marks' due to
how relative my 'speed' is to a state of actual 'speediness') I found my
panting lungs exchanging huge, loud volumes of whatever odoriferous
solvents lingered from the new surface's treatment. In a trice I was whisked back to memories of my dad driving up in his
spanking new '66 Buick (all fun and games until finding out that our inaugural ride around the block hinged on us<i> taking our shoes off before entering.)</i><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8Yx-uJ6co6U/U5OEzRXxFXI/AAAAAAAABV8/t52py_Qqr7k/s1600/AltonTrackSat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8Yx-uJ6co6U/U5OEzRXxFXI/AAAAAAAABV8/t52py_Qqr7k/s1600/AltonTrackSat.jpg" height="268" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Google sat. view - several months outdated - under my GPS plot; actual run experience was much less crude.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
By the time I hit the backstretch I found myself already doing the math in my head - that special calculus instinctively conjured up by undertrained athletes everywhere - that results in compromises and deals with the devil to make this end sooner than planned. This unsullied course was not going to gift me any shortcuts to fitness; my slow road back from autumn/winter injuries now stretched out further into the horizon than I'd thought possible. After a few 400m intervals I was <i>completely spent</i>. <br />
<br />
So much was going right, too: it was a gorgeous, late spring afternoon; there were no adolescent malcontents idly cracking armpit farts in the stone bleachers as I passed; I <i>did not</i> have that second burger that beckoned to me at lunch beforehand. As I returned to my car, sweat dripping off the tip of my nose, I laughed at my enthusiasm from a half hour earlier. Sure, I'll be back... and if I never quite match the paces I once had, I just hope the armpit fart-crackers won't have found me. StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-17351182692172516062014-04-25T10:00:00.002-04:002014-04-25T10:16:58.534-04:00 Die! You Gravy Sucking Pig<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KeMtl2zg_fo/U1pjNHCVqQI/AAAAAAAABRc/FnNqQBXOQBA/s1600/0417141709-00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KeMtl2zg_fo/U1pjNHCVqQI/AAAAAAAABRc/FnNqQBXOQBA/s1600/0417141709-00.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
There you lie, the last of your kind, on the north side of an apartment building in Waterloo, cowering under this pathetic whithered shroud of last year's pine needles. Dusted from the filth of your unending winter bender, you lie there inert and cool to the touch, crusty like an unwashed rummy sleeping off his last mouthful of <i>distilled damnation</i>.* Your reign was the stuff of Shakespearean legend - relentless, aggressive, driven by hubris:<i> Fie on you, foul pile - even as the hounds of spring doth curse your alabaster shores with their yellow nectar</i>. Sure enough, in the end you too will eventually evaporate and wind up as some mere cloud of vapour; with any luck you will drift far from here and condense on the inside of a toilet bowl in a god-forsaken overcrowded frat house some Friday night next autumn.<br />
<br />
Melt as slowly as you like in the shadows, you bastard - I, for one,
would happily wait around to kick the dust of summer square into your
tiny trickle of tears... but I prefer to rush home and put on shorts.
Goosebumps be damned.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VvdBw6Mgqxs/U1puLpaxloI/AAAAAAAABRs/CAaEx6yfFGM/s1600/rant-o-meterANNOYED.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VvdBw6Mgqxs/U1puLpaxloI/AAAAAAAABRs/CAaEx6yfFGM/s1600/rant-o-meterANNOYED.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
Wow. That felt good. And to think I even enjoyed cross-country skiing this past December...<br />
<br />
*<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Thanks to Matt Johnson, "Perfect."</span></i>StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-58015882763818962222014-03-08T19:43:00.000-05:002014-12-28T13:22:14.386-05:00One Way to Improve My Running (Snow)Shoes... <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xOmD3V1GTTE/Uxu4XTcsNeI/AAAAAAAABL8/RrZ7YdJD-8U/s1600/rant-o-meterBOTHERED.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xOmD3V1GTTE/Uxu4XTcsNeI/AAAAAAAABL8/RrZ7YdJD-8U/s1600/rant-o-meterBOTHERED.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
... would be to lose the horseshoe-shaped rims at the rear that form indentations in the heels. During warmer snowy weather - when most sane folks are tobogganing instead of racking up mileage - I can't get in more than a few strides without the soles packing full of snow and actually forming incredible lumps under the heels.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ffhENJMcasY/Uxu2Lh0sKaI/AAAAAAAABLg/-YZ_EFbsIEo/s1600/mizunoSnowShoes1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ffhENJMcasY/Uxu2Lh0sKaI/AAAAAAAABLg/-YZ_EFbsIEo/s1600/mizunoSnowShoes1.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Traipsing like a sullen runway model in stilettos, I try telling myself these times are perfect to work on my forefoot strikes. But that's pointless because within a few more strides I am landing on the tips of my toes the way a ballet dancer would if it was Swan Lake danced on top of snowmen.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jgewZMviruU/Uxu2WmF5fVI/AAAAAAAABLo/76wp8Q2PutY/s1600/IMG_1995.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jgewZMviruU/Uxu2WmF5fVI/AAAAAAAABLo/76wp8Q2PutY/s1600/IMG_1995.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Dramatization: Not Real Heel Build-Up</i>... It Just Feels Like This</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mizuno: I love you - if you were not a corporation I would kiss you, your shoes are so nice. But really, even if you have to resort to implanting tiny ultrasound transmitters to break up the clumps, or coat the soles in some toxic snow repellent tested on orphaned baby black rhinos' eyes, please just do whatever's necessary for me to run level more than seven months each year!<br />
<br />
Okay, so maybe the rhinos were a bit much, but still... you try running with these in the snow and we'll see who's a diva.StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-10100371399704416322014-03-02T11:35:00.001-05:002014-03-08T19:44:23.535-05:00Never Trust a Movie Producer...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-w4GbAXPTt0k/UxNbDAUXkcI/AAAAAAAABLM/QCOcL8SdMl4/s1600/rant-o-meterPISSED.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-w4GbAXPTt0k/UxNbDAUXkcI/AAAAAAAABLM/QCOcL8SdMl4/s1600/rant-o-meterPISSED.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
... especially when they commission movie posters like these.<br />
<br />
And this is just taken from a random look at current releases. I'm too pissed to look any further back; I'm fed up from years of this.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WDq9w_JkCE4/UxNXndBnqAI/AAAAAAAABKU/9zpG1vEyAsw/s1600/philomena-movie-poster-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WDq9w_JkCE4/UxNXndBnqAI/AAAAAAAABKU/9zpG1vEyAsw/s1600/philomena-movie-poster-2.jpg" height="320" width="215" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NlceeC8lefI/UxNXnqmibzI/AAAAAAAABKY/erI2GyClTjg/s1600/Philomena+Poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NlceeC8lefI/UxNXnqmibzI/AAAAAAAABKY/erI2GyClTjg/s1600/Philomena+Poster.jpg" height="320" width="216" /></a> </div>
You numbskulls somehow survive in a visual line of work with alignment skills that, in First Grade, would earn you a phone call home and a battery of tests. Take a look at how the names don't match the people. <br />
Sure, there must be some arcane system of priorities & pay scales that you think you must cleave to, where reading-left-to-right dictates that text on your promos must be arranged in one manner & visuals in another. <br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><u>Above</u>: No, it's not some 1960s Disney screwball switcheroo caper, just stupid labeling graphics. Tried twice & failed.</i></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
