Snail Male

Swim Training Rant

2011-12-13T21:16:00.000-05:00

To All the Fish Out There,

Let me start by saying I honestly have all the respect in the world for the fishes of the world, those who seem to happily swim endless lengths in pools the world over. I'd even say I am envious of your swim speed, your training work ethic, not to mention your ability to endure the mind-numbing routine of it all.

I need help figuring out how to like swim training more. At its best, swimming is as cool as it comes. On a longer swim - typically, for me, this just applies to OWS - there are those zen-like moments where I can really feel like I am in the groove & soaring through the water (even if it's just barely under 2:00/100m) and it is a great feeling. I like that, except it happens pretty rarely, and just about never when training. This is frustrating, because I am almost always happy when I anticipate, execute, and recall just about every run and ride that I have.

The facts the way I experience them:

If I want to run, I put on my shoes and head out the door & go & go until I can't go any more. I breath in the fresh air and see the sun, while doing intervals, taking it easy... whatever I want/need to do. When finished, I am revitalized; it's usually one of the best parts of my day.

If I want to ride, I put on my shoes, head out the door, throw my leg over the seat & go & go until I can't go any more. I breath in the fresh air and see the sun, while doing intervals, taking it easy... whatever I want/need to do. When finished, I am revitalized; it's usually one of the best parts of my day.

my old swimming hole:
the Point Richmond Natatorium, Point Richmond, CA
(I swam there when it was in colour)

If I want to swim, I get in the car (which, to operate, costs money and pollutes), drive to the pool (if it is open when I am free), strip naked in front of others (I mean once in the change room, not the parking lot), lock most of my crap in a pay locker to keep others from stealing it, furtively wet myself for health regulation purposes under a scalding hot non-adjustable shower that I have to keep switching on because the timer button lasts for 4 seconds, gather up my other, non-locked-up crap together and march out onto the deck past air exchangers that blow my skin cold enough for goose bumps, wander about the one end checking out lanes trying to get a sense of where some others of similar pace/effort are swimming so that I can intercept them to discuss my needs and reach a truce for lane sharing, go & go until I run into the feet of one of them and have to stop or one of them runs into my feet and I have to stop, continually evade the tools who swam a fast set but now do slow-mo breaststrokes for cool down without switching lanes, stare at a line on the floor of the pool the entire time, try to get my intervals in without compromising my pace/timing or that of others, climb out and reverse the whole cold/hot/nude-fest/locker/drive-in-traffic process. I've been in Zone 2 or above for, at best, one third of my time invested. Almost every "fish" I have ever come upon maintains that I need to do this at least five or more days/week if I am going to acquire that mystical "feel" for the water and see real improvement. Huh. Sorry, but I've "felt" enough water to know that - unless I am missing something here - I will content myself with coming into T1 and having an easy time finding my bike, if you know what I mean.

So what am I missing? Just the fact I wasn't doing this as a kid? Bad genes? Not wanting to offend, but, for me, it is just too sad a way to spend solid chunks of five or more days per week trying to get a better "feel" when it will only yield me a handful of minutes of improvement per tri. The compromise to make it otherwise would cost too much in my quality of life. This sounds like the sour grapes of a pool newdle; it's not that serious - like I said I really do think the act of swimming itself is very cool - it is just that the training sucks!

Gawd that felt good.

signed,

The Water Foul [sic]

Up Against the Curse of Quality

2011-11-19T16:07:00.001-05:00

Sure, we rail against products that crap out on us before their time. They waste our money and burn through our patience, whether it's from leaving us in a lurch or with a stain on our carpets. It's no wonder we heap scorn on them - I get that. But what about where the opposite occurs? Like the proverbial bad actor in a never-ending death scene, some items in our lives just don't get the message that the hook in the wings is coming for them. Unfortunately, some objects we own have outworn their welcome for various reasons and yet they linger, stubbornly providing all of the functionality they've always promised while giving us no real reason to deep six them. The problem for some of us is in letting go, we can't simply abandon something just because we, or the item, or life itself has somehow changed. The balloon hasn't got a hole in it - that would alter it to the point where it is no longer a balloon but instead a wrinkled blob of latex. In our case, the balloon perhaps doesn't float to the ceiling quite so readily, or we've grown weary of its colour and no passersby are wanting to take it from us. We can't just release it. So while everyone around us updates their entire world like a new skin (but seemingly every seven months instead of seven years) we plod on in life, supported by unappealing, fully-functioning, high quality crap.

Take, for instance, my Nokia phone. Please. I even bought it used from, clearly, some harder-hearted soul than me - someone able to just hang up on their relationship when the latest, thinner, more-feature-laden "personal communication device" came along - and this little avocado coffin simply refuses to die. It holds a charge longer than my pants' lifespan; its reception makes newer, sexier phones seem like they're tethered to the end of a string; it unfortunately has texting; no matter how many times I ~~smash~~ drop it to the ground the pieces always snap back together, and, like a faithful, pathetic mutt, it never, ever gets lost, no matter what tricks I try. Although I am sick of all the laughs I get from 9 year olds when I whip this out to call home, some part of me cannot justify replacing it until it dies.

And then there's my eight-year-old Corolla. It's scratched up and dinged to hell. It isn't roomy or fast. And it's certainly silver - inside and out. But the stinking thing starts up in a jiff... every... damn... time. Even when it's 30 below and my fingers can't even turn the key in the ignition it somehow manages. Okay, I know, it's my fault. I could have seen the writing on the wall, given the stellar reliability records this vehicle has, but I still stupidly drank the value Kool-Aid, and now have to live with this thing for the foreseeable future, while every week someone else on my street pulls up in something quieter, roomier, sexier, more colourful. While I'm tempted to try draining out its oil to see how long it will last, with my luck it'll be like the 1970 Beetle I owned all over again - it was missing its pressure relief valve for over a month and cruised nearly 500kms with zero oil pressure. With my luck the Toyota will still be roadworthy when the rest of the world is flying to work in their skycars.

The oft-used family bread machine is a joke, and the manufacturer insists on repeating the punchline ad infinitum by making replacement pans available more than a decade after we bought the thing. Three times, each of them years apart, the little gasket around the spinning paddle finally leaks, and I have no choice but to buy another pan so the entire machine doesn't need replacing.

The plastic main control panel cracked after years of button pushing, and once the buttons themselves also quit I stupidly figured out a way to hot-wire the circuit board with a teaspoon in order to fire it up.

Alas, it seems that until that glorious day when this white elephant finally gives up the ghost, I am stuck with an endless supply of terrific loaves of bread.

Now, if only my MEC cycling shorts would just fall apart, this rant wouldn't even be necessary. I could live with the phone, and when it's dark, and if I squint my eyes just right, the car looks okay, I guess. But these shorts are the bane of my existence. I needed a pair of cycling shorts one crisp autumn day, when it was clear that my increasing mileage was straining my dwindling inventory of viable bike clothes. Being the time of year it was, the store's selection of summer gear was understandably paltry - the racks were now jammed with thermal goods of all styles and sizes. The only shorts available were on a bottom shelf near the washrooms, and they were clearly that year's summer orphans and castaways. The good news for me was that they had a size Medium, the bad news was their colour was a shade the labels optimistically called Anthracite. Who makes cycling shorts that are not black - the time-worn tone of discretion? Being more beggar than chooser at this point, I relented and bought the wretched garment, telling myself that one year - just one year - I must try shopping for seasonal gear when most sensible, ordinary folks do. To make a horrible story short: the rugged yet breathable fabric has, with repeated washings over several long seasons, faded into an alarmingly light charcoal that no longer camouflages my "package". Yet the shorts continue to provide all of the comfort that they originally did; their seams refuse to fray, the elastic cuffs - while puckered like a grandma sucking back a Big Slurpie on Bingo Night - are nowhere near giving up. The solution here: avoid arrest by only wearing them indoors, on stationary trainer rides. Preferably with the lights out.

Would you be caught dead in these? I may, because I am certain to expire before they do.

Until I figure out a way to give up texting, baking, riding and driving, I can see I'll need to dig deep to cope with the upcoming decades. The planned obsolescence train pulled out of the station before I arrived, so I am stuck with some very high quality junk. Sure, I could donate it all to some charity, but, truth be told, I think I've almost grown fond of these unrejectable castoffs. What can I say? I'm a softy standing up defiantly in this throw-away society of ours. Either that, or I'm just too cheap to trade up.

My First Marathon: Qualified for Boston... 23 Days Too Late!

2011-10-21T14:49:00.000-04:00

3:34:15

61/293 AG, 699/3951 OA

23 days?! This is not to say I needed over three weeks to finish my run, just that I did so after Sept. 24th, 2011, the date when the BQ time for my 50-54 age group was dropped from 3:35:00 to 3:30:00. C'est la vie! It was a great experience to finally find out what is behind the curtain of all of the 32km training runs I put in and am happy to report that I came through the 42.2 virtually unscathed, especially if one ignores that I walked like a cowboy for the first couple of hours afterwards. Most everything went according to plan (including my pace through about 35kms!) and outside of the nasty westerly winds I can't really point to any downsides to the day. Temps were on the cool side - just nosing above 10C. - the threatened rain held off, the water and gatorade were flowing from the well-staffed & friendly aid stations, and the helicopters tracking my progress remained aloft in spite of the gale-force gusts.

The corrals that wound up and down University Avenue were well organized and packed. At the start our 3:30 pacer left 'hot', seemingly about 30 sec/km faster than necessary. I was hardly committed to him, and this just reinforced my choice to fly solo. Nevertheless, I kept tabs on the group for a large part of the race, as they settled in to the right timing after several kilometres. We hustled south onto Lakeshore Boulevard and turned west into the full effects of the day's weather. "That wind was standing people up," said Dave Scott-Thomas, head coach of the Speed River Track and Field club and its third and fourth place finishers - and Olympic qualifiers - Reid Coolsaet and Eric Gillis. Luckily it was still early in the race, and by the 12k turnaround I was spot-on for pace. From here it just a matter of running across the metropolis to the far east side with what was now a lusty tailwind. Along the way a couple of out-and-back detours to the edge of the lake piled on the mileage, often accompanied by live music of every genre coming from intrepid bands on temporary stages. Great crowd support throughout, though through the docklands it predictably dwindled to a few close-huddled souls clapping their hands more for warmth than cheer. At those times I tried my best to re-assemble my form into something graceful enough that I could muster a wave and smile of appreciation for them.

We eventually turned onto Queen Street and continued east; the road began to rise and fall in gentle rolling hills (at least, I think they were rolling, unless I was hallucinating by this point) as we headed to our far turnaround. And now the race began. We were just past the 20 mile point, now facing square into this wind, and rising up what we had just come down. It was very sobering, and it really broke many remaining clusters of runners apart - folks were dropping like flies left and right. There was very little respite from the winds; at points it seemed like 100m of open road between me and the next runner ahead. Perhaps it was the novelty of being in my first marathon: although I progressively slowed in the final 7kms I wouldn't exactly call it a bonk - it was maybe The Wall but without the despair, suffering, nausea, and fabled "dark places" that so many others speak of. All that stymied me were the twinges from my calves and hamstrings that told me I couldn't claw my way back to the 3:30 pace group that was tantalizingly close at the east-west turnaround. If I was to push any faster I knew I would cramp up (which, in fact, happened once when I abruptly changed my plans at the final aid station @ 40k. With no intention to stop, the fetching siren calls of Water?! and Gatorade?! made me self-evaluate, and as if on cue my legs tightened up. I veered over, grabbed a gulp, touched my toes to stretch it out, and continued my feeble pursuit of the 3:30s)

It's really funny how our constitutions fade in the final phases of endurance tests, often with such little warning. As the office buildings and CN Tower loomed larger, and the crowds became thicker, and the cheers got louder, and the gusts became stronger, the streetcar tracks criss-crossing the final intersections devolved into a cruel test. They were like a barbed wire fortifying the finish area, as if only those souls tough enough to navigate across these scars in the cement without tripping themselves up were worthy of finishing. My feet were gimbaling around between strides with a mind of their own. It must have looked like I staggered out of an all-night office party and right into a marathon finish.

No longer was I hoping for my C goal (sub-4:00), nor my B goal (sub-3:40), I had now replaced my A goal of sub-3:30 with Don't Fall on Your face in the Chute in Front of Your Family and Thousands of Strangers.

Mission Accomplished. And, I am happy to say, with a smile on (although my wife insists it was a grimace. I just say she was on the wrong side of the road)

Lessons learned:

1) It's not worth engaging another runner in one-upmanship when said competitor is dressed up like a large green lunch bag, or pepper, or cushion, or something similarly ~~stupid~~ interesting. This green "thing" (I was frankly afraid to turn & look closely) almost matched me step for step through the midway point in the race, and I was worried that as time went on it increased my chances of being caught up in some race photos with the guy. So I wondered, do I let this (admittedly fast) green pepper go and have to look at him for hours, or should I bury him now and hope to rest up a bit once he was in my mirrors? Of course I hit the afterburners and left him standing, but I may have burned more matches in my book than was wise. Silly male pride.

EDIT: Good grief. I was in the midst of greatness and didn't know it... ran neck and neck with a bottle that ended up in the Guinness Book of records.

Yes, son, I may not have BQed, but I still finished ahead of a record-setting bottle.

2) Members of the general public - even tubbies - can walk really, really fast when one doesn't want to be in a hurry, like the minutes following the end of a marathon. I crossed the finish line, ambled along with the dream-like flow towards the food/medals area, walking like I'd just completed a week-long cattle drive, and once I merged onto the public sidewalk to find my family it was like being thrust into some cartoon, with humans scurrying about everywhere. Old ladies cutting across my bow, even. What a hilarious sensation.