___________________________</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qYNFE_VRp74/UxNY4ccU0OI/AAAAAAAABKo/C63B6lLrzCo/s1600/ride_along_ver2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qYNFE_VRp74/UxNY4ccU0OI/AAAAAAAABKo/C63B6lLrzCo/s1600/ride_along_ver2.jpg" height="320" width="215" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2gOBpo3062M/UxNY4fMh4PI/AAAAAAAABKs/E4ngED7KSwc/s1600/MV5BNjU4NzYzOTY1MF5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTgwMTAyNTc1MDE@._V1_SX640_SY720_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2gOBpo3062M/UxNY4fMh4PI/AAAAAAAABKs/E4ngED7KSwc/s1600/MV5BNjU4NzYzOTY1MF5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTgwMTAyNTc1MDE@._V1_SX640_SY720_.jpg" height="320" width="201" /></a></div>
<br />
I get that. But you turds don't seem to get that the rest of the world is conditioned by certain communication conventions that don't like to be upset by your petty little $$ games.<br />
<br />
Look at other posters around you for more successful arrangements. Don't make me have to come down to LA to set you straight because I won't be happy. So easy to rectify with a little thought, so sad that you don't have it in you.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><u>Above</u>: </i></span>Will the real Ice Cube please stand up? Or at least wave so we know which one is you?</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
___________________________</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9gH7zpL7BNo/UxNay9iyVRI/AAAAAAAABLA/EMCJ6GldJgE/s1600/That-Awkward-Moment-Movie-Posters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9gH7zpL7BNo/UxNay9iyVRI/AAAAAAAABLA/EMCJ6GldJgE/s1600/That-Awkward-Moment-Movie-Posters.jpg" height="320" width="216" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">B-List actors, C-List graphics. Couldn't quite pull it off, could ya?</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
___________________________</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YanGAn2wP_w/UxNa4V92dwI/AAAAAAAABLI/IG3bQPjkWX0/s1600/american-hustle-movie-poster-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YanGAn2wP_w/UxNa4V92dwI/AAAAAAAABLI/IG3bQPjkWX0/s1600/american-hustle-movie-poster-1.jpg" height="320" width="223" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">They cared about the stars, the costumes, the script.The promo? Pfffttt!</span></i></div>
<br />
That felt good. I <i>may </i>still head out to watch a movie with a bone-headed poster, but the popcorn had better be good because when the lights go down it's starting off with one strike against it already.<br />
<br />StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-30017755985691958272014-02-01T15:27:00.000-05:002014-02-01T15:27:26.001-05:00My Fairly O.K. Corral Experience<u>Reminiscence</u>: Around the Bay 30k - Random Thoughts on v.2013<br /><br />Since I am not entering it this year after three straight, I thought I'd take this time (in which I am not out in the cold and snow training for it) to look back on 2013's edition.<br />
Going into this I was feeling fairly chuffed to have qualified for
the 'B' starting corral. For the uninitiated, running corrals herd
participants like sheep into small spaces near the front end of a race
start so they can spend a few moments under the impression that they are
faster than they really are. This was to be my first <i>bona fide</i> corral
start, and I relished the little dream I'd nurtured of not having to
wade through, over, and around the myriad joggers, yakkers, and
elbow-flingers who inevitably materialize in front of me just before the
starting horn. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0lkVViR9Ri0/Uu1U0xARJMI/AAAAAAAABKE/DRD8bBO2nbE/s1600/AtBsheep3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0lkVViR9Ri0/Uu1U0xARJMI/AAAAAAAABKE/DRD8bBO2nbE/s1600/AtBsheep3.jpg" height="253" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Corrals are nothing new in road racing. Photo taken from 1910 Around the Bay race. Following this particular event, race directors decided to swap future corral allocations so that the faster competitors would start <i>in front of </i>slower ones. The sheep set out quickly enough, but were hampered by the street car tracks and lack of grass at the aid stations.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Finally, I had arrived. <br /><br />It wasn't like I was elite or anything, and I didn't wade forward through the massed hoi-polloi waving my colour-coded number bib over my head like I did in high school with that one trig exam that I aced. Still, I confess to feeling a small burble of smugness tingle within and I'm pretty sure it wasn't the morning's bagel & jam coming back up on me.<br /><br /> In reality, yes, once the race began things were different - just not exactly <i>better</i>. Where before I might be held up for a few strides until I got around Mr. Overdressed, or the Chatty Cathys, and slip into the open gaps of their frontal wakes, here I was surrounded, tightly, for what seemed like a quarter of the race. I was now haunted, shadowed by a swarm of runners who were pretty much going the same speed as me. If it was <i>exactly </i>the same speed, I guess that would be fine, but there were tiny differences that caused ebbs and flows of clearance; small openings never became bigger and heels a half stride ahead of me were constantly, nearly clipped. Any time this giant improv group ever slowed down or sped up, I was forced to conform. Wow! <br /><br /> <u>Conclusion</u>: it's a wash for me. Sure, with no corrals there are more “obstacles,” but with corrals: fewer options for navigating the ones that arise. My choices? 1) quit running; 2) race like a scalded banshee, turn Elite, and get front row starts; 3) pretend it doesn't matter and "go with the flow." Given that 1) seems boring & unhealthy, and 2) requires injections of so many expensive, harmful and illegal substances that my syringe would be the size of a fire extinguisher, it appears the writing's on the wall: it's time to just Zen down, queue up, zone out and run as if this doesn't matter in the big scheme of things. Because it doesn't.<br /><br /><u>As for the race</u>: Spirit: Willing, Flesh: Weak<br /><br />And by weak, I don't just mean my pace slowed along York Street to the finish after the notorious Northshore hills; it means that long before then my will power to summon my inner stud from beneath its sheath of protective wintery blubber failed at every turn - starting with the twirls of my fork as I coiled and crammed countless lengths of pasta down my pie hole from October until the Friday night before the race. <br />As for my plantar fasciitis, which really got my attention after this race: when I stop to think about it - especially in a Darwinian natural-selection sort of way - it is sort of perplexing how some running injuries can actually feel better once you get running & warmed up. Taken to a <i>reductio absurdum</i> level, does this may mean that if one could somehow keep running non-stop - 24/7 - then one might never experience the very injury they are supposedly harbouring? Time to go lie down.<br />StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-75778452876940166602013-12-18T09:49:00.000-05:002014-03-02T11:47:44.832-05:00Good Return to Running: Windchill's Below 20 Below...... and not a dog walker in sight!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TJ1L_vOjFLU/UrGxWFeLtvI/AAAAAAAABJs/fIp89UQmBrg/s1600/20Below.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TJ1L_vOjFLU/UrGxWFeLtvI/AAAAAAAABJs/fIp89UQmBrg/s400/20Below.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The neighbourhood p<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;">ooches must be making do (and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><i>doo</i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">, no doubt) closer to home these days now that the temps and the snow are both dropping faster than a face-down slice of buttered toast. For all of the cabin fever they must be feeling, I've</span> got to take a moment & give thanks to the shut-ins, two-legged & four-, for giving me a clear run at testing out my legs after my 58 day run hiatus*. I stumbled my way in frosty solitude, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;">clumsily </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;">sussing out the greasy "paths" while</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;">wearing my trusty Yaktrax. Regardless, it felt great to be out running again - all systems a 'go' by the looks of it. Move along... no complaints here. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;">With any luck these unseasonably cold & blustery days will subside soon & we can all resume our usual routine of jump leash & dodge dog and all will be as it should in the world. <i>Bring it on!</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;">* Oh yes, the running <i>vis-a-vis </i>the hernia: finally met with the surgeon and he's taking the wait & see/feel approach - until something's externally obvious, he's loathe to go cutting and poking around regardless of how accurate the MRI may seem to be. Bottom line: the lay-off waiting for his appointment allowed the pain to subside enough that I didn't need him to tell me twice to resume running and cycling. <i>Huzzah!</i></span>StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-14248439811151693112013-11-19T11:26:00.002-05:002013-11-19T11:39:24.270-05:00Turning the Corner on Bike Lanes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>A two-dimensional solution to a three-dimensional problem</b><br />
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It's possible that many municipal workers and civil engineers become entranced with the plan views on their blueprints and don't consider the real-world applications of their decisions. A case in point that I see everywhere is the first bike lane marking that appears outside an intersection. I maintain that these are placed too close to the intersections to be of any use for those turning onto the marked roadway, likely just because someone with a two dimensional overhead drawing saw that new traffic may enter a given road at an intersection and determined that the logical spot for the bike/chevrons graphic is, of course, just at the exit of the intersection. </div>
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The trouble is that, from the driver's perspective, the visuals are hopelessly distorted - made abstract - by the driver's position when negotiating the turn. If the driver is looking well ahead, where he/she should be, the bike lane marking is certainly not recognizable for what it represents (assuming it isn't missed all together.) </div>
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<u>The proposal</u>: Just move the first post-intersection bike lane graphics further down the road, so that drivers can find them once they have finished the relatively intense action of navigating the turn (No pedestrians, cyclists, or other vehicles hit? Check!) and are able to properly process any new information that comes from driving straight forward. Easy peasy. </div>
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This example is for a left-turning driver, but I'd posit that the same issue applies to right-turning. </div>
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I'm not saying adopting this will make cycling any safer, but it will certainly help municipalities communicate most effectively on their limited budgets. These suckers can cost over $100/apiece, so bang for the buck really matters. May as well ensure every driver sees every marking.</div>
StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-77047666976018501692013-10-29T14:46:00.001-04:002013-10-29T14:46:58.938-04:00Thinking of a Better World - Thought #1<i>As a public service - and in an effort to turn a new leaf -</i><i> I vow that I will from here on always try to see the bright side in my relentless</i><i> </i>travails, <i>and I will share these as they occur to me. </i><br />
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<u>From this morning</u>:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-po5eosOWg34/UnABp4Xve0I/AAAAAAAABIk/3Z_5Ml-qcTk/s1600/exam_room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-po5eosOWg34/UnABp4Xve0I/AAAAAAAABIk/3Z_5Ml-qcTk/s400/exam_room.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">For us guys: a simple <i>New Yorker</i> comic panel on the wall, turned sideways and lined up with the pillow on the prostate exam table, would help.</span></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-58240851368535132592013-10-04T22:11:00.003-04:002013-11-19T15:35:02.350-05:00The Winter (and Spring) of Our Discontent (UPDATED)<br />
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UPDATE at bottom. Title is now more like <b>The <strike>Winter (and Spring)</strike> <i>Whole Freakin' Year</i> of Our Discontent</b><br />
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If I had a dollar for every time that I cursed the weather this past winter I could finally afford a better-driving car - or at the very least replace that flat tire we've been driving around on since last November.</div>
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The sheer length and depth of steely cold that blanketed our region for what seemed like six solid months took me by surprise and caused no end of frozen eyelids, stuck nostrils, numb fingers, and chronic <i>slow jaw</i>. Worst of all, I blame it for my first running injury since tripping over that one kid's butt cheeks when he rolled in front of me as we rushed to escape the bucket of water tipping over our heads at the splash pad. (Doing that one over again, I'd probably just take the soaking since nothing could match the scolding I got from all the mothers watching - as if I was the first dad who'd ever done such a thing.)</div>
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Over the course of several weeks Plantar Fasciitis (PF) insidiously sank its pins and needles into that nameless spot it favours, just ahead of my left heel. I had wrapped up my training for the Around the Bay 30 km race in March and still managed to eke out a modest PB. For better or worse PF tends to disappear once a runner warms up, allowing said runner's optimism (to say nothing of distance and pace) to soar, which only further inflames the tissues and ensures more mornings of tender exits from bed.</div>
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Perhaps it was my aging old-fart body fed up with The Big Freeze of 2013; it could have been old-fashioned laziness; carelessness; false confidence in my base fitness and resilience... whatever the excuse, I swore off my routine of post-run stretching so I could get inside sooner and for this reason alone I think I brought on the PF. My own worst enemy, I went from nearly 90 kms/week to zero faster than you could say <i>stupid age grouper who should know better</i>. As the wind chills finally subsided from sub-human to merely sub-zero I tried to venture back onto the roads only to find PF's trademark painful numbness waiting to greet me the morning after like a meaty hangover. </div>
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With the incredulity of a cowboy whose horse ran off with the saddle, my life slowed to a hobbling walk. I faced an uncertain future. Will I ever run again? And if I could, would it ever be as quickly? Is this the beginning of my own Great Downward Slide of decline, and if so, does this mean no more gaudily-coloured shoes? Worst of all: when I could ever eat another PB&J guilt-free? </div>
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They say time is a great healer, but there's not much accounting for all of the collateral damage that occurs in its passage. While waiting for the PF to slowly meander out of my life I explored my alternatives. Swim training was out of the question because I was already grouchy enough. Cycling on the garage trainer was scotched by another first when that intimate affliction that begins with 'h' and rhymes with <i>asteroids </i>befell my <i>netherdistrikt. </i>Thinking that the universe was trying to tell me something, like... say, "Time to ditch the Spandex and take another look at bird watching," I cross-trained almost exclusively by crawling the walls from morning until night.</div>