3) It is possible to run a marathon on shoes (Mizuno Wave Precision 12s) that have over 200kms on them and still walk away on uninjured feet, with skin as smooth as a baby's bottom. Thank you, Mizuno, and John & Paula at Foot Tools for the advice.

4) Continue to practice drinking from aid stations without slowing down, but do so with water until it's perfected. Gatorade splashed in the eyes can sting like the dickens. Must be the electrolytes.

POSTSCRIPT: My sister called me later that afternoon, with what I thought might be congratulations, she being the running pioneer in our family. Instead, she had the task of informing me our 85 year old father had died that very morning. He had a good life, and had, in fact, successfully cheated death on an ongoing basis this past 3.5 years, since he was in a huge car accident that no one could be expected to survive. Long story short: at the visitation on Tuesday, my three sisters and I popped in early with a cordless drill and an old, favourite vanity license plate of his, and hot-rodded his coffin for him.

Having been born & raised in Cairo before moving to England, he'd become skilled in five languages, and chose to have IMSHI on this plate, which loosely translated from Arabic means Vamoose! I can only hope he's tearing around now in a red TransAm or Corvette, with my Mom riding shotgun...

Having Fun on The Jobs

2011-10-08T09:18:00.005-04:00

the Pixar triumvirate: Ed, Steve, and John - photo from Pixar

In the spring of 1997 I had the good fortune to be finishing up from Pixar's storied "P.U." after months of drills and exercises to familiarize ourselves with their MENV software package, and the studio was kind enough to celebrate our class's graduation with a party outside the cafeteria at their old residence in the rabbit warren offices of Point Richmond (prior to our move across the road to Frogtown, which was prior to our move down to the Delmonte factory in Emeryville.) It was a beautiful late spring day, and we set up around some picnic tables. The idea was for us initiates to perform some skits in front of the rest of the staff (about 140 others at the time) to informally introduce ourselves and break the ice a bit. My partner in crime was fellow Canuck - and animator extraordinaire - Pete Nash. We loosely rehearsed a duet performance of us extolling the virtues of Canadians beyond our reputations as great animators; we wanted to demonstrate our country's superb cuisine and talent for music as well.

We hauled out and plugged in both a hotplate and an amp. While I gave a cooking lesson on a rasher of peameal bacon (not easy to find in the SF Bay area), Pete - decked out in grunge wig and sunglasses - wailed away on his Fender. It was a delectable melding of grease. Once the cornmeal edges had crusted up golden brown, I slipped the plate across to John Lasseter, who was seated at the nearest picnic table along with Pixar founder Ed Catmull, Steve Jobs, Andrew Stanton, and Pete Docter. Without missing a beat John got up and deferentially skipped around with the plate of sizzling pink pork and set it in front of the card-carrying vegetarian Mr. Jobs. Steve of course would have none of this and insisted on passing it right back to John, with a certain gusto that implied if it ended up in Ed's lap it would not have mattered. Happily the flimsy paper plate held its integrity throughout the highjinks and the slab of sow never hit the grass.

This little episode confirmed for me that we were in the midst of some golden years. I saw here some very talented people gathering together to celebrate their company's growth and promise while ascending the crest of a wave that was bigger than anyone could know. Steve was in the midst of re-assimilating with Apple, and his "other company," Pixar, was gearing up to capitalize on the wild success John brought them with their first feature film. The opportunity for egos to dictate the tone of the day was huge, yet here they were playing hot potato with a sliver of Canadian bacon on this warm and sunny March morning, like a bunch of kids.

Loneliness of the Long Distance Rider

2011-07-27T22:54:00.002-04:00

Memory:
Not bicycling this time; I was riding my fully-laden KZ1100A across Canada one summer long ago, tenting as I went, blasting upwards of 1,000km/day. How I loved that bike.

When in the big sky country of rural Manitoba I saw a huge storm brewing on the horizon, so I pulled over to the gravel shoulder of my two-lane road to pull on my rainsuit. I set the bike on its kickstand and turned away to shove a leg into my rain pants. Unfortunately the shoulder's camber was a tad steeper than I counted on, so the bike was perched quite vertically. Sudden gust of wind, followed by a terrific crashing sound. I spun around to see the bike laying on its side, tilting downwards towards the ditch. Gas was spouting out of the tiny vent hole on the gas cap. I looked down each direction of the highway... nothing but the cliche heat shimmers. Crickets chirping. It would seem I was on a more isolated road than I realized. Or was I?
Standing there with mounting panic I somehow got that sense that I was being watched; it turns out that a herd of cows was lining the fence at the roadside. They were chewing their cud, not a care in the world, just watching - I suppose - to see what my next move would be. Somewhere in a field a cicada buzzed.

It is amazing what fear, adrenaline and leaking gas can do to motivate a person. I wedged various body parts into the "pile" I had formed myself into under the bike, incrementally raising it. I was so hot and tired after that I think I dispensed with the rain suit in the hopes a soaking would be refreshing. Turns out the storm blew to the north and I missed it anyway.

I am truly blessed to have ridden all of the great motorcycles I have (GPzs of every size, Ninja Turbo 750, 6 cyl. Honda CBX, Suzuki Katana 1100, KZ900, etc.) without ever hitting the pavement. Sure, I've had my share of clipless falls on my bicycle but never have I felt as silly as when standing on stage in front of an audience of indifferent bovines. Tough crowd...

Sulphur Springs 10k trail run

2011-06-25T20:18:00.006-04:00

May 28th 2011 - Never did I think racing 10k in 53:38 would feel so great, but then I also wasn't sure my 16 yr old son, Graham, would have the sangfroid to be seen running with his uncool dad.

This culminated on the dampest, chilliest morning the RD could recall in the 19 yr history of this trail running event, hosted by the Burlington Runners club. In the eight weeks previous we tried our best to adhere to a Franken-schedule I pulled together with considerations of our vastly different life timetables, running base levels, motivations and health, not to mention nuisances like homework, 2011's notoriously limp weather, and perhaps most importantly, Graham's knees' propensity for pain.
From the outset I had resolved that if I could get him across the finish line happy and healthy my mission would be accomplished. To this end we took things slow & steady; my GPS-free pacing usually erred on the side of prudence over heroics; we chose gravel over pavement whenever possible, and Graham's untimely success on the school badminton team meant new tournaments turned run days into "cross training" as the schedule broke apart like a pack of dogs at a cat show. Rather than overtrain the distance I gambled to have him just train up to it so that May 28th would be pretty much the first time he experienced the full 10 kilometres.

To his credit Graham always held up his end of the bargain, even running a few times on his own when my schedule just wouldn't sync with his and no more days could elapse without setting us back. We went out in the dark, in the rain, at the crack of dawn, whenever we needed to ensure no more than two consecutive days were skipped. He patiently indulged my verbal questionaires about his knee pain as we ran, with the distinct understanding we would back off the pace if he felt anything above 1/10 on the soreness scale.

A recognizance run at the Dundas Valley Conservation Area a couple of weeks before the big day gave us a better sense of what we were getting ourselves into, and it was clearly going to be no cakewalk. Very steep hills scaling both sides of the narrowing Niagara Escarpment promised more than enough challenge to every joint and muscle south of our navels.

The race itself went according to plan. Our barely-spoken hope was to break one hour; while I'd admonished him to avoid time goals - especially for a first time at a new distance, because it might push him to the point of injury - there is no denying that this round figure kept cropping up in our sights. In spite of that, my adolescent partner displayed remarkable discipline by remaining within his limits, even with many rabbits bounding ahead of us. We covered the distance with a consistency that made me proud. It was apparent that my training plan was decent enough, given how we made it to the crest of the final, very steep, long hill - just hundreds of metres from the finish line - intact and still running. Indeed, when Graham's closest AG competitor slipped past us with less than a minute to go, all it took was my breathless "go for it" for him to shift into a finishing kick that made his old man proud and nearly sent his feet sliding out from under him on the last hairpin turn in sight of the finish line.

Watching my 16 year old sprint toward his first finish (and a podium one at that!), and pull away from me in doing so, was a memory I'll cherish forever... it made me laugh out loud with joy. When I saw him photographing his muddy shoes afterwards it struck me that we may just be doing this again.

And Now For Something Completely Different...

2011-06-04T15:07:00.002-04:00

... a brief binary animation. A few years ago I was tapped by the folks at SIGGRAPH to experiment with the Benetton Flipbook program, a very simple online software that allows a limited amount of "pencil mileage" per frame. Using only the 1 & 0 of the binary system as my sole graphic elements I dove into hatching a little story from that...

Around the Bay 30k - The Betrayal of the Bunny

2011-05-09T14:40:00.003-04:00

2:32:15 (chip time) 102/452 AG, 819/2963 OA

After all was said & done, the bunny was only human.

This past winter felt like a long one, and when Sunday, March 27th, broke clear and cold - around -8C with a northerly windchill yanking it down to the double digits - I was resigned that today would be no different from so many other weekend morning runs in the last few months. Except this time I'd drive a short distance before starting, and there'd be about 6,000 others joining me. Luckily the race headquarters was open to us - Hamilton's cavernous Copps Coliseum was a giant hive of activity until the 9:30 start. By this point the sun was shining down on our horde of shivering souls. Piles of snow and ice skirted the sides of the route and made finding one's stride an exercise in patience.

A few zigs and zags brought us to neighbourhoods along the western edge of Lake Ontario, where winds picked up but not enough to halt the locals in their housecoats at the ends of their driveways intrepidly cheering us on, waving cowbells in one hand while cradling coffees in the other (with the occasional cigarette lending a distinct... texture to the atmosphere)

Passing the relay teams' first transfer zone about 10k in unleashed those fresh folks who clearly relished weaving between us in the manner of bike couriers threading their way through traffic jams. Good for them - haggardness would soon set in as they tried scaling the highway overpass without slowing down. From here we traversed the lift bridge that allows freighters access to the bay around which we were running. Its open metal grating was broad enough to give me nervous ankles so I backed off slightly to ensure stability. At about this point I realized I was inadvertently matching strides with the 2:30 pace bunny; he and his entourage had ebbed and flowed around me for the first 45 minutes or so. Until now in my brief running career I hadn't paid pace bunnies much heed, fancying myself as a lone wolf who only answered to himself. It's hard to pinpoint what made me fall under the spell of those large, undulating pink ears of his on this particular day. Perhaps it was my nervousness at tackling this new distance, it may have been the allure of simply trying something new, it certainly didn't hurt that his pace coincided with my best-pace goal. Regardless, somewhere before Burlington I resolved to hitch my star to this lapin rapide. If nothing else it would be a welcome diversion for the hills that defined Burlington's Northshore Boulevard when we turned west about 20k along the route.

My decision, mid-race, to latch onto a pace bunny was silent, invisible. I didn't need to declare my kinship with his panting disciples, there was no rule about swinging my hat around backwards, I didn't even break my stride. Nobody knew (much less cared) that now I was a follower. It felt like taking a bit of a vacation, even slipping back into childhood. Hey! I can relax now, Dad's in charge!
Alas, my hare-trigger resolve was sorely tested early on when after just a few kilometres of rollers I needed to drop off the rear of the 2:30 pack for a sudden heart-to-heart with my knees, which had begun sending hints that it might be prudent to stop immediately and cheer everyone else on. Luckily, by backing off a tad I was able to re-focus on my smoothness and pick up the pace again.
One bit of business before catching back up to the group was a quick stop and u-turn for a hug with my friend, Pat, who was manning an ad hoc aid station at the foot of her driveway. Also snuck in a low-five with another tri club friend, Margaret, telling her I needed to hustle to stay with my bunny because if I win they're paying $4000 for first place! I wonder now - recalling the tepid chuckles from those around us - if people thought I was seriously deluded, instead of purely kidding.

Before long we passed the 25k mark behind the beautiful Royal Botanical Gardens, and I noticed not a leaf of it; I had begun slipping into that surreal state of perception that endurance folks sometimes experience (or is it just me?), where landmarks begin to lose some of their clarity and relevance as we hunker down for The Serious Work afoot. As we began our descent down Spring Gardens Road to cross Grindstone Creek - the gateway to our point of reckoning - I yanked off my glove and high-fived Stan Wakeman, a roadside icon for a number of years who braves the chill by playing Queen's We Will Rock You! at full volume on his boom box.

Seconds later, with no warning, just as we began ascending The Hill* on Valley Inn Road the ears came off. Literally, my bunny tore his pink ears off and clenched them in his fist as he slowed down to a walk. His day was done, as it was for so many others ascending The Hill like extras from a George Romero film. For one brief instant, in my naivete, I was incredulous. Can bunnies even do this? Aren't they the lop-eared cyborgs of running - able to stoically maintain their pace and banter effortlessly all without breaking a sweat? I watched our group of lemmings disperse in slow motion (I mean, really, how quickly can you get away from someone when you are running up a steep hill?) As I, too, slowly edged past him I think I whispered a thank you - not sure because I also had to cough to clear my dry throat. Unless I'm mistaken I heard him sigh in response. Regardless of this development he could take pride in having ushered us through the minefield of hills for the past 6k and delivering us to the cusp of the home stretch. Glancing back over my shoulder I saw him slowly cobble together the beginnings of a run, albeit with the spring sprung from his hop. Kudos to you, my furless friend… may your racedays be blown through by tailwinds and your burrow stay dry.

Suddenly I was high, but not from a runner's endorphin rush; I had reached the plateau of York Road, and it was all downhill from here. A slight descent eased our final kilometres toward the cheering throngs inside Copps Coliseum. We passed the Grim Reaper & his sidekick stationed beside a cemetery, urging us on with wisecracks like The end is near! Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.