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Then it happened.</div>
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One July morning I made it all the way from bed to bathroom to second slice of toast in the kitchen before I realized: <i>I don't feel a thing</i>. Not in a frosh-week sort of way, either - my feet simply felt blissfully unremarkable. I sluggishly emerged from my home within a few days, anxious to reacquaint with my territory the way a bear might on wrapping up its hibernation. The sunlight, the wind and the birds had re-jigged into summer mode, waiting for me like I owed them money. It was hard to jog - not from muscular atrophy (though that likely explains why my socks kept sliding down) but because of second-guessing every footfall, overthinking every tentative stride. I was convinced PF was just waiting to jump out from behind the next bush to trip me. But it never did. With no fanfare whatsoever my body simply said it was go time, and after all of my frustration, who was I to argue? The Old Dog, New Tricks World Tour can now resume. And this coming winter there's no reason for me to play the victim role like I'm living in some Hans Christian Anderson tale. I'll be sure to find a warm way to get in my post-run stretches - I'm already sizing up a couple of the neighbour's cats to slip inside my jacket. I figure it's worth a shot; if it's not effective at least it should be interesting, and it sure beats PF.<br />
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*UPDATE: <i>Who's the Ironman now, huh, tough guy?!</i> I haven't run for over three weeks. The ODNT World Tour has ground to a halt, on hiatus until further notice. It turns out the hernia repair I had when I was 17 months old wasn't the last one I'd need before I cashed in my chips.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Make up your damned minds, already!</i> Do you want to see the scar or do I blow out my candles? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;">In '61, if what my older sisters tell me is true, I think I caused my first hernia by trying too hard to fart so they could keep lighting blue angels off my ass as I bent over the side of the bathtub. While the downside was they had a big box of matches, the upside was that my backside quickly caught fire (they were laughing so hard at my pyroflatulence that they couldn't hold the matches still) so Mom came running and doused my diaper, effectively limiting the extent of my hernia. <i>So they say...</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">I<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> suppose there's no point calling it warranty work at this late date. Looks like we got a smoking deal on the anesthetic anyhow, so who am I to complain? And they certainly didn't skimp on the stuff; I can only recall being three sheets to the wind and trying to breastfeed off every nurse on the floor. <i>Good times</i>...</span></td></tr>
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This go round, a good half-century later, the soreness set in a few days after I moved two sofas to our basement with the intermittent help of my teenaged son. When I say intermittent, I don't mean he was coming and going throughout the ordeal - he simply wasn't always lifting when I was. Hardly ever, in fact. It seems we had different definitions of what, exactly, is meant by someone saying, "Okay... ready... NOW!" I was tugging and pulling in vain like some Arthurian wanker trying to yank the damned sword from the damned stone, and one time, frustrated that we were making no progress and we had so very far still to go, I looked around behind the sofa base and saw my pride and joy standing aside impassively, arms folded, clearly waiting to hear a sensible plan. It is not like my hulking offspring didn't want to help, he's just smarter than me and - like any self-respecting teen - didn't want to make an effort if it wasn't guaranteed to yield results. I couldn't promise that. I knew from years of shoving these gargantuan crusts of furniture up and down the throats of houses and apartments that we sometimes have to lift and get after it and make it up as we go. It is only when we are fully supporting the weight that the veils are lifted, and we see the taunting relationship between the true dimensions of our loads, the extents of our Duchamps staircase descents, and our cockeyed plans for both. The bottom line is that I learned as much about my own limits of communication that day as I did about the chronic weakness in my abdominal walls.</div>
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The sofas are now in the basement, where they shall remain until needed for setting up that promised colonization on Mars. With any luck I'll be scheduled for surgery before then.<br />
In the meantime... the discontent continues as I soften back to the squishy state I was in five years ago. Maybe this detraining is actually that chance I've secretly coveted to catch up on some tv series I've missed out on. Hey, I've got two sofas to choose from!</div>
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StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-11839718047525078992013-09-06T17:30:00.001-04:002013-09-06T17:32:40.597-04:00There for the Taking, Part Deux - a bike route I love<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"></span><br />
<i><b>The Situation:</b></i><br />
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When it comes to wedging a quick, intense interval spin into a busy day, many cyclists find nothing beats hooking their bikes onto a trainer in the basement or garage, switching on a small wind tunnel of fans, tuning into a long-neglected movie, blasting some motivational <i>OOnka</i>thumpa<i>OOnka</i>thumpa music, and pedalling madly until they get fit... but get nowhere.<br />
The trouble is that - for my way of thinking - outside of staring at a black line in a swimming pool there is just about nothing less <i>interesting</i> to do with one's time. Waiting in my dentist's office doesn't count because I am at least diverted by my impending sense of doom.<br />
Sure, fitness happens this way; pay the dues and all that. It's this very sort of sacrifice that gives our finish line photo faces those spiteful Mona Lisa smiles/grimaces that say, <i>Yep, I frikkin' killed myself with boredom to get here - damn straight I deserve nothing less than this 23rd out of 77! </i><br />
With enough perks and crutches and electronics surrounding me to keep my mind off the bitter reality that I am perched on a skinny saddle cranking away purely for fitness' sake - for my stupid body that can't recall the concept of "muscle" - sweating like a camel hauling stones up the side of a pyramid, on the verge of woofing my breakfast all over my handlebars, I can rationalize riding this route through The Black Hole to Health.<br />
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Yet again.<br />
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<i><b>Weather Permitting</b></i>...<br />
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... I ride to a small slice of heaven amidst the (sub)urban jungle I live in - the same one <a href="http://snail-male.blogspot.ca/2010/11/next-door-to-heaven.html" target="_blank">I like to run at</a>: a Provincial Park beside a creek protected from development. Not only is it within city limits, it is only a six minute ride from where I live. The ring road, for automobile access, handily measures out to a 5 km loop, with a whopping 20m of elevation change. It's paved, it's smooth, it's wide, and I have it all to myself. Mine. For me. Alllll mine.<br />
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If I get there before the 8:00am opening time my only real concern is dodging the snails caught napping on the warm pavement when they are "in season" - zero worries about cars, few worries about dog walkers. (Each of us - me, dog, walker - thinking, <i>What the hell are </i>they<i> doing here?</i>)<br />
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This is literally beside one of the busiest 6-lane highways in our region of southern Ontario, the Queen Elizabeth Way. In fact, I can hear the thunder of the traffic (commuters already clogging the highway at 6:30am, their blood pressure as high as mine but for a vastly different reason) and yet I never have to worry about what's coming over my shoulder.<br />
Hmmm... that's worth repeating:<br />
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<i>I never have to worry about what's coming over my shoulder. </i><br />
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Just hammer hammer hammer, then ride less than 3 kms home. For this, I get natural air-conditioning, the enchanting gyroscopics of riding an open road, fresh air to breathe (prevailing winds almost always feed toward the highway, not from it), maintain my bike handling skills, and thousands of metres of bushes and shrubs in which to woof my breakfast. Yep, life don't get any better than that...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XIHAokihn3I/Uio2ulxTyAI/AAAAAAAABFs/CWXy_LrhI84/s1600/brontecreekLoop2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="317" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XIHAokihn3I/Uio2ulxTyAI/AAAAAAAABFs/CWXy_LrhI84/s400/brontecreekLoop2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: italic;">You can appreciate the proximity to the 403 highway from this overhead view.</span> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-style: italic;">The starting point/turnaround hairpin. The childrens' "play barn" is to the left in the middle-distance. <br />Office towers are to the right!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q_Pboq-qRSI/UipE1fKAJjI/AAAAAAAABGE/aPVlaEIg4sw/s1600/IMG_3992.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q_Pboq-qRSI/UipE1fKAJjI/AAAAAAAABGE/aPVlaEIg4sw/s400/IMG_3992.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The lane widths are similar to an average street, each direction running separately. </span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">The return lane can be seen to the left.</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A8-DlpwdGP4/UipFKhjw4JI/AAAAAAAABGQ/AYQiBskMnxA/s1600/IMG_3996.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A8-DlpwdGP4/UipFKhjw4JI/AAAAAAAABGQ/AYQiBskMnxA/s400/IMG_3996.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Several intersections occur to access various parking lots. But at 6:30am... no traffic!</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jCBAqSJMYX4/UipF1N-e_7I/AAAAAAAABGY/8kvgI36TEWs/s1600/IMG_3997.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jCBAqSJMYX4/UipF1N-e_7I/AAAAAAAABGY/8kvgI36TEWs/s400/IMG_3997.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-style: italic;">Running parallel to the roadway, I flatter myself by pacing the vehicles <br />(only briefly... as they pull out from assorted driveways) </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5tVnxC15OcY/UipGhuZv1LI/AAAAAAAABGg/pX828tNH5U0/s1600/IMG_4004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5tVnxC15OcY/UipGhuZv1LI/AAAAAAAABGg/pX828tNH5U0/s400/IMG_4004.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The road surface, I've got to say, is uniformly excellent. Snails notwithstanding.</span> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6Nw1_469Mr8/UipGjR9sM4I/AAAAAAAABGo/mm847sqvcjw/s1600/IMG_4005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6Nw1_469Mr8/UipGjR9sM4I/AAAAAAAABGo/mm847sqvcjw/s400/IMG_4005.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-style: italic;">Just past the curve ahead is the far turnaround hairpin. <br />The highway's exit ramp light standards can be seen over the embankment. So close, so far...</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RiFVbAbSn0A/UipHLSWng4I/AAAAAAAABG0/aPrv8pWCIEA/s1600/IMG_4007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RiFVbAbSn0A/UipHLSWng4I/AAAAAAAABG0/aPrv8pWCIEA/s400/IMG_4007.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The "out" lane is in the foreground, seen from the return lane. </span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Yes, being Canada, one's never far from the ubiquitous Tim Horton's.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-R285XoS4-Do/UipHOIjZGTI/AAAAAAAABG8/a8pSZCyIS04/s1600/IMG_4008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-R285XoS4-Do/UipHOIjZGTI/AAAAAAAABG8/a8pSZCyIS04/s400/IMG_4008.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-style: italic;">On one side: a franchise donut shop; on the other: chickens, sheep, cows, peacocks. <br />With me in the middle, on the aero bars, a big stupid smile on my face. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CAUStTvblT0/UipIMQ_d1DI/AAAAAAAABHE/vl0di3pPmMI/s1600/IMG_4009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CAUStTvblT0/UipIMQ_d1DI/AAAAAAAABHE/vl0di3pPmMI/s400/IMG_4009.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><i>The original start/turnaround again, viewed from behind. </i><br /><i>You can do as many laps as time and your constitution permits. </i><br /><i>Did I say there is </i><b>no</b><i> traffic?!</i></span></td></tr>
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StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-4907760521558931502013-05-04T12:58:00.003-04:002013-10-25T07:37:28.496-04:00An Open Letter to the Sociopath Tailgating Me <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sure, go ahead and read this while you're driving, it's not like it will make you any more dangerous.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>You know who you are: the distant speck in my mirror at 10:39:28 a.m. that transmogrifies by 10:39:51 a.m. into what seems like a spare vehicle strapped to my trunk, your headlights so close they are blocked from view. Judging by your flagrant disregard for not just the law, but basic human welfare, I bet it's safe to assume this situation makes me your worst sort of nightmare; a rolling roadblock who seemingly shares none of your desperate need to attain near-earth-orbit velocity. Since you are close enough to read my speedometer over my shoulder, please have a look to confirm I am already travelling double-digits over the speed limit as I try to complete my own pass on someone more law-abiding than even I am. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Trying to strike that delicate balance between pleasing unpleasable people like you and pleasing that officer up ahead who's aiming a radar gun at me would probably be easier if I could just make myself invisible. That's it - something James Bond could likely pull off. In fact, at times like this I often wonder, <i>What would James Bond do</i>? Something explosive usually pops to mind, but that's like a cop-out (no matter how gratifying), plus I'd worry about it affecting that innocent 18-wheeler dude sandwiching us along the guardrail lane. Same goes for an oil slick: skewy vehicles and highway speeds often spawn 6 o'clock news highlights. Now, an ejector seat for your sort might be just the ticket. If I could just figure out how to trigger it when you start up your motor in the garage...</div>