A final cruel dramatic test was the steep short service ramp we had to descend to reach the coliseum's ice level and the waiting finish line. Baby steps baby steps don't blow it now and Check… we are clear for final approach! The cheers, the big screen coverage, it was all a blur. A nice volunteer told me I could stop running now. I agreed, and wandered off to claim the pita bread and orange juices that I felt I'd earned.

In retrospect, I am very happy with both my prep and my race-day execution, and my exploration of in-race pacing via bunny was a pleasant experience, cottontail calamities notwithstanding. I am certain I will be back to the Around the Bay, with the obvious goal of wanting to go sub-2:30 next time. If anyone is sitting on the fence about this event I highly recommend it; just come prepared by packing your own bunny if it's that important to you.

*(7.6% gradient rising nearly 30m over less than a 400m distance, compare to Boston's infamous Heartbreak Hill @ 4.5% over a slightly longer stretch)

Race Report: Burlington's Chilly Half Marathon & Frosty 5K

2011-03-26T17:49:00.011-04:00

Chip Time: 1:39:20
30/189 AG, 255/2278 OA

I beat the pepper!

It's funny how one has time to obsess about competitors during races, especially longer events. In any contest of speed, from running to motorcycle racing, competitors live in parallel worlds of relative velocities - one beheld by the spectator watching them, and another one interacting with their fellow competitors. In effect, two events are unfolding at once: the faster race as seen by the stationary observers on the sidelines, and the slower one where we gain and lose ground on our competitors. In an earlier life, when racing cars, I found it remarkable how, while we may have been hurtling along over 220 kph, my competitors and I were, in fact, engaged in a low-speed tussle for position. Once the race settled into its rhythm, those around me would be so closely matched that we could likely pass a tray of eggs between us at any moment and never crack a shell. It is a calm in the eye of a storm blowing past the spectators.

From this placid vantage point one can study one's opponents, size up their strengths and weaknesses, then calmly hatch a plan to vanquish them. Curiously, I found out in early March of this year that this strategy is really no different even when we find ourselves pitted against two and a half metre tall vegetables.

In my case, during Burlington's Chilly Half Marathon, I resolved no two-legged garden-variety opponent is going to beat me without a fight, even if it had to be across rutted ice tracks in places. Which it was. I've got to hand it to Mark Sullivan, he was in much better condition at 18 kms than I could ever hope to be if I was similarly swaddled in what must surely have been an itchy, sweltering get-up. For a few moments as I hobbled up nearly alongside him, I basked in the peripheral celebrity I'd imagine the Prime Minister's Secret Service agents must experience when their boss is caught in the spotlight. Spectators and volunteers vigorously clapped and cheered him/(us), and it soon became apparent that unless I moved on I would look like a Clingon*. And the last thing I needed was to be caught up in the finishing chute near him: photos of me edging out a giant pepper, or trailing just behind it, would surely be equally humiliating either way, especially if my teenaged sons got hold of them.

I threw another log on my fire and proceeded to pull away from him as best I could. In taking my leave I wish I had mustered something wittier than "Looking hot, man!" but at this point there was only lactic acid coursing through my brain.

So don't take it personally, Mark, but I just had to do it. The way I see it, it was win-win: you still took first in the Produce Category, and I avoided permanent ego scarring.

Kaz Novak — Metroland West Media Group
From the Burlington Post: "Mark Sullivan, in his red chili pepper outfit, was one of close to 4,000 participants in the annual Chilly Half-Marathon and Frosty 5K that was held throughout Burlington during miserable weather on Sunday morning."

*someone who actually thrives on this overspray of attention, and lingers around to receive it.

Surviving Bad Design, Part Deux

2011-02-19T14:18:00.009-05:00

Our second instalment in an ongoing series of reasons to fear people's judgment turns its eye on matters of taste and choice. Whereas Part One detailed a poor design that sprang from a few unhinged individuals affecting untold numbers of innocents (and students) in brief but painful ways, today we explore those curious design mis-steps I call Feeble Attempts at Radical Taste. Design FARTs frighten me because not only do they likely spring from the creative loins of aesthetic first cousins, others will actually come along and purchase them, spending years driving, cleaning, and even polishing these things.

The Real Problem:
(sidestepping the fact I am a design snob) These same people are also all driving on the same roads I cycle on, making subjective decisions that are no more sound than what led to little useless chromed widgets on fenders in the first place.

What really chafes here is the cascading effect of a FART. History of dangerous design tells us this is not as benign as a bunch of butterflies flapping their wings, ignorantly generating cyclones halfway around the world.

We instead see uninspired designers stepping into the cloud of other manufacturers' FARTs and deciding that, Yes, I too would like to update our tired model with a pointless chromed exclamation mark! A dash of something sophisticated, yet… uhm, uh yeah! - edgy!

And when people buy these aberrations they just encourage the illusion that the FART was appreciated, when in fact it merely came with a vehicle that may have had the lowest lease rate in its class.

Why would someone who thinks this is acceptable have the good spatial sense to not try to squeeze past me near the crest of a hill, rather than wait a few seconds more for a clear road?

It's easy to imagine a daydreaming designer (is there any other kind?) hurtling along a rural road at 89 kph while smugly musing: "Let's see... what say we tack on a gaudy, chromed, fake vent on the side of the [hapless vehicle on daydreaming designer's board], to break it up a smidge? ... Yeah, I could be onto something here... It can be (how long?!) long enough to... uh, uhmmmmm. Huh - looks like a bike... dang, it is. … it'll run along the beltline untillllllll, uh… shiite, oncoming car. Okay, if the cyclist doesn't veer left at all we should be… Ah-ha! That's it. Until it's lopped off by the door seams! We'll set it just in line with the door seams… don't dodge that chunk of wood, pal, I've gotta get to work to jot this down - you might become fender trim…"

Trifuel's Great Gobbler Challenge - Let the Tradition Begin!

2011-02-15T12:09:00.002-05:00

Our intrepid little group of online friends logged runs over 16 consecutive days to see who could tally up the greatest distance, and I managed to squeak in 94.7 miles. This, it turns out, was enough to snag the inaugural trophy, so kindly shipped up by AT from North Carolina.

The proud bird now has a place of honour on our family trophy shelf. As it tied in with American Thanksgiving (and helped burn calories acquired then) I thought it fitting to include photos with some delightful homemade pumpkin pie top-dressed with organic whipped creme.

A slice of that would have given me enough fuel to top 100 miles in one go. Maybe next year!

Much to be thankful for, indeed. Not least of which - beside the fitness to even partake - is the spirit of friendship and encouragement on the Trifuel website.

Thanks, AT, for starting up what I hope becomes an annual event.

It's great to extend the season by a few more weeks with some friendly rivalry!

On Becoming a Velodromedary

2010-12-13T17:53:00.006-05:00

I fulfilled a lifelong dream this past Saturday! Apparently only three or four indoor velodromes exist in North America and fortunately one, the Forest City Velodrome, in London, Ontario, is less than a two hour's drive from me. Our tri club booked an introductory session and we had a blast!Rental bikes were included in the very modest price and in addition to our usual cycling kits and pedals we were encouraged to dress in layers; it may have been indoors but it was a former ice rink and very cool inside this time of year. This building necessitated a very small, intense layout. Whereas an Olympic circuit might be 250m long with 45 deg. banked turns and 15 deg. straights, this is 138m (150 yards) around with 50 deg. turns and 17 deg. straights. It was remarkable - and intimidating at first - to walk down to the concrete arena floor and look up as the experienced riders soared past overhead. Several of us wondered what we'd gotten ourselves into, the way one might when queueing up for a giant roller coaster.

Our three instructors were very enthused; you could tell they loved what they do and they quickly had us on our bikes and wheeling about on the concrete to get acquainted our the fixed gears' idiosyncrasies. We drilled some pylon slaloming, grabbing at plastic bottles on the floor, slowing down, and yes, even stopping - I found this to be the skill I need to practice the most!

From there we lapped the plywood skirt circling the track at floor level. Three pylons were placed down the length of each straightaway, the middle one jutting up onto the track surface itself. We were to cut up and around this middle cone, practicing shoulder checks and smoothness as we drilled merging onto and off the track. When we nailed this step the coaches kicked the middle cone further off line toward the outside of the track. This made our swings steeper and we quickly got a feel for pitching the bikes around, which was a far cry from the steadiness we strive for as triathletes navigating crowds of AGers. We then rehearsed safely entering and exiting the track, to and from the middle paddock area, all the while checking the shoulders.

Next up was encircling the track on the metre-wide blue threshold band they'd dubbed the Côte d'Azur. When we showed them we could hold a decent line they had us ride up onto the first, black, line on the track surface at each straightaway, dropping down to the Côte for each turn. Before we knew it we were given clearance to follow the black line all the way around - we were in business! From the fifth highest strip on the Côte d'Azur to the outer track railing it's all 50 degress. Whoops, hoots, and hollers spilled from all around as we got our first tastes of the full track. It was, I must say, breathtaking; I was laughing like a little kid.

Rob and his coaches brought us in regularly to take a breather, stay hydrated, and think about what we'd just learned. These five minute breaks seemed to help us process all of the new sensations, and we approached each new session with renewed vigour (I think they enjoyed working with a group that had the cycling background we did, as we appeared to grasp each new stage with few bobbles). Interspersed with lapping at higher levels on the track were skills drills to give us a better feel for the bikes. We were told to stand and sprint at points, sometimes for several laps. I'm flattered they thought I looked capable. This was particularly challenging on the turns because of the unique forces - some gravity is replaced by centrifugal force, perhaps? - and I found my hamstrings were most taxed. I dearly wanted to coast a wee bit on occasion, but between my pride in not letting down my paceline mates and of course the relentlessness of the fixed gear there's no choice in that matter!

We were drilled to swap our hand positions between the tops and the drops, all around the track. As if this weren't enough, we then rode with one hand off entirely, first shadowing the bar, then held out to the side, and finally tucked behind our backs around the entire circuit! After this it was easy to feel practically invincible, and in an expert stroke of timing the coaches had us break for lunch before any of us found out otherwise.

We continued our lapping and skills development after the break, being coaxed to incrementally narrow our gaps down from seven metres to one or two bike lengths. It got closer at times as we were pressed to crank up the speeds ("Go ahead kids, eat all the candy in the store!") but no one set a wheel wrong and we came away breathless and totally thrilled.

Random thoughts & observations I and some others shared:

- easy enough to speed up and slow down on fixed gears, but actually stopping required an order of magnitude more concentration to learn.

- concentration was the word of the day. Time absolutely flew past.

- the coaches had a great sense of humour. After telling us we had to remain above 30km/hr if we wanted to stay put on the track, a club member asked what would happen otherwise? At this, they smugly referred to the track as self-cleaning.

- they used the term "soft touch". Until then I'd only associated it with stick & ball sports, but I can totally see the finesse that is called for here.

- as with many sports it's relatively easy to do this in a middling way. It's the attacking it and racing it where both the thrill and the challenge will lie.

- these bikes can be twitchier than a tri bike. It could be the fact they weren't fitted for this intro session. Jury's out on this…

- the first laps up on the wood are breathtaking. Wonderful. Transformative. After that, the muscles & brain learn and compensate and, while it is still a thrill, it is about quickly getting down to business. Which, happily, involves quickness. There's never a sense of slipping at any point; tires are sanded from new to ensure there's a good texture on the slick tread.

- my tri club is laced with great riders. We remained accident free, and formed the tightest paceline the instructors would allow, about 1 bike length apart.

- I need to observe how others stop smoothly!

- we were constantly encouraged to keep our chins up/look far ahead. Sage advice in many sports, even driving a car. Sometimes grocery shopping. It was interesting to experiment with also tilting the head "sideways" on the turns, to keep it more upright (perpendicular to the arena floor), to give a different perspective. No doubt more practice will help arrive at the optimum orientation.

- undoubtedly one of the biggest areas to focus on next would be the transition zones between curve and straightway - how long to maintain the steady state through the turn before "releasing" onto the straight, and vice-versa. I was able to stay fairly close to the various lines although these areas were where I experienced my biggest deviations. Practice! Woohoo - more track time!

- a little bend in the elbows goes a long way to relaxing a person. "Elbow fitness" - arm strength - is helpful as the joint itself undergoes some unique stress. Centrifugal force is likely a factor, surely we are being pushed down onto our seats & pedals with a greater force than just gravity

Post impressions: hamstrings pleasantly stiff - although that could be down to a lack of bike miles in the past month.

---

As a child I recall a theatrical documentary on the '68 Mexico Olympics. I sat there watching, astonished, the velodrome events on this giant screen, and since then have always known this day would come. It really was as thrilling as I'd imagined! I can now happily look forward to making this an occasional dalliance in my love affair with cycling.

Simon Whitfield - champion in more ways than one

2010-11-28T15:06:00.005-05:00

Had the unique pleasure of attending a Specialized LBS 2011 model launch on Friday at a local BMW dealership, and they brought in four Canadian Olympic medallists to sweeten the pot. At one point my younger son, Owen, was patiently waiting on the periphery of a gabfest Simon had going with an adult couple. There being few young fry at this shindig, I guess Owen caught Simon's eye - he quickly wrapped up his conversation and walked right over to us and introduced himself, and quickly set about interviewing my son, discovering his love of bowling and asking for some insights. Owen was on cloud nine (as was his dad, of course).
In getting a few photos, I mentioned his memorable finish at the 2009 Hy-Vee and he laughed and, as gracious as could be, obliged with a fist pump reenactment. What a great ambassador for our sport!