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StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-52287150692108913602013-03-08T12:07:00.000-05:002013-03-08T12:25:32.959-05:00Taking a Measure of Society's Maturity - Part Deux: Nearly Edible Crap<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_6-BFdppOno/UToRfFNdktI/AAAAAAAAA_g/YV644WsrNmc/s1600/rant-o-meterANNOYED.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_6-BFdppOno/UToRfFNdktI/AAAAAAAAA_g/YV644WsrNmc/s1600/rant-o-meterANNOYED.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_6-BFdppOno/UToRfFNdktI/AAAAAAAAA_g/YV644WsrNmc/s200/rant-o-meterANNOYED.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="200" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;">You would think that by the time we are old enough to own and operate a dishwasher of our own that we could distinguish between candies and blobs of soap; after all, the functioning of our society's systems - financial, political, transportation - are counting on at least that level of discernment.</span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-APKfkuqjQFA/UToWLW_qZTI/AAAAAAAAA_4/zdBt3Vkdp6E/s1600/Powerballs+_Cascade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-APKfkuqjQFA/UToWLW_qZTI/AAAAAAAAA_4/zdBt3Vkdp6E/s1600/Powerballs+_Cascade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-APKfkuqjQFA/UToWLW_qZTI/AAAAAAAAA_4/zdBt3Vkdp6E/s200/Powerballs+_Cascade.jpg" width="145" /></a>Yet one need only look at the current trend in the dishwasher soap tablets field (didn't know that existed? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">CUT TO:</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">bright room full of lab-coated scientists with glasses pretending to jot down notes on clipboards</span>. Trust me, it exists.) to spot a blatant clue that those affluent enough to own and operate a machine to wash their dishes are also childish and gullible enough to fall under the spell of a shiny morsel of multi-coloured detergent as if it were a <i>bon-bon</i> in a glass jar at a confectioner's shop. Now, I realize that one needs to cut these marketeers a bit of slack. You try selling something that's about as sexy as a compost bag - you'll quickly find yourself lying awake at night, desperately scrolling through a mental Rolodex of dancing dogs, inane jingles, and ivory-toothed supermodels in vain attempts to conjure up an irresistible message. The more mundane, the more the pain - be it soap, toothpaste, toilet paper, it doesn't matter. One thing's for certain, though: the road to becoming a Walmart Greeter is littered with the ground up souls of ad execs looking for The Angle, that one special hook to catch the consumer prey right in their weak spot.</div>
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<u>Exhibit A</u>:<br />
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Found left on our doorstep - for sure a more socially-acceptable form of anonymous abandonment than, say, a flaming paper bag of dog poo, but still something that I had misgivings about bringing inside. Nevertheless, being that it was a Friday night, and that I was on my second glass of Beaujolais, I brought in these freakish cleanser pouches, holding their gaudily-coloured package out from my body the way one might carry a dead o'possum from one side of a road to another.<br />
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Any advantage? You be the judge.</div>
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All I know is that the runaway popularity of these convenient, no mess wads of <i>stuff</i> shows us they are popular. Then again, that's as telling as looking at a film's Box Office Totals to judge its quality.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WZqwC5IAyD0/UToZcwBuNPI/AAAAAAAABAY/YrVBEWCKer0/s1600/Powerballs_ad2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="130" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WZqwC5IAyD0/UToZcwBuNPI/AAAAAAAABAY/YrVBEWCKer0/s200/Powerballs_ad2.jpeg" width="200" /></a><br />
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According to news agency Reuters, the manufacturer, Proctor & Gamble, is quoted as boasting that it took "eight years of research, with 75 technical staff working on the project full-time, to come up with [these suckers]." Kinda makes it worth bending over, now doesn't it?</div>
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The trouble is, kids have been mistaking them for candy, and "the American Association of Poison Control Centers (AAPCC) issued a warning last week that people should keep highly concentrated, single-dose packs of detergent high up and out of the reach of children... According to the AAPCC, some young children who swallowed the small packets required hospitalization."<br />
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This sort of nonsense is pervasive enough in this culture to, I think, qualify it as yet another sign of the impending Apocalypse. Overreaction on my part? Take a glance at your pet's food dish first and then get back to me. Time to take a deep breath and embrace your adulthood before you reach for your wallet, folks.<br />
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StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-47908883509469352522013-03-08T11:02:00.001-05:002013-03-08T11:16:49.992-05:00Burlington's 2013 Chilly Half Marathon - new PB time & Cambodian adventure!<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>1:33:41</b> - chip time</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>22/216</b> - AG</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>227/2836</b> - OA</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">While staking out a spot in the crowd of runners gathering in the cold (-7C & <i>breezy!</i>) outside of Burlington's City Hall, a few things occurred to me (beyond the usual thoughts that occur to me just before the start of any race, like, <i>What was I thinking when I signed up for this?</i>)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">* there's the remarkable rise in </span>humans'<span class="Apple-style-span"> insulative properties if they are wedged together tightly enough; it was so cozy waiting for the start I would have been content to just stand there in the middle of the swarm for an hour and a half and then the starter's air horn could signal us all to go home. We really should try that some time; the actual <i>racing</i> part of running is highly overrated as it is. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">* how unfair a race corral can be to shorter, socially-connected runners looking to meet up with their mates. Case in point: my 5' 2" tri club friend, Erin, appeared, bobbing up and down, trying to find her S.O. and various friends seeded throughout the throng. She and countless others of her stature spend their crucial final moments craning their heads up like prairie dogs, looking over the sea of shoulders, searching in vain for some individual somewhere else<span class="Apple-style-span"> </span>swallowed up in the Main Street mosh pit, when they could be focussing on more pressing matters, like, <span class="Apple-style-span"><i>What was I thinking when I signed up for this?</i></span>. Race directors could really endear themselves to participants by rigging up some ladders on nearby lampposts, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>à</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> <i>la</i> the Victoran gas light era, so folks could more readily find one another in crowds.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">* I realized I have a prejudice against runners faster than me who can talk out loud through the entire event. It's not like I feel rageful toward them or anything - on my better days I don't even think I'd be inclined to try to trip them - I think it is really just a type of envy. Here I am, slogging along, practically coughing up blood as I try to keep my form and my rhythmic gasping under control, barely able to wheeze out the words, "ELoad - <i>thanks!</i>" at the aid station, and you and your buddies are actually hauling me in while you discuss a) who you've got doing your taxes this year, and why he's so much better than that last crook; b) why your recent races sucked so badly because you didn't realize you had a celiac response every time you drank more than three pints of beer <i>X</i> whereas now that you're back to downing your old standby beer<i> Y</i> everything seems copacetic; c) how Monica never quite appreciated your notion of "flexible" schedule and all it entails. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">And always, always, it is at a volume better suited to a middle-of-the-lake discussion aboard a power boat at full throttle.