There for the Taking - a run route I love

2010-11-11T19:26:00.106-05:00

___________________________________________
When we settled into this region west of Toronto, it was primarily to serve one of our son's special education needs. The farthest thing on my mind was running trails and it would be over three years after moving here before I'd take up triathlon. I began with prowling around our suburban streets as most city slickers are wont to do, but I quickly turned restless as my mileage demands increased. This entailed a lot of sideways glances down pathways and park lanes, but there was not much reprieve from traffic until I ventured into a provincial park only four kms from where we live.

What follows is a photo essay of one of the myriad runs possible there. I shot the pics while I ran, to see about giving a sense of movement, just to see how it came out...

Three minutes of gentle, street-side jogging will get one to the "trailhead"

A look left reveals the valley cut by Bronte Creek...
The crushed limestone path briefly dwindles into a more rugged single-track trail
At one point it leads downhill, one of the few spots you need to watch your footing on very carefully.

Within perhaps 100m it levels off again, and the surface is a cushy stretch of ultra padded packed dirt. 1km

What goes down must come up - a mirror of the previous slope takes us back up to "poolside" elevation

Trouble in paradise: the municipality has decided the quaintness must go, so sewers and paving it is for the outliers. No matter, this will continue for only another few moments...

The road veers right, we bear left and pick up the resumption of what has evolved into a formal MUP (Multi-Use Path), which now runs for more than another km behind a school and more homes. Keep an eye out for dogs & their owners seemingly wanting to start a game of jump rope with you & their leash.

Now it gets interesting. At the verge of civilization, where the park takes over, the march of progress stumbles at the end of the MUP, where the final new curbs and paving delineate the beginning of the real meat-and-potatoes stage of the run.
It's either turn left now or keep running straight into the lake.

The previous left turn at Albuquerque was near 3kms into the run. After passing through a very uninspiring service vehicle yard on this perimeter of the park, one winds up on the compressed gravel ring road loop used only by park vehicles. A few minutes on this brings us to a significant bend in the road...... the rounding of which reveals a small side path. This should be taken. The road less travelled and all that...

We are now in the Very Good Place. 4km in. Forest canopy, quiet, fewer yappy dogs, soft padded trail underfoot, no traffic lights, the chipmunks yield our right of way... it's delightful. Just don't veer too far to the left or it's lights out.

At the clearing ahead is a lookout platform...

View from the lookout platform. The darkness of the creek can be seen down below. Heart rate's up, though, no time to dilly-dally...

Every glance to the side provides a nice view of the valley...

Beautiful day for a run. But don't stop to watch the wheels go 'round...

Just ahead, a clearing. Approaching 5kms.

It may be tempting to veer left on the smaller path, but twisted ankles lurk behind every foot fall. It's best to head straight for the cornfield.

Cornfield?! This far into suburbia? Believe it. Hang a sharp left just before you strike cobs.This is the Five K Kurve... halfway along this arc is exactly five kms from the start. A u-turn here gives a nice pre-work morning run. But, this being the weekend...

... we carry on.

A few small rolling segments add some variation to the route...
About 5.5km along, another 90 deg. right turn...

Looking to the right, a hay bale storage building...

A sharp left-hander takes one behind the "Maple Toffee House", a converted Victorian farm house used as a museum. In the backyard in March, staff dressed in period clothing roll heated maple syrup around Popsicle sticks over snow, creating heavenly, albeit jaw-binding, treats for visitors...

A rightward glance finds some of the museum's outbuildings and Norman Rockwell's idle thresher...

Now approaching the most distant point on the circuit, as we embark on an enclosed 1km loop...

The sacred and profane: just over that berm in the distance is the Queen Elizabeth Way ('way?), all eight lanes of it...

... all thunder, all the time. (traffic camera image; luckily we don't see this)
In a few hundred metres we can put it all behind us again.

A squirrel's eye view of the trail. Luckily, it is largely smooth, no worries about twisted ankles through here.

Passing lane, handy for sprinting by trios of walkers bogged down by their Fuelbelts and labradors.

Beyond the slope is a sheer drop; best to watch one's footing through here.

The 1km loop being completed, you are spit back out to begin the return leg. But wait... a sign ahead points to more options...Hang a sharp right at the sign for some invigorating hill workouts.

A steep path to the left is masked by leaves, so stairs it is. This is where we begin the descent to creek level.

Stop at the bottom of this first flight, and turn around to admire the depths you're sinking to...

Enough staring. Turn back around and keep going down the slope.With the right mix of weather & timing, you may be graced with some "god rays", easily worth 10 secs/km.
Another staircase brings one down further (seen on the right, from creek level) The arrow shows an alternative slope when the time comes to return. For now, though, we head toward the creek...Hang a right at the fork ("you never go wrong when you go right") and right again to enter the longest loop available. Suddenly the sound changes underfoot, and there's a spring in your step...The boardwalk indicates we can't get much lower than this. Luckily traction's not bad, at least on dry days...
After the boardwalk ends, we continue along what, in MTB parlance, is referred to as single track...This eventually widens out at a 't' intersection. Hang a right to get to the water's edge...hmmmmm... come to think of it, what was that plant I pushed out of the way back there??

If you had misplaced a salmon-choked creek, your search is over...

Back into the forest...
A staircase is to the right; we can bypass this Rocky Route by taking a ramp a bit further on
about 40% of the way up would be the horizon line
As you gasp for breath, tilt the head back and admire the foliage

Another lookout looms in the distance Judging by the dodgy railing in the centre of the pic, we may have stumbled upon a veritable Lovers' Leap. How quaint.

Already rising high up from the creek
Before the final ascent to "ground level" we pass the "Grizzly Tree"
Local legend has it that a group of skinny-dipping college students were caught with their pants down by a passing grizzly high on salmon. Authorities thought the massacre was foul play, given the largest wildlife found in this region was typically overfed raccoons. Yet this tree stripped bare of bark stands as a testimony to one eye witness account from that night: "...[it was] like some huge furry creature running along the trail... I knew it wasn't a runner because it didn't have a heart rate monitor..."
If the little hairs on the back of your neck begin to rise, use this opportunity to squeeze in some intervals up the remaining slope, trying to not imagine a grizzly running after you, reminding yourself that the panting you hear is really your own hyperventilation...

If you stumble or fall or anything Darwinian like that get the hell up fast because... theremaybeagrizzlychasingyou! Ha. Made ya look. (If you come upon any hikers or dog walkers who inquire about having heard a little girl's scream, tell them that yes, you heard it too and are running to the park ranger's office to report it.)

Emerging from the forested creek loop is signalled by a brilliant sumac bush in full autumn fire, situated at a 't' intersection... Turning right will start the journey home...
The Five K Kurve again. Depending on what kind of day it's been - and how well breakfast went down - we're either just over 20 minutes or just under 30 from home!The sun has risen more fully now, bringing everything into greater relief...The final forested leg begins :(

Signs of civilization! A couple of runners round the bend of the five kilometre "ring road" during one of many fundraising runs hosted by the park... The arrow indicates an abandoned silo. The runners will turn left here to continue raising funds, while we veer right on the journey to pancakes and espresso.

On longer runs it's a treat being able to stop at one of the washrooms encircling the park, just steps off the road, for a quick splash-n-dash Verdict: good flow, cool but not cold, and neutral-tasting. A delightful pit stop. Easy to overdo it, especially compared to drinking from a cup at an aid station.

To avoid the madding crowds on this day: a handy Plan B escape route to the border of the park:
This spits us out on the final stretch of ring road heading into the maintenance yard, the gateway to this whole shebang...The hydro towers in the distance confirm the party is nearly over...

With less than three km. to go we're on the last stretch of paved MUP behind houses and the school, still tracking the edge of the ravine to the creek...One last short but sweet slope about 1km. from home. Must keep all but the most desperate of bodily sounds in check here, as you never know who is just on the other side of the fences. Just sayin'...

An access path between houses on the left will bring us back onto the city streets, minutes from the end. By now, highway sounds from the north end of this route - the four lane Dundas Speedway, er, Street, seen on the bridge over the creek to the right - are loud enough to mask most of those pent up bodily sounds.

Suddenly that's it. We covered about 14½ kms/9 miles. Had we run a fund-raising bandit lap of the ring road: another 5km - not a bad way to start the day! I thank my lucky stars every time I run this, knowing what we have to endure in other times and places just to get our mileage in.

Road2Hope Half Marathon

2010-11-07T15:04:00.013-05:00

do not press. This is just a logo, for decorative purposes only...

01:38:26 - 15th out of 92 AG, 158/1359 OA

Today was a great finish to a great season, at least to this codger's eyes. Wound up nine seconds quicker than my calculations in the McMillan Running Calculator!

A chilly morning, ~5 deg. C, and I was dressed fairly well for it but will trust the system next year to pack extra warmup clothes and use their bag transfer system back to the finish line at Confederation Park. There was shivering, but at least we had the local school gymnasium for warmth, aided in no small way by the few thousand bodies milling within.
Note to self: must get the name of the half-marathoner who sang our national anthem beforehand. If that set of pipes held up for his run, he was destined for a PR.

Lessons learned: trust the instincts to replace my shoes sooner... I was stretching a glide on mileage, telling myself I'd kick off the off-season with a new pair, and I think fresher cushioning would have helped the paws today, given that my only physical complaint afterwards was sore soles.
I also clearly spoiled myself with running on trails to the extent I did; I think Bronte Creek's pathways didn't toughen me up sufficiently for the solid impacts of pavement and concrete; a full marathon distance today would have degenerated into blisters and hobbling.

I was chuffed to pass the 10k mark in the 43 min. range, faster than my standalone 10k time from the Moon in June race. It was cool running down the escarpment's grade on the closed off Red Hill Valley Parkway. This no doubt accounted for the lion's share of the four minute edge I tallied over my intended pace at the 12k mark (and perhaps the downhill impacts further mashed my soles!) Nevertheless, I enjoyed the free speed and could only dream of tearing down there, traffic-free, on my bike. Heck, even my Corolla would be a delight if it could slice through apexes without shoulder checks and signals.

Terrific volunteers were hawking their provisions like Marrakech market vendors. I only wished I was more dehydrated so I could take them up on their offers. While I ended up gargling down a couple of eLoad drinks around the 15k mark, that was it, per my training regimen of keeping it light & simple.

Big turnout, decent weather - for the time of year it was, friendly folks, what could be better? Ah yes, seeing a friend qualify for Boston! Kudos to you, Campbell. Next time, just don't cut it quite so close, as I don't think my heart can take much more of that!

UPDATE: Tuesday 5:20am - Ha! Forget the feet, they're fine enough; what I've really noticed is some late-onset stiffness/tenderness in my quads! Old ladies ask if they can help me walking down stairs at the college. I haven't felt this worn out in memory (and heaven knows I have a lot to remember). Not to worry, this tells me I really hustled and left nothing behind. Next time, though, I may dial down the Juggernaut setting on my downhill segments!

Bike Lanes + Rumble Strips...

2010-11-03T20:23:00.005-04:00

... a possible marriage made in heaven? The thinking I've got behind this is that if we can lend a "tooth" (better yet, "fang") to our lanes where they are most exposed, like long bridge merges, we will rattle some drivers to alertness. More to come on this...

Muskoka - my 1st HIM (& the reasons why Crowie edged me out for the win)

2010-09-28T14:09:00.077-04:00

It's not every time a person gets to compete in their first half iron distance triathlon against the current world champion, so I was relishing a chance to duke it out with Craig Alexander (AKA Crowie) in Subaru's Ironman 70.3 Muskoka.

Let's skip the suspense: although I kept him honest, the two-time defending champ had the upper hand on me all day, squeaking under my time by nearly two hours when it was all said and done. Fine, he beat me fair and square. And although we share so much in common (wears bright shoes, squints in the sun, racing at the same venue) there are practically as many differences, some of which were extenuating circumstances that gave him the upper hand from the get go. For instance:

- He almost certainly slept better than me. I recall waking up in the dark Sunday morning, quite wide-eyed and refreshed, thinking to myself I must be just ahead of the alarm, and I began excitedly anticipating the day like a little kid on December 25th. Then I glanced at the clock - 12:35 a.m. It took me hours to drift back to sleep, and the timid bleeping of my Timex failed to rouse me when it mattered most; I slept for another hour before stirring.
Craig, on the other hand, likely woke up to a programmed travel alarm featuring a choir of exotic finches tuned to a pitch pipe. His clothing was no doubt laid out on rose petals on the other, unused king-sized bed in the Deerhurst - the event's host resort, a mere elevator's descent from the swim start.
It's no stretch to imagine he was likely downing a freshly-squeezed OJ in one of the Deerhurst's myriad in-house restaurants while I was prancing around on one foot tugging my Smart Wool socks over my high-instep arches as I tried to waken my somnolent adolescent sons, at the same time looking for the half-finished banana I'd only moments ago set down somewhere either in the kitchen, the living room, the front door, the bathroom, the balcony, or one of my Sidis so I wouldn't forget it.

- While we feverishly piled into our Corolla and sped past the entrance of the event to the parking zone so we could catch a shuttle to transition (actually a pretty good system, all logistics considered) I can picture Crowie watching his crew pump up his tires, tossing bons mots to the press in his engaging Aussie accent.

- The threat of rain was very real; weather radar showed scattered showers throughout the region, so I set up all of my transition supplies inside my long narrow plastic wetsuit bag. And by set up I mean tossed - I had no choice, being one of the final people to leave T1 before it was closed. Meanwhile, Crowie was being introduced over the PA system 400m away at the swim start. It appears he and his elite cohorts drew the initial start wave. Fine, I thought, I could spot him that. Even though I'm in the final wave, and everyone ahead will have peed in the lake, and, by the end of the day also drunk all the Gatorade, and squeezed all the gels, I'll spot him that because he's a champion. When it was all said and done my success would be that much sweeter. I'd be the underdog, the sleeper. Besides, I still hadn't yet wrestled into my wetsuit so I wasn't ready.
Question for other triathletes: What's your experience with wet carbon fibre braking? Are Swiss Stop Yellows sufficient (only cork pads are bad?) or do you pack your training clinchers for a last minute swap on threatening mornings? Those of you who have two sets of deep profile race wheels for just such an occasion don't even bother answering, because I hate you.

- All along I was determined to keep everything as simple as possible. My long training was with just Gatorade and gels for hydration and calories, my data was simply a Timex with chrono function, and I stashed the heart rate monitor months ago, once I had a sense for my RPE. My strides' and strokes' cadences were consistent and I just wanted to focus on self-awareness for this event. Besides, I knew my ADD would cause my head to explode if I tried to fancy things up too much. As if an omen to vindicate my approach, I happened upon a friend of mine, Jackie (Kona-bound this fall) who was starting in the wave ahead of me. She was resigned to a last minute battery failure in her Garmin, and displayed the sang froid of a champion, declaring she practically relished the thought of racing now with no details to distract from the experience of the event itself. (She ended up winning her AG)

- At this point the horn sounded and a cheer rose up from the crowd further down the pathway out of sight. That meant Crowie was gone and we'd not even yet seen one another. Not so much as a G'day, mate!

SWIM: 1.9 km - 40:09, 2:01/100m, 30/56 AG, 482/863 OA
The lake was calm, water temp quite ideal, a very good start on the day.
There was a confidence in knowing I had followed my plan in training, still, this being my longest race swim to date, the distances between buoys really got my attention. As I was standing on the beach wondering how it would look to climb out of my wetsuit and join my family on the other side of the fence, our horn blared and my day began in earnest. I left as one of the last half dozen or so entrants in the entire event,
determined at all costs to avoid the pummelling I'd endured in my Olympic in July. My focus was long, calm strokes, perhaps trying out some drafting on any laggards' feet I might come upon. What transpired surprised me. Within 50m I had unintentionally caught up to the pack and was now sluicing my way through said laggards. To my great relief most everyone seemed to want to make it through this event unscathed, though after the first 90* right hand turn (we were covering a large, clock-wise rectangle) I spent a few hundred metres with another swimmer who seemed convinced our destination was about one degree on the far side of me. We slowly veered together at least 10 times, like a couple of aquatic drunkards trying to squeeze through an imaginary doorway after closing time.
For the remainder of the swim I continually held back on my feeble kicking so I wouldn't blow up, and my arm pull was deliberately a bit short, not fully back to the "thumb on the thigh" exit it could be... will save that for next year, now knowing how this level of exertion feels. Passing many green- and blue-capped swimmers gave me hope that my year of concerted swim practice would keep me off the bottom of the time sheets. The final 1,000m was uneventful, at least until I approached the temporary staircase we were to exit by. Perhaps in my late arrival I missed the RD's announcement to not veer too far right, to avoid the silty mud. I stepped right in it and sank a half foot or so. What a sensual experience that was. One of the strapping young volunteers hauling swimmers up chuckled and suggested I may want to take a different route next time. Duly noted. I was just happy to be greeted by a smiling human after this length of swim; this must be how the Apollo astronauts felt when bobbing around at sea and the frogmen lifted their hatch... except they were drier and much more famous.

I glanced at my watch while unzipping, it read fully 5 minutes faster than my outside hopes. Short course? Perhaps, but I'll take it! It certainly gave me a thrill deep inside; I was harbouring a distant hope I could break six hours on this course in my baptism to longer, tougher races. Knowing it's not appropriate to set time goals for new distances, I tried my best to keep it a secret from myself.

The wetsuit stripping went smoothly. Nothing quasi-erotic there, as my three-way comprised a lady who reminded my of my grade school principle and her adolescent - albeit friendly - son. We were done in no time. Thank heavens I didn't cramp up going turtle on them; I thanked them profusely, and began gingerly running barefoot up the steep ~400m of pavement to T1. (for those of you unfamiliar with the metric system, barefoot up the steep ~400m of pavement is roughly the distance of Tallahassee, Florida to Hudson's Bay, Ontario)
Note to self: leave an old pair of runners inside strip zone. The soles of my feet were the only real tenderness in the days following.

Knowing Mr. Alexander was wearing a blackish wetsuit didn't help me judge my progress against him. The crafty devil! So he wants to blend in, does he?! No worries, I still had a bunch of Muskoka hills ahead to claw back his advantage.

Or so I thought... upon reaching the transition zone it was clear there was downright favouritism at play: The elites didn't have to run as far as us!

These world class, full-time athletes were given a break over the unwashed masses of struggling AGers. By the time I got to my rack I had covered nearly 90m more!

T1: 07:48 - yes, Seven minutes, forty eight seconds.
Once one factors in the grade of climb, the tender bare feet vs. pavement, and the distance it may seem more reasonable. Oh yes, and hurriedly jamming everything inside the plastic wetsuit bag meant that, although I had dry socks and bike shoes to put on, rummaging around for what I needed was like unpacking a giant sausage. Lesson learned: remember to still grab the proper plastic bags when rushing out the door an hour late.

BIKE: 94 km - 03:02:56 - 30.8 kph/19.14 mph, 19/56 AG, 262/863 OA
I seemed to be passing people handily up the first hill which, ominously, began right where we clipped in. A reality check found that yes, I was pedalling at the RPE I had trained for, and made an executive decision on the spot - the dictum to not be sucked in to others' paces works both ways: if they're slower than me, time to drop them!

My bike felt great. I'd rotated my tubular tires between front and back, at my LBS's suggestion, and this was my first gluing job so, even though I got their blessings on my workmanship beforehand and I fit in a test ride before leaving home, I was still happy to get up to speed and pat myself on the back for a job well done. (I hatched a wonderful, expedient solution to prepping old carbon rims for new glue if anyone's interested - PM me for details)
The course was terrific, and the huge outcrops of rock from this cusp of the Canadian Shield made the four additional kilometres seem like a bonus. Happily, the surface was, at worst, reasonable; there were none of the annoying pavement splits (those that slice across the road like a knife into bread dough that ruin so much of the rides in other regions. You know the ones - they often occur in rhythmic clusters, pounding one's forearms on their rests, driving up through the shoulders and straight into that spot in the brain that triggers our desire to screw what we're doing and sit down with a brewski to watch old re-runs.) The pavement from Dwight to Baysville was absolutely splendid, being repaved for this past summer's G8 summit. I enjoyed all the benefits of travelling that route the world leaders did, except I got more fresh air than if I were in a chauffeur-driven limo. Suckers. I felt good enough too by this point I'm sure if they were on bikes I would have absolutely handed them their keisters (though if you've ever caught a glimpse of Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi's thighs you'd agree he could lay down a strip of hurt on most age groupers out there)
Some simple pleasures:
1) in retrospect I found the basic hydration (Gatorade) and nutrition (Powergels) I'd trained with served me well. (Plus a few Endurolytes popped in the a.m. prior to dashing out the door; with a few faint hope extras - ultimately unused - tucked into my pocket for the bike & run.)
2) No cramps, no tightness, no GI issues. Note to self: maybe push a tad harder next time... sounds like you were babying yourself!
3) That feeling of looking over your shoulder before moving out to pass a slower cyclist, and seeing absolutely no one.
4) The locals were uniformly great. All generations were camped out at the ends of their driveways cheering us on and ringing cowbells. Hard to not feel you were leading a major stage race in Yurp. Drivers, too, swung far out when they passed, which wasn't often; the organizers' warning signs posted a few weeks before perhaps gave everyone fair warning to prepare their day accordingly.

Small bike ride glitches:
- about halfway along the misty fog turned into a fairly gentle rainfall; the ambient temp was mild enough (10* C, 50* F) to make it mostly refreshing. No sharp turns on this stretch meant I now still don't know how the brakes would perform in the rain! Good problem to have, I know.
- messed up one front downshift, overexcited, dropping the chain off the small ring but I got it back on in short order; the hill's pitch was shallow enough that I was able to mount heading upwards, not looping down & back up.
- the Profile Design RM1 butt rockets came loose again, in spite of Loc-Tite. Note to self: look for a different, more robust product. It didn't eject anything, but the distraction of risk was unpleasant. While the James Bond Effect can't be discounted, I would have been distressed if my spare tire and a slaking's-worth of Gatorade were ejected before I needed them, The design of the holders is admirably spare - I like elegant mechanical design - but these clearly don't take into account the powerful jostling forces that get amplified when the two bottles are loaded down with liquids and spare bits. Not to mention the sizeable shock my considerable gluteous maximii must impart on every tar strip we crest together.
- learned the hard way to not shove the Gatorade bottle I rec'd at the handup quite so lustily into the Aerodrink opening - doing so popped the rubber baffle free, and it floated and bobbed near the opening for the rest of the ride, feebly allowing small waves of drink to breach the top of the bottle over bumps, covering me in a tasty shellac.
- I was a bit beyond the limits of my gearing - spun out in top gear several times while at least three climbs were out-of-the-seat granny gear mashfests, two of them intense enough I wondered if I'd need to unclip (as some others had). Question for other triathletes: right now I'm on the stock 50-34/12-25 setup. Would you opt for an 11-26 cassette (SRAM only?) to widen the range? If I try to swap out the chainrings I'd be restricted to increasing both in size - 53-39 - which would of course help my top speed but mess with my climbs...

It was great rolling into transition knowing I met my fundamental goal: deliver the legs to the run. Running downhill to the racks in cleats on the wet road demanded my utmost attention, and although I was passed by a few spritely sorts I took solace in just remaining upright.

T2: 02:30
I was excited to see my watch under 4 hours, so my outside goal of sub-six (which I was still trying to suppress!) remained in the cards. Rummaging back through the huge plastic sausage casing - which I'm almost certain Crowie didn't need to contend with - I found my dry runners and spare socks (quickly discarded, I was in wool).

RUN: 02:00:48 - 05:44/km, 33/56, 422/863 OA
On leaving T2 I came upon none other than Mirinda Carfrae, running, of course, in the other direction - 12 minutes ahead of the next nearest woman - a few hundred metres from the finish line. I almost blurted out, "Have you seen Craig?" but thought better of it, when I considered the look on her face. It was as though she was trying to remember where she'd put her keys, so I prudently left her to her memories.
The hills were immediate and significant, but I was prepared for this and knew right away I wasn't going to eat the whole turkey in one mouthful. More than 300m. of climbing was ahead of me, and while I was almost certain Crowie had it all in hand I soldiered on. I kept the cadence up around 90 and remembered by 1k to synch my watch to see about some pacing. The first few kms. were over half a minute/km faster than planned, so I reined it in as best I could. It brought to mind that wonderful closing sequence in the The Incredibles movie, when Dash tries to run in a school meet without giving away his super powers. It was a tug of war between running at his potential and pacing himself. Not unlike what we do at triathlons...
images copyright Walt Disney/Pixar

Once we left Hwy 60 and entered the residential district my pacing was taken care of for me by the hills that rose in plateaus right up to the turnaround. It was very humbling but not unexpected. Still, a four minute cushion I'd built up initially wasn't wearing away too quickly so I kept striding along with hope and optimism. Received a boost about 7 kms in when we passed a sweet little girl all decked out in pink shaking the daylights out of some streamers, singing about our greatness, cheerleading us on. It was very unexpected and I instinctively reviewed my posture to do her efforts justice. Once one makes the turnaround and heads down the toward the highway again, there is a remaining challenge: The Fairy Vista Trail. It's a local MUP but, really, outside of moose or 4x4s with bumper mounted winches (on the 4x4s, not the moose) I can't imagine people out casually strolling on this paved roller coaster. I felt like a cartoon trying to descend some of the grades at a run, my feet pedalling madly to stay under me. I'd love to have seen how the pros dealt with these changes in terrain. The final hills were successful - though not pretty - in that I managed to "run" them all. I couldn't be certain where I'd stack up against Mr. Alexander but I'd be damned if I threw it away walking when I could've kept running!

TOTAL: 05:54:10 - 27/56 AG, 355/863 OA

This event was a high point for me, no question. It was such a pleasure to train for and compete in that, ironically, I'm not as fazed at the prospect of trying something longer - I guess that's a full IM! - as when I'd completed my shorter events. Time will tell...

And speaking of time, it turns out Crowie finished quite a bit higher up the order than me. So high, in fact, that he won the whole kit and kaboodle.
Well, good for him, he needs the dough anyway; after all, I'm the guy holding down a steady job.
But next year you can bet he'll know he's got a target on his back. I might practise keeping my bike shoes clipped in, then we'll see that two hour gap shrink down to nothing.

POST EVENT: With the generous help of many family members, friends, my employer & co-workers, I was able to raise over $2,500 towards the SickKids Foundation, this event's designated charity that supports Toronto's Hospital for Sick Children. True to the Type-A nature of our sport even this became a contest, so I still wound up on stage at the end of the event, receiving a pair of shoes for fourth-highest tally from event sponsors, Merrell! Alas, the third place finisher received an autographed photo taken with... Craig Alexander. It's just as well it was won by someone else, as I expect he'd had enough of me by then.

Lake Belwood Sprint - tris are hard work!

2010-08-11T20:27:00.003-04:00

1k swim, 30k bike, 7k run

A PR from last year's first tri experience: nearly two minutes faster, finishing in 01:51:33. 7/31 AG, 117/399 OA.