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Go ahead and pass me, guys. So you're faster than me - I get that.<i> But do you have to make it look</i> <i>so easy</i>?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">As for post-race recovery, I say screw the compression socks - how about pogo pants for descending steep school bus shuttle stairs after sitting for 25 minutes right after a thrashing good run? Here's where I got to experience life as a tourist, but <span class="Apple-style-span">without the airport lineups and Gravol</span>: When it came time to disembark it felt like descending the precarious steps of the Angkor Wat Temple. I nearly fell from the bus - it practically spit me out - but I grabbed the handrail just one step from disaster, hoping it looked as though my cat-like reflexes spared me, but suspicious I just looked like yet another old geezer who got lucky this one time.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I'm getting too old for this...</span><i style="font-size: small;"> </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by C.Hong</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The race was well run as always, the shuttles (steep stairs notwithstanding!) a brilliant idea to save on crowding, great volunteers, the cowbells made us feel like champs, I went flat out - couldn't squeeze out any more in final kms, still managing to peg it but no more. Improvement: from 1:34:33 to 1:33:41. <u>Note to self</u>: <i>divvy out the improvements like a miser so you can keep getting faster for longer.</i> </span></div>
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StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-90271185341109034962013-01-24T09:56:00.001-05:002013-01-24T10:04:24.289-05:00Bike Lanes - Exasperations to the Editor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>artist:</i> Peter Drew, Adelaide<i>. Image: </i>carltonreid, flickr</span></div>
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To quote a sailor more eloquent than me: "<i>I've had all I can stands, I can't stands no more!</i>"<br />
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As a member of my city's Cycling Committee, I see the degree of resistance our conservative citizens have toward any change, especially where the almighty auto is concerned. After reluctantly reading yet another screed in the local rag against a bike lanes trial along our Lakeshore Drive, I felt I had to say <i>something</i>, lest these frightened masses whip themselves into a fury that runs our Cycling Master Plan right off the road. The straw that broke the camel's back for me was one citizen, who had the temerity to drive around for an entire hour on a mild day this January counting bicycles (<i>nice way to treat the air, eh?!</i>) to build his case that there aren't enough of "us" to justify expenditures on bike lanes. There are several issues I want to address before I give up on this godforsaken region, but to stay on topic for my reply to the editor, I kept it to the following:<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>19 bikes in the middle of January sounds great, given that most cyclists have their steeds in storage! But no, you are correct, Mr. _____, Burlington is "not Holland or Europe." It is a city - those are a country and a continent. If you want to experience large, sprawling cities, you should visit some of those found in Holland and Europe. They are simply ahead of where Burlington is; they were enlightened enough in days gone by to create the networks necessary for their large, latent contingents of interested-but-hesitant cyclists to hop onto their bikes. Having lived and biked in a "sprawling city" in France, I am speaking from my experience. Until such time as Burlington has a comprehensive network of bike lanes that allows a person to cycle from any given Point A to Point B without risking a "squeeze play" with automobiles, people like you will always be able to point to anemic numbers as proof of failure of initiatives such as these. Instead, they are a sign that we still have work to do, and, perhaps tragically for some, compromise to make. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The big picture I see here is that each person who chooses to bike instead of drive is making a comprehensive change in their life. Whether it is for recreational, fitness, or commuting purposes, this revised lifestyle alters the entire make-up of their day. This is in exchange for what, realistically, might amount to a delay measured in seconds or, in a worst case scenario, a few minutes? It seems like a reasonable compromise to ask of fellow citizens: many seconds - if any - from one to improve many hours for others. This is not a comprehensive lifestyle change for drivers - you're just being asked to share the road here. Now that I think of it, perhaps, Mr. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"> _____</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">, you are afraid this trial will be successful, in which case your hour of driving around the city will entail passing <i>countless</i> cyclists?!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>To anyone who says cyclists should be segregated to one artery like the hydro path, I say, Get real. What motorist would tolerate one single,<span style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica;"> </span>partial, route across this city? It is nice that it exists and I thank the city - and all of us <i>taxpayers</i> - for the option and I use it when it suits my needs, but what if I want to go anywhere else? Like you, Mr. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"> _____</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">, I may want to spend an hour travelling from east to west in this large, sprawling city, but, unlike you, I just don't want to drive to do so.</span></div>
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It is amazing how effective it is to wait for five minutes before sending out diatribes like mine. I axed a ton of insults and sarcasm.</div>
StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-29417905325647086752012-12-17T09:50:00.000-05:002012-12-17T09:57:53.979-05:00Reminiscence - the Making of an Easter Egg (DVD, that is)Once the dust settled from TS2 production grind, Ash Brannon approached me to ask if I still had a clip I'd made what seemed like months before. It was an "outtake," something that all of us animators wanted to create for dailies whenever time allowed; these went a long way to alleviating the tedium we all experienced in the extended screenings each morning.<br />
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Ash said it was for an "easter egg" they wanted to put on the DVD. I had no idea what that entailed (hey, it was the 1990s), and I asked Ash if I should spend a few hours cleaning up the blocking (I'd slapped it together in less than two hours, which was my free window of time before the next screening). He laughed and said to leave it - the rougher the better. Huh. He left, smiling, and that was the last I thought of it until <i>years</i> later, when someone said to me they laughed at my easter egg. My. Egg... DVD they said... What? They told me it was on the TS2 Supplemental Disc in the Ultimate Toy Box collection. Jessie's Song. That <i>car </i>sequence. Oh. Ah! * yes - a light went on, and Ash's request from years ago came back to me.<br />
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By then the interwebs were sophisticated enough that I could search for info about this (this amounts to Googling myself, I suppose)(yoiks)</div>
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It turns out the laughs I got by poking fun at the sombre tone in Jessie's abandonment sequence really struck a chord with the directors & producers, so John & Ash requested that this be hidden as an easter egg somewhere in the periphery of the DVDs' Story > Jessie's Song menu, and they layered in some sound f/x. I guess this was picked as an example of the effectiveness of comic relief; we appreciate laughs as much as ever when they are least expected. </div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Clip from Pixar/Disney. With apologies to Sarah McLachlan, given the perfect tone she struck with her ethereal voice...</span></i></div>