SWIM - 00:22:13, 2:15/100m, 16/31 AG, 233/399 OA
Woo-hoo! My swim was 2 seconds faster. I have spent more time than this taking a bite of toast. I'd like to believe the buoys this year were further apart than last, but I think it just points to how difficult shaving quality time off swims is. I think a tightness in the chest came not from the onset of a cardiac event so much as a carelessly pulled up wetsuit. Note to self: review with Paula @ Foot Tools the tricks of getting the middle section of the torso hucked up high enough to maximize freedom of movement.

T1 - 00:02:09
Happy to report the wheels remained on the bus, and I was ~ 30 secs. faster than last year. I attribute this in part to not dawdling to drink while stationary. My pre-race hydration set me up well and I knew for a relatively short race like this the Aerodrink would suffice to get me well into the run. If further speeding up T1 entails running in bare feet, flying like a squirrel onto the bike and jamming my toes into shoes already mounted on the pedals, I think I'll stick to the 2 minute range. Then again, if the podium beckons, who knows how much indignity I'd be willing to subject myself to...

BIKE - 00:54:00, 33.2 kms/hr, 6/31 AG, 99/399 OA
Had a pretty clean and strong run at it, passing a whack of folks, and glad to report rampant consideration from pretty much everyone. Not as crowded as the Guelph Lake Olympic course. Rolling hills helped break apart clots, and I was able to practice restraint when one of the few who passed me was in my AG. The pace he had was either a sign of Awesomeness or Misjudgement; I chose to let him go knowing he'd come back to me if it was meant to be (wait a minute... that doesn't sound right) Sure enough, with about three kms to go he'd faded enough for me to reel him in, my patience rewarded. This was a different route than last year, a bit hillier perhaps, but not enough to justify my being > two minutes slower. Note to Self: take Joe Friel's advice to racers over 50: ramp up the weight regime to forestall muscle loss. I just simply need stronger thumpers. Not as exciting as a new carbon frame and lighter groupset, but certainly at this point the legs are where the most gains stand to spring from.

T2 - 00:01:04
again, nothing went awry, avoided calamities, skipped the drink pause knowing my electrolyte balance had to be reasonable, and managed another PR through here, 24 secs. faster than last year.

RUN - 00:31:30, 04:30/km, 4/31 AG, 82/399 OA
This is where the sign overhead would read: Don't forget, triathlons are hard. Thank heavens I'd done the number of bricks I had with my club so that the rude shock of fatigue didn't stop me cold. Any arrogance in thinking "I'd just finished an Olympic length event a few weeks ago so this should be a breeze" evaporated as I jogged past the timing gate and turned on to the long straightaway start of the run across the Shand Dam. I glanced around; the sofa and ottoman I so desperately craved were nowhere to be seen. The run itself went well enough for me to better my time by nearly two minutes, no mean feat when the first km or so (also the last, being an out-and-back course) was now a fresh coating of loose gravel that made it feel like running on sand.

I was impressed by the variety of club members I recognized on the run; many of them were multi-time iron-distance competitors and yet they were at this relatively small event, putting it on the line of a relatively short race. Lesson learned: Greg Lemond nailed it with his quote about his bike racing career: "It doesn't get any easier, you just go faster".

This was my little epiphany. We are all out there putting in the mileage as quickly as possible, and it will never get any easier - we'll just (hopefully!) go faster...

Guelph Lake 1 - My 1st Olympic tri

2010-07-26T19:50:00.007-04:00

I knew before that Sunday morning that I am a naive person; until 8:30am I always assumed it was just to an ordinary extent. We were to seed ourselves for anticipated swim times and select a corresponding coloured cap. In spite of my club's long, intensive swim sessions, and my diligent winter weekday mornings of drills and laps I kept my ego in check and opted for a purple cap: 29-31 minutes to complete the 1500m.

Milling on the beach at about 8:15 I chanced upon another club member, Monique, and as we chatted I hardly noticed the horde steadily gathering around us. When the PA system announced "one minute" and folks began cheering we broke off our tete-a-tete and I turned to face the lake. To my horror not only was I dead centre in a throng of 622 entrants on this small beach, but my purple capped mates were sprinkled everywhere; I'm sure to an airplane flying overhead our mob resembled a backpack of M&Ms dumped at the water's edge.

I tried to squeeze through the greens, blues, yellows, pinks, reds and whites to reach a clutch of purples, as if this would gain me some sort of security. Instead, it appears my movements incited those around me to surge forward. As if on cue the PA declared "10 seconds..." A hot pang of dread stabbed my core as it dawned on me this will not be the genteel tea party I imagined a seeded start to be, and clearly there was to be no going back.

Then the horn blared.

They say Canadians are polite to a fault. That fault was breached when we waded deep enough for the water to strike our crotches. The swim began in earnest, and by swim I mean the anti-government riot I was somehow swept up in when in fact I was just a tourist strolling through the market on my way to buy a baguette. Above and below the waterline was a flurry of hands, arms, feet, thighs, glimpses of caps (none of them purple), and the occasional buttock past the face. My months of dogged lengths, honing my form under watchful coaches' eyes, were washed downstream as I dog-paddled, stacked and layered with countless others like a plate of flailing deli meats.

I was surprised to find people were even yelling at one another. At first it sounded like perhaps a couple was heatedly discussing the weather, the woman saying something about the "sun on the beach" but as my right ear resurfaced after another stroke I only heard the man hollering back, I think, something about "duck!" I was very confused until the woman then repeated herself, this time yelling at the top of her lungs and it was then clear their swim experience was unfolding quite similarly to mine. The oaths and complaints increased as our aquatic mosh pit fitfully orbited the first buoy and it would have been laughable to hear the arguments between out of breath people if I weren't so out of breath myself.

It was so tempting to see the wide open water beckoning from further out of our circuit where seagulls were bobbing in the waves; I recall trying to half-heartedly swing wide but it would have entailed crossing over perhaps ten lanes of frustrated triathletes and after a few diagonal overlapped strokes and kicks I reverted back to my slot in the melee. Fortunately by the time we started our second lap it was possible to find some elbow room, catch one's breath and begin enjoying at least a partial bilateral rhythm. The final 500m or so were fairly tame, and I staggered onto shore several minutes shy of my goal time but much wiser for the experience. Lesson Learned: a chaotic swim that includes treading water, while much more interesting than pool laps, uses up far more energy to get from Point A to Point B.
Swim: 34:30 - 32/38 AG

T1: Thanks to the advice of Joe from Neworld Runners I took a moment after the timing mat to stop at the foot of the grassy hill up to the racks to remove my wetsuit early so I could make the long and warm run as easy as possible. Thanks, Joe.

Bike: A very sobering affair, chock full of rollers and shorter steeper hills, windy (gusts to 40kms/hr, 25mph) and 4-5 abreast at times. Note to Self: don't give up on the swim training - you must come out of the water above the 10th percentile if you want to avoid traffic like this! It was a nice, challenging out-and-back course all around. And it humbled me: I'd always fancied myself to be a cyclist first and foremost, but this event put me in my place (1:13:30 - 12/38 AG, to be exact)

T2: Smooth and uneventful. I expect it will get messier as I try get faster; for now I am going for smooth and de-stressed.

Run: Very satisfying, given I had no prior experience with this length and only one standalone 10k behind me. It was hot and peppered with small hills but I paced myself well enough to finish strong (strong being a relative word for me!) and within ~ 2:30 of my standalone time. Note to Self: practice, somehow, taking drinks at Aid Stations. Most handoffs worked well enough, but I made a mistake at one, my first, by zeroing in on a young, left-handed helper - hardly ten years old - set up as the lead thirst-quencher. He was grasping the cup entirely in a back-handed side-arm grip. This meant my desperate grab at the drink only resulted in slapping the back of his hand, sending the Gatorade flying across the course and no doubt traumatizing the youngster. Now I not only had thirst but guilt as well. Luckily the Endurolytes I'd taken beforehand must have helped as I only felt slight twinges in my quads in the final two kms. I'm hoping this was a sign I was pushing myself as much as possible without blowing up!
Run: 46:18 - 9/38 AG

Total Time: 02:40:12 - 16/38 AG, 208/625 OA

This event, as is typical of the Subaru series, appeared to be well-organzied, staffed by friendly volunteers and I am looking forward very much to doing this again next year, starting off on a better foot, said foot being further back and to the outside on the swim start!

The 19th Annual Moon in June road race

2010-06-06T21:40:00.005-04:00

Last night (9:00pm) I competed in my first 10k. In a nutshell, it went all my way, though if I could script it I would change the final 500m into the chute.

Summary: 1337 entries spread across 3 principle classes: 5k walk, 5k run, 10k run. On top of those events, there was undisclosed number of folks on the course in a 1k "fun run", some of whom comprised an entire Little League team of nine-year-olds. It appeared fun for them, especially the first 800m or so. I will get to them in a minute.

Results: 22/360 OA, 1/16 in AG! Gun time was 44:18

The event was well-orchestrated and a great atmosphere was stirred up by the good weather, big crowds, blaring music, and city hall fountain spilling over with bottles of water & Gatorade. Our wave went off on time, and outside of weaving past some poorly self-seeded sluggards in the first few minutes I had a great time testing my efforts at running by feel alone.

All went well from there until the final stretch, within earshot of the P.A. system blaring from the finish line. I had turned up the wick as much as my knees, lungs, and legs would allow, and just as I launched my way past the aforementioned Little Leaguers jogging on their 1k fun run, their coach hollered, "Let 'er rip, guys!" The tykes took off like they were told there was a swimming pool filled with ice cream just up ahead. I was swarmed by little humans suddenly running as fast as me but with more unpredictable trajectories. Added to that, as if on cue, their Little League motors ran out of gas a few hundred metres from the line, so we adults were faced with side-stepping them as they peeled off for hugs and premature Freezies.

It was a challenge, and laughable all the same - this grey-haired dreamer striving for a shiny new, irrelevant Personal Best time all the while trying to keep from stepping on a swirling, screaming cloud of yellow garden gnomes. Bottom line is I think everyone had a blast and none of us tripped over the other.

The predicted rain sportingly held off until near the end of the awards ceremony - in which I won a free gait analysis & pair of shoes from a local orthotist - and I happily made it home before 11:30pm to have a proper dinner. (Amazing how much it throws off pre-race nutrition when one's event starts some 12 hours later than it normally might!) I maintain the reason I won is not because there weren't enough fit, talented competitors, but because many of them likely succumbed to the temptations of a regular supper before the event...

Surviving Bad Design - Part One

2010-05-11T08:46:00.010-04:00

It's hard to imagine safer, more efficient cycling will ever occur until we understand the limitations that humans' shortcomings impose on us. And one only need look to the world of design for evidence that thought processes are, in fact, a crap shoot for homo sapiens.

For instance, how can I expect to be safe when the person who created this door handle is presumably driving an automobile on public roads to his/her design incubator every day? With presumably hours, if not days, to get it right, this person - or is it a committee? - has offended not just my sense of aesthetics but also my tender fleshy palms. In a most ironic of insults heaped onto injury this is the outside door of a public, post-secondary institution that teaches design.

It's a handle, its only purpose is to be pulled, and yet its sharp corners gouge into my skin when pulled.

Not only this, but the inner door handles are round and smooth, as if to taunt survivors with You have survived the first threshold. Enter ye these portals to learn to inflict the same upon others.
Am I missing something? Given my life-long attempts at passing through doorways (most of them successful) I think not. If people like these can hurt me using their pencil - something they presumably went to school to learn to use in pursuit of their career - what's stopping them from eradicating me with their vehicle?

It doesn't just end with the talent-free choices behind this abomination's design ; an architect presumably had to request these actually be paid for and installed, then the building committee needed to say, Yes, the idea of using these sounds swell. Sure, swell for people wearing hockey gloves, while the rest of us are obliged to grasp the painful truth of the shortage of good judgement exhibited at not one, but numerous points along this journey. And all of these people - designer, architect, committee, are out on the roads, coming upon my sorry butt in its saddle, making judgements along the lines of, Yes, he's got enough room between the curb and my mirror. Yes, I can pass him and then turn right without cutting him off. Yes, he's coming slowly enough that I can turn left before he's too close.

If I stop and think about this any longer, I'll be too spooked to ever ride again.

2010-03-10T15:22:00.004-05:00

My Countdown Countdown

Venturing into the world of longer course efforts...

People, can't we all just get along?!

2009-12-09T21:26:00.012-05:00

Ripples in the calm of Lake Routine

Regularly trapped as I am in the space/time continuum formed by cyclists and motorists, I feel well qualified to declare some brutal truths:

1) As a cyclist, I dislike it when automobiles approach and pass me.
2) When I'm driving I dislike having to approach and pass cyclists.

There. I said it. I named the elephant in the room. I feel uneasy regardless of which side of the fender I'm on. There's always a sense of relief when The Pass is complete; it's hardly different from when the dental hygienist says, "There. You can rinse and spit now." Life becomes a tad easier; heart rates dip, breathing regulates and, ideally, resentments - no matter how minor and vaguely directed - dissipate.

Let's face it: The Pass means that at least two strangers* need to temporarily form an undesired partnership that is only successful if they can share the same space and time. There will be an overlap of their "bubbles". It's like we're thrust into one of those old Hope/Crosby road shows but without the laughs. All fun and games until someone breaks a spine.

* It gets exponentially more complicated with four lane roads, or oncoming traffic. Then additional drivers are roped into joining the party to anticipate the reluctant dancers' space requirements.

I'm guessing we'll never achieve greater cycling safety until cyclists and motorists both admit to even just slightly resenting these brief collaborations. Forget the PSAs about one another's rights, we must acknowledge - not ignore - the list of events that must unfold for The Pass to occur: motorists must surrender expectations of unimpeded progress; mirror and shoulder checks may be needed to ensure a safe drift leftward; the slightly shallower breaths + whiter knuckles that can only relax once The Pass is complete. Cyclists must ramp up their vigilance to hold their line; they ignore the possibilities of what could go horribly wrong while scouring the road ahead for booby-traps.

These impositions, no matter how brief or seemingly inconsequential, are very necessary, and they must occur above and beyond the usual routines of driving. (the word routine here is fitting, insofar as driving can ever be considered routine; there is enough repetition involved that we can easily come to expect the task to be predictable.) Cyclists and motorists represent to one another a wrinkle in this zoned-out state and once we can honestly admit this upset not only exists, but is natural and understandable, we might stand a better chance of coexisting safely.

We may not be going far enough when simply reminding the cats and dogs to share the road because they're obliged to. Hopefully a smart cyclist or motorist will come up with a message of empathy for the combatants that strikes the chord of respect for their overlapping bubbles.

It can't be rocket science, can it?

such a cool thought...

2009-11-10T15:43:00.001-05:00

National Cycling Centre of Hamilton from NCCH on Vimeo.

I Will Die on Upper Middle Road...

2009-10-04T12:05:00.017-04:00

... and please, just don't say He went doing something he loved.

There are two principles behind the following rant:
1) There must be a grand design behind all of this.
2) I must not know it.

In Oakville, Ontario, over the span of many kilometres, a road exists that links up various Points A to countless other Points B. It stands, or more correctly, lays, as a testament to audacious civil engineering. In fact, it transcends audacious, bypasses courageous and inventive, settling somewhere between cheeky and downright cynical.

Four lanes of blacktop are squeezed tightly within immeasurable tracts of suburban greenspace; a grassy No-Man's Land far larger than what has been fought over and died for in any number of wars. The end result demands a high level of skills, vigilance, and good fortune - on the part of both cyclists and drivers - to avoid contact.

How it could be...

... and how it is, alas, on Upper Middle.
But it could be I just don't yet get it, perhaps more research is needed. I might learn, for instance, that the municipality reserved these enormous regions of unused terra firma to bolster a future Pan Am Games bid. The Games selection committee would behold the vast rolling oceans of boulevard (18' to the just the sidewalk in places, whereas the traffic lanes are only 12' wide) and have no trouble imagining hosting all of the track and field events between the sidewalk and townhouses that run from Sixth Line and Oxford Street.

It's conceivable the Department of National Defense appropriated the gulf between neighbourhoods for a makeshift airstrip in the event of World War Three. As luck would have it though, the Western world of today appears to be mired in a period of relative peacefulness, and the prospect of C5s taxiing through town is as remote as Toronto's likelihood of meeting its bike lane targets.

Fall fairs, plowing matches, tractor pulls, tennis tournaments, monster truck races, steeplechases, cricket games and jousting festivals have been variously proposed for these stretches of sod, and although the city fathers have smugly denied them all, the fact remains the entire wad of these could be held simultaneously and there'd still be room for a dedicated bike lane and a bocce pitch.

But, you counter, there is a bike path! Well, yes. And no. A partial one exists. It hopscotches Upper Middle, schizophrenically skipping between north and south sides. This no doubt serves that small, mythic demographic of cyclists (who, in their entirety, form a small demographic) who never emerge from the block they live on, choosing instead to ride around and around until either their dogs are too bored or it's time to drive somewhere again. The meandering course of these bike pathlets is conducive only to "toodling" - a derogatory term civil engineers coined to disparage that pie slice of unwashed masses that chooses to be aimless out-of-doors. It certainly doesn't support cross-town commuting - the reason why Upper Middle itself is as straight as can be for drivers.

Some wag suggested that the current paths may be fragments of some larger, alien geoglyphs - huge chalk drawings scrawled out by intelligent beings from outer space. The paradox here is if they couldn't see the grief these routes would give to serious cyclists then these beings may have been a few bricks short of a load, hardly capable of holding down even a junior civil engineering position. The only other feasible explanation that comes to mind is perhaps these are remnants of a failed marketing crop circle brainstorm. Heads likely rolled when advertisers realized that no matter how clever their message may be, it was doomed if only zeppelin passengers could see it.

Born as they are of the best intentions, it's a pity to say it but bike paths' very separation from roadways has given rise to a new, unforeseen hazard: the high-speed pedestular right-hook. Cyclists wishing to cross an intersection from an inset bike path are all but invisible to a motorist's peripheral vision. When said motorist makes a right turn, unless the cyclist is as slow as a pedestrian, a collision is hard to avoid. This inadvertent ambush of drivers is then legislatively solved by municipalities declaring that cyclists must dismount when they cross intersections, in order to give the hapless motorists a fighting chance. Fair enough - if you're a motorist. Discriminatory if you ride a bicycle. This thinking thrusts cyclists into a netherworld between motorist and pedestrian. For that period of time and space where a cyclist is obliged to dismount and walk, their status as motorist is effectively revoked, a slight no less vexing than demanding pedestrians remove their shoes before crossing or motorists check their oil before turning right on a green. Clearly, to paraphrase Jeff Bridges' character from The Big Lebowski, The Dude does not abide.

My 13 year old son's home-built 'bent!

2009-09-19T21:42:00.000-04:00

Kids these days... Graham's grade 8 solo project assignment at his Waldorf school was meant to stretch the students' concepts of what they were capable of; his decision to build a recumbent trike from scratch - on his own, with me at arm's length as a mentor - certainly opened his eyes as to what's possible when you don't give up, even if your hands are frozen stiff in an uninsulated garage. Many thanks to Cary Chen from Urbane Cyclist in Toronto for acting as the real mentor with real answers!

every frame piece was drawn out full scale... often several times.

The drawings were fastened to 3/4" ply, the wood cut out, and hot glue-gunned into position. Sometimes he needed encouragement to take an extra moment to reposition something, as an adolescent's opinion on what constitutes "close enough" can vary wildly from measurements.

He used a tubemitre program to create a stencil for the "fishmouth" shapes needed for a tight fit, then cut each joint out by hand, filing it until the gaps were small enough for the brazing to effectively hold. This was made extra challenging as we were using 4130 chro-mo "aircraft" tubing, which, although extremely thin-walled, was very very hard! No wonder they can fashion airframes from it.

An old Nishiki mountain bike frame was cannibalized for its rear triangle. You can see where the seat tube and seat stays were cut off, and the top tube now runs diagonally between them. Both the top tube & the original BB tube are capped with brazed steel plates.

Single chainwheel up front, 7 speeds in back. Front disc brakes (Avid mechanical) and rear V-brake.

Even the handlebars had to be fabricated, although they may get a re-working for clearance and alignment purposes.

Aluminum blocks were drilled & tapped to form seat mounts that doubled as chain guide supports. An old skateboard wheel earns a second life as a chain idler by way of a sawed-out centre groove.

Many thanks also go out to John & the crew at Oakville's Cyclepath shop for the helpful advice, not to mention the rear derailleur cable re-routing!

Doggone troubles

2009-09-13T13:36:00.000-04:00

A recent post on the Cervelo site about a pit bull chasing cyclists led to me replying with this reminiscence:

I can only speak from one experience, long ago when living in a rural part of central France with my wife. We were out puttering on a couple of old, "no-speed" bikes (wife's term - very fitting!) when something big and angry (can't even remember the breed, I just remember teeth and neglected fur) ambushed us from the roadside ditch.

We hadn't the muscles nor the bikes to outrun it, so I immediately dismounted and began yelling away at it, saying anything that came to mind to make it seem I was in charge. I flatter myself that I knew what I was doing - perhaps it had never heard English before and was just confused by this. Regardless, my wife had time to bike into the horizon, and eventually the dog must have gotten creeped out by this wacko foreigner yelling at it, so it stayed put while I retreated, walking backwards, bike always between me and it. What an adrenaline rush, especially afterwards when I realized I had no Plan B. (Unless you count whacking it with the baguette I had in my backpack at the time)

I would pack pepper spray and use it as well, but only on the owner. The satisfaction I'd get would almost be worth the assault charge...

My trusty steed

2009-08-30T14:42:00.004-04:00

The bike is a stock 2008 Cervelo P2 SL with Ultegra pedals and a Profile Design Aerodrink I use for tris and longer training runs. The original Shimano R500 wheels are used for training.
with clincher Renn 575 disc and a tubular HED H3C, both used (inconvenient combo, yes, but it's a start)

A bit of (my) cycling history

2009-08-27T06:38:00.004-04:00

I grew up pining for the Mustang-style bicycle that was all the rage at the time, with its banana seat and monkey handlebars. Having a Mustang bike would allow me to ride heroically - like Danny O'Brien wheelieing all the way to school without touching his front wheel down once, even at stop signs. (It was the stuff of legend, really. I was there, I saw it happen). Tragically, my parents decided the penny-farthing sex appeal of a CCM Imperial would keep me out of "trouble with girls", a strategy they bolstered by purchasing the largest size possible, so that I might "grow into it". I was about ten years old at the time.

no point trying to chop it up - it'll just dull the blade

This entailed years of mounting the bike by standing on a tall curb beside it. My friends showed great restraint, never laughing to my face, although, in hindsight, I am suspicious they were secretly afraid I'd fall over on them from my towering heights. They rode off into the distance, neighbourhood girls wedged triumphantly on the clavicles of the monkey bars.

I still managed to win our school-wide bicycle rodeo astride the CCM, no doubt thanks, in part, to the hours of isolated practice.

It was a triumphant highlight to my childhood, and while I inadvertently vindicated my parents' poor choice in rides, in spite of my heroics giggling girls failed to materialize on my handlebars. As if to underline the fleeting nature of true glory, my handling skills were not enough to spare me from what happened next. It was a clear and crisp early October morning, I was on my usual route to school, timed to avoid taunts. A school bus came up to the same side street it often did and as I sailed into the intersection I realized to my horror the driver was only planning a rolling stop. I must have ridden under the driver's radar and expectations. The menacing black grill came perilously close to t-boning me; I remember feeling like I'd imagine someone would visiting a zoo if the bears got loose. With barely enough swerve to break free from the bus's trajectory, I aimed myself to the grass boulevard just as the bumper made contact with my rear wheel, sculpting it like it was rubber band performance art. The rest is a blur, but it seems I managed to land on the grass, largely uninjured - I like to think it was a spectacular somersault that did it - and the bus continued on. Unfortunately the bike was fine too, a ridiculous testament to its tank-like qualities, its only damage being the wheel itself. Not even the Imperial's dropouts were bent. I don't know to this day what I was more incredulous over: this stupid bicycle's faithfulness or being hit by a bus.

Several years later, around when the bike and I had finally evolved into a grudging relationship some might call "fit", the CCM was stolen. It felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders - about 32 lbs. to be exact - and people surely noticed a spring in my step as I walked around my city, happily consigned to the role of pedestrian. If I was more mobile, ironically, I would have frequently made the pilgrimage outside of the town limits to George Vettor's Cycle Shop. George was a former racer, and his reputation for stocking high quality bikes was only topped by his feats of mythic proportions on the race courses of Europe, as retold by neighbourhood kids. When I did make it there, it was my cathedral, to be walked thru slowly and quietly, head tilted up high to admire the Bianchis hanging from the ceiling like they were Michelangelo's frescoes. Somehow I knew the quality of those bikes, and the thrills that they promised, were worth their steep prices. I deserved them, but could surely never afford them.

I'll never forget the rude shock and cool dismay I felt when the local constabulary proudly fished the bike from our city's river, coated in sludge and festooned with seaweed as if returning from some macabre parade down Main Street Atlantis. Like a lime-green Loch Ness monster it rose from the depths to taunt me once again. No matter, I had decided that I was now beyond the pain and heartache, took control of my life to the extent that an adolescent can and swore off riding indefinitely.

Decades passed.

My wife and young son and I moved from central Canada to Novato, in Marin County, CA, so I could further pursue my career in feature animation. The Bay Area is a hotbed for this, and as many of you know it's also the veritable home of mountain biking. Following several months of hiking the fire roads ringing our neighbourhood I couldn't help but notice how fired up and happy - albeit dusty - all of the ubiquitous mountain bikers were. It looked like something to be experienced, and before I knew it I once again found myself inside bike stores, craning my head upward reverently. This time around, I also went for test rides and made a purchase! It was a Rocky Mountain Elevation, a hardtail, with enough sprockets to make my head spin faster than a granny gear. Who could possibly need 21 speeds?! The last time I shifted on a bike the cable disappeared into the mysterious Sturmey Archer 3-speed hub.

The Rocky & I had some great times together; some of my best were our Sunday morning explores, where I'd climb up to a crest and know that, whether I turned left or right, I would have a great ride along the fire roads. In time my speed and confidence built, and my climbing strength and technique were improving. There was a terrifically steep hill at the end of our lane-way, definitely hors catégorie in roadie terms; I'd dubbed it a "threshold" slope: so steep that it could easily stall a rider with an unintended wheelie or else make the rear wheel spin uselessly in the silty loose surface. I sensed there must have been a knack to somehow finesse it - gingerly attack it - and although it took over two years of attempts, I was able to eventually summit without touching down on numerous occasions. This was such a great challenge to me that I will always appreciate the triumphant feeling I had in conquering it.
photo Ken Papai

My bike-handling confidence grew by leaps and bounds, and with it, my pleasure - and speed - increased; I was positively flying along some of the downhill segments of my routes, arriving home elated and practically breathless. My care-free enjoyment of attacking the hills around our home came to an abrupt halt the morning after a powerful wind storm swept through the region. We lived in an old-growth oak forest, and the smaller, more feeble branches easily broke off into short bits about the size of toilet paper cores. These in turn were buried under the silt kicked up by the winds. I remember remarking to myself that the ride that day seemed very lumpy and "interesting". Nevertheless I barrelled down my favourite stretches, including the final high-speed descent to our neighbourhood. I don't quite recall what happened next, but have to assume that one of the stealth toilet paper cores lay obliquely to my front wheel as I crossed over it, which set up a harmonic wobble in the front end. In no time this degenerated into a veritable tank slapper and in the time it takes for a smile to invert I was slammed to the side of the trail, the wind knocked out of me and my left side hurting up and down. Before the dust settled I made a pact with myself that I would always carry a cell phone with me on these solo blasts. Then I wondered how many silent resolutions have gone unfulfilled through human history when the person expires before standing again. It took me several minutes before I could move, during which time I half-heartedly hoped someone else might pass by.