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StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-13505101354259321512012-11-06T10:41:00.000-05:002012-11-06T10:48:19.249-05:00Reminiscence: A Quilting of Goldfinches My cycling distances increased through the summer in preparation for Mont Tremblant, and I felt pretty comfortable with the routes I’d chosen. Mostly oriented northward, they took me off the beaten path often enough that I felt relatively safe for most of the way and at times the seclusion was downright sublime. It was great riding, punctuated only by the occasional anaerobic chipmunk or indecisive squirrel, and that one time a couple of deer sorely misjudged my rate of descent on a steep grade, nearly swapping me my aerobars for antlers.<br />
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On a beautiful Sunday morning in July I zig-zagged through a familiar, old, quaintly mis-aligned rural intersection, and no sooner had I slouched back down into my aero position than a commotion rose up behind me to the right. It was the unmistakeable lilting four-beat contact call of the American goldfinch – what bird watchers have likened to them singing <i>po-ta-to-chip</i>, but this sounded more like a party-sized bag full of potato chips; I looked over and saw what seemed like hundreds of them (goldfinches, not potato chips) taking wing from the low bushes in the narrow strip of land beside me. I laughed out loud, thinking first of how unthreatening their quiet chirps were, then of how – aboard my yellow, black and white bicycle – I might have resembled that eccentric inventor in the film, Fly Away Home, trying to get these tiny geese to imprint me as their father by leading them on a flight.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5SG2eRNVuqI/UJkvFmyo7CI/AAAAAAAAA9U/Q6yq1Ok06iE/s1600/flying-bird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="267" width="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5SG2eRNVuqI/UJkvFmyo7CI/AAAAAAAAA9U/Q6yq1Ok06iE/s400/flying-bird.jpg" /></a></div> <i><font size="1">photo by John Benson ibm4381/flickr</font></i><br />
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Instinctively riding the crazy roller-coaster hard-wired into their brains, the finches collectively resembled a giant yellow, black, and white quilt that had just been ruffled to spread out across some invisible bed beside me. This brief commingling with nature almost took a turn for the worse when the chirping quilt then abruptly tacked diagonally across my bow, so close that I instinctively clamped my mouth shut.<br />
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The finches then kicked it up a notch and promptly dropped me, as so many things do… <br />
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I hunched back down to work and got back up to speed. As my heart rate and breathing approached the pointy end of my Lactate Threshold, I recognized that while my smile was morphing into a grimace, my facial expression itself hardly changed - <i>a smile is uncannily close to a grimace!</i><br />
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What has this got to do with triathlon, you may ask?<br />
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Just think back to every race photo you have ever been in.<br />
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If you look past the flushed skin, the head rolling to the side, the clenched fists and cramping muscles, the foamy lips, the sweat glistening and the tears streaming down, there’s actually a smile there. Clearly, on some level, we must really like what we are doing; there are finches flying beside us. They wear no number bibs, personal bests mean nothing to them, but all of us are celebrating the pure and simple gift that is the joy of moving.StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-13535869115189944712012-10-08T22:17:00.000-04:002012-10-08T22:35:10.498-04:00Taking a Measure of Society's Maturity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7Fr0j1qnCm4/UHN9y4j5icI/AAAAAAAAA7w/v_xfJCiut1o/s1600/rant-o-meterAMUSED.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="200" width="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7Fr0j1qnCm4/UHN9y4j5icI/AAAAAAAAA7w/v_xfJCiut1o/s400/rant-o-meterAMUSED.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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If the recent trend towards absurdly giant wheels on vehicles is any indicator, western civilization's zeitgeist is clearly hanging a u-turn and heading straight back to the womb. How else can one explain a grown adult's desire to drive around in something that looks like it just drove off the cover of a Toys R Us catalogue?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y1NhMZ2lpfg/UHOLNVxvnpI/AAAAAAAAA84/mgFFWx9PX-g/s1600/escalade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="313" width="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y1NhMZ2lpfg/UHOLNVxvnpI/AAAAAAAAA84/mgFFWx9PX-g/s400/escalade.jpg" /></a></div>For about 1/200th the cost, I could step out of General Motors and into Fischer-Price and <i>not give up a thing</i>. According to that catalogue I'd still have "a real FM radio to pump up the fun, see-through windows, doors that really open and close, flashy 'chrome' wheels and grille, and more!" <br />
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(Hey! They're talking to me... <i>I want more!!</i>) <br />
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For less than the cost of an <i>adult</i>-sized SUV's tank of gas, I could also enjoy "two speeds forward (2.5 and 5 mph, max.), plus reverse, on hard surfaces and grass, with a high speed lock-out option for beginners and Power Lock brakes." <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pS-5XUXF2NU/UHOIP0wJaqI/AAAAAAAAA8g/qQhJJesWxKo/s1600/pedalCar.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="189" width="267" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pS-5XUXF2NU/UHOIP0wJaqI/AAAAAAAAA8g/qQhJJesWxKo/s400/pedalCar.jpeg" /></a></div>Now I ask you, what in the name of Ransom Eli Olds Speed Wagon is not to like about that?! Okay, sure - the radio burns through C batteries like a baby whale in a school of herring - but really, if you only want to whine about how nobody gets out of your way fast enough, or how there still aren't enough cupholders, or how the person ahead is blocking your view because they are taller than you, you may as well save yourself some serious coin and go with the lighter version that requires a bit of assembly. It's not like you are going to look any more mature because you bought the real thing.StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-757667342443426263.post-25582814405801980002012-09-29T14:06:00.001-04:002012-09-29T14:07:35.453-04:00Sure, Some Days I Feel Old, but Jeepers...... <i>did ya have to rub it in?! </i><br />
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Just found this as I was rummaging through drawers for a sock to match any one of a half dozen other singular socks in my hand.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c3GWCG4YkmQ/UGc4QVc4kQI/AAAAAAAAA7Y/-8QEU_QFbY0/s1600/SeniorDiscount_Mar7-2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="215" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c3GWCG4YkmQ/UGc4QVc4kQI/AAAAAAAAA7Y/-8QEU_QFbY0/s400/SeniorDiscount_Mar7-2010.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I remember that humiliating morning like it was yesterday: We drove up to the kiosk of our local provincial park for a trail run, and the girl scout inside smiled as she handed me more change than I'm used to. Was she trying to tell me something, or did she do this for everyone who seemed more than a decade older than her? I'll never know, and hope it doesn't happen again for at least another 15 years...StephenBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12544820616051052530noreply@blogger.com0