Seeing Marin's ubiquitous turkey vultures gathering in circles overhead, I gathered myself up slowly and staggered over to my bicycle. It was on the downhill side of the trail, practically hidden a bush. In hindsight I probably shouldn't have taken the time and pains to extract it but I wasn't going to leave my beloved comrade by a roadside, no matter how close I was now to home, so I wheeled it beside me as I skidded my way down the threshold hill, bent over and moaning like I was auditioning for a George Romero movie. The foolishness didn't stop there; when I arrived home I downplayed what had happened since my wife was baby-sitting our sons' playmates and I didn't want to create a logistical nightmare, so told her I would drive myself to get "checked out" at the local hospital. Doing up the seatbelt nearly killed me, though I thought it would be absurd to die in a car accident after surviving this mother of bike crashes! It turns out I had broken not only my left clavicle but also the three uppermost ribs, and the doctor was incredulous that my lung wasn't punctured by one of the fractures given the angle it was protruding at.

Lesson learned. Reckless abandon is now off my list of approaches to exciting rides.

When we returned to Canada in 2003, swapping the idyllic oak forests of Marin for the urban jungles of downtown Toronto, the Rocky transformed to road-warrior hybrid mode and together we shredded my commute. It was then promptly stolen - Toronto is the bike theft capital of North America - and I was relegated back to pedestrian non velo status. Another lesson learned, and for the next few years I cynically kept an arm's length from cycling, riding an old beater that cost less than the lock; pragmatism had won out. Nevertheless I couldn't resist the siren calls from the area LBSs and found myself yet again wistfully sighing as I strolled the aisles, ogling everything newfangled from hydraulic disc brakes to Camelbacks. After all these years, the elegance of form and function still held sway on my soul.

In time we bought a home outside the metro area, near the Niagara Escarpment, and I found myself, depending on both the day of the week and the direction I faced, either in the outskirts of paradise or the ninth circle of commuter hell. A few weekend hikes confirmed the local trails were, in the parlance of those wearing body armour, wicked, and I was compelled to get back on the horse. Said horse turned out to be an Oryx Hurricane 250 full-suspension mountain bike.

I attended some terrific off-road clinics as a prudent re-introduction back to the sport, and tentatively set out pedalling the region's trails that laced up and down the ancient rock. Before long a small voice inside me suggested that the rough-hewn, boulder-strewn routes may hold the upper hand in my battle of nerves. Nothing dramatic like panic-stricken paralysis that drops me off foot-wide bridges. No, the epiphany came during an autumn race along Hilton Falls' Bent Rim Trail, when I got the sense, while following a silver-haired gentleman as he fell, nearly unclipped, into a bush beside a rock garden, that somehow this isn't how I want to be. The Oryx promptly found a new home with an owner half my age as I reverted back to hiker and restless suburban commuter astride my converted Mongoose road warrior.better than taking the car, or walking (just)

Outside of my modest commute, life became dangerously sedentary, to the point where 14 months ago I was a basket case, seemingly losing a depressing struggle with sciatica. Standing, sitting, and walking were excruciating, yet I couldn't even lay still in bed for relief. After an MRI ruled out anything more malignant than a pinched nerve, prescription anti-inflammatories and a giant yoga ball for my desk job began to turn things around.

Call it an optimistic hunch or sheer foolhardiness: I took the additional step of then purchasing, on Visa, a Cervelo P2 SL time trial bike - the least expensive they made at the time - in the hopes that the leaned-over positioning would stretch my spine and relieve the pressure as if one were leaning over a desk top, reaching for something beyond grasp. To fully appreciate the extent of this costly gamble, know that until now we had yet to purchase a living room sofa for guests to sit on. Like a cat proudly dropping a mouse at the back door, I triumphantly brought home my purchase, and the smile on her face told me my wife of nearly 25 years is a saint and loves me deeply. Either that, or she's planning to leave me... a thought I quickly dispelled as silly when she handed me a brush and roller, declaring it time to start priming the upstairs hallway. Regardless, the gamble worked wonderfully and I immediately felt better on the bike than practically anywhere else. My local Cervelo dealer wasn't very helpful (the salesman denied the P2 SL existed; he dismissed the model designation as a mistake of mine... and would I be interested in one of the Trek TTXs they had in stock?) so I purchased this from a Toronto shop. The staff there were very professional in the way they fitted this silver-haired newbie without looking askance at his mountain bike pedals and shoes - my one concession to shaving costs at purchase time. I noticed a steady progression in my fitness, helped along in no small way by my 140 kms/week (a tad under 90 miles) of year round commuting (I stubbornly surrender only on days of heavy snow, freezing rain, or cable-freezing slow-jaw cold, which are seemingly more frequent as I age).

It was a short step to channel my competitive drive into time trials. My unremarkable race results belied my sheer joy at simply riding as quickly as I could on a bike that was better than I was and fit me well. While I no longer felt the embarrassing disconnect of riding an Imperial in a sea of Mustangs, a familiar pang of longing resurfaced when I saw the riders finishing ahead of me astride fully-dressed rocket ships. In no time at all the notorious n+1 variant strain - the one applying to parts & accessories - infected me and I took to researching race wheels and absurdly-shaped helmets, determined now to ensure I had few excuses for my performance beyond the quality of the engine itself. Race of Truth, indeed. As I gained speed through my first year, so did my competition; I may have felt like a cheetah, especially when I had a tailwind, but all of the gazelles remained tantalizingly out of reach. No matter, it was still great to be in the chase, with the added benefit that I didn't have to go home hungry.

There was no single moment where the idea of triathlons struck me as desirable, let alone feasible; it gradually dawned on me that there was nothing stopping me from combining my abilites to not sink immediately in large bodies of water, and jogging to and from the bus stop, with my love of cycling. This being the year I turned 50, I chose fitness over the de rigueur Harley as my commemorative gift to myself and signed up with the local tri club, reckoning that I could always bail out if the training became onerous, or my knees began barking, or drowning was imminent, or heart palpitations didn't subside. It has been a blast, and I was able to successfully complete my first triathlon in July, just days before my 50th. It wasn't a particularly long distance - I finished it in under two hours - but I can say that the butterflies just before the start were real. Another one, Olympic length (1.5km swim, 40km bike, 10 km run), is slated for the middle of September. This first season has been one of learning: the Old Dog + New Tricks Tour I call it. Since April of this year, I have discovered how to squeeze into a wetsuit without tearing it or myself; how to look just above people's eyes so I avoid their stares at me in my wetsuit; how to rack my bike in the transition zone with all of my paraphernalia in a space the size of a dining table placemat, how to emerge from a swim and run while stripping off a wetsuit while not falling down; how to partially dry off my feet in a hurry and still pull bike socks onto the soggy skin without falling down; how to run in bike cleats without falling down; how to pace myself on the bike leg so that when I dismount for the run I don't fall down; even how to grab a drink on the run from volunteers and get some in my mouth without quite falling down.

While these are all skills that may not translate into anything particularly useful in the "real world", as I age I am more inclined to not care about justifying that. My own Real World invariably slots a bike under me, and that suits me just fine.

my first triathlon (longer to read than race)

2009-08-10T06:32:00.000-04:00

A copy of my post to the trifuel.com site.
First, a legend of jargon:

OA - Overall
AG - Age Group
TT - Time Trial

T1 - the transition zone between swim and bike
T2 - transition between bike & run

BT - BeginnerTriathlete.com
PB - peanut butter!
TF - trifuel.com - the site my article is in.

Sidi's cleats - bike shoes' pedal clips

flying squirrel - running beside bike, then jumping onto it without touching the pedals. Yeah... that's why I didn't.

RPE - Rate of Perceived Exertion - basically a common sense awareness of effort, surprisingly accurate like heart rate.

gel - small package of gooey, saccharine carbohydrates. Easy to carry and rip open during a competition.

Gu - trade name of one brand of gels.

bricks - training sessions where one bikes hard, then quickly dismounts and goes for a run, to simulate race conditions.
Trains the legs to withstand the rude shock of continuing when a rational person might stop. (Comes from Bike, Run, ICK!)

--------------

In a nutshell:

Event: Belwood Lake Sprint Triathlon
Location: Fergus, Ontario, Canada
Date: 19 July, 2009
Results: 150/463 OA in 1:52:34 - 12/30 in M50-54 AG

swim (1km) - 22:28 - 02:15/100m - 20/30 AG
T1 - 02:40
bike (30km) - 52:03 - 34.6 km/hr - 5/30 AG
T2 - 01:30
run (7km) - 33:54 - 04:51/km - 15/30 AG

Rain mostly held off, not too hot, many family members showed up to cheer me on, had a blast. An exciting event for me, perhaps a boring story because of no difficulties - even getting the wetsuit off wasn't overly comical (I hope)

Long version - preamble:

Last year, after decades of relative inactivity I finally indulged a life-long desire to ride a nice bicycle and scratch my itch for speed. I purchased a - for me, expensive - TT/tri bike and embarked on my new hobby of filling out time trial fields and bringing up rears. I was a rolling sag wagon, but quite enjoyed the sensation of riding and the new fitness that came with it.

As most readers here will corroborate, some fitness led me to want more, and a gentle prodding stirred within: hey, you can swim (although friends had nicknamed me water foul [sic]), you love to bike, and you seemingly make it a hobby to chase the bus to the commute train, so why not combine them all and follow in the footsteps of fellow Canuck Simon Whitfield back in 2000 in Sydney (albeit from a far distance)?!

Why not? My knees, for one. Never one to gloat about their condition (some bad falls in basketball camp scrimmages as a 12 year old scotched my parent's dreams of me supporting the family on an NBA starter's salary) I was mostly concerned about whether or not I could endure the run without blowing apart. A thorough search of this site, BT, and others, gave me the courage to begin training and the wisdom to approach it systematically. Also joined the Triathlon Club of Burlington so I could benefit from others' expertise and not try to do this alone - a bad habit of mine.

In a nutshell, by not biting off too much at a time I was able to build up a base of fitness to the point where I felt as ready as I'd ever be and signed up for the Belwood Lake sprint tri, part of the Subaru series. As this would be my first tri, and it was within days of my 50th birthday, several family members voiced their intentions to come cheer me on. This show of support, while flattering, spurred me to whip up a manifesto right away. I titled it: Dignity Under Duress (DUD). This was going to be my DUD triathlon. I immediately shelved my Speedo, and took stock. Family, in-laws, my two sons (ages 14 & 11)... none of them had seen me cry, or cough up blood, or curl up on the ground in a fetal position with cramping, so my goals became clear: 1) finish, no matter how much it kills me. If this could be achieved, then 2) finish on my feet, head held high, pain-free and having done no lasting damage to either myself, others, or adjacent property. And if this was possible, then 3) finish in under 2 hours. Oh yes, and 4) have fun, whenever possible, and if it won't jeopardize points 1-3.

Long version - race day:

Managed to sleep well enough - having packed the night before gave me great piece of mind, I guess - and woke to the alarm. It was a bright beautiful morning, and I downed a favourite bagel with PB and a banana, quaffed a few welcome cups of coffee and we were off, my long-suffering wife and the boys bundled half-asleep in the car with some provisions for later. It was an hour's drive, and as we approached, an ominous, heavy bank of clouds rose up from the horizon. They hovered over the triathlon for the remainder of the day, but outside of a light sprinkling during the bike leg (which I thought in my fog of adrenaline and lactic acid was me emitting a mist of sweat) it held off and actually made a pleasant shield from what could have been a blisteringly hot, humid day.

the bikes looked cool; us rubber-coated old guys: not so much...

Thanks to the informative postings here I was able to prepare my spot like I knew what I was doing, and it gave me further confidence. I laughed at how my naivete insulated me from nerves - ignorance is bliss! - and I figured from this point I'd wing it if anything unexpected cropped up. I was assigned the 6th and final swim wave, and took care to don my wetsuit methodically, thus maintaining my DUD. I waddled down to the lakeside, although not before my wife unveiled a sign she stealthily made with my two boys, each holding a few letters aloft for me: GO STMVE (it was actually GO STEVE but one of the boys had the E rotated). While I loved them dearly for the gesture, I'm not sure if the lump in my throat was sentimental or simply me beginning to choke under pressure!

I'm the one with the blue cap

It was really very exciting to be wading into the water hearing everyone cheering earlier waves' countdowns. I caught that sense of how the event itself truly is a celebration of all of the training and preparation before it, and it struck just the right tone for me. I wasn't afraid of the swim - yes, I wasn't fast, but at least I had practiced a lot, including a few OWS sessions, and had a history of 1000m swims for years with my wife, who got me into it - and, while the pylons did look an awfully long distance apart, I knew the Dory Method ("... just keep swimming...") would see me safely through to T1. After watching the Clif Bar tri swim video on YouTube, and hearing numerous accounts of elbows, kicks, and lost goggles here on TF & elsewhere, I was prepared for a battle royale that never materialized. Starting from the outside rear position (so far out and so far rear that a Frisbee-catching German Shepherd at one point waded over to me, I think mistaking me for a member of his barbecue group up the shore) I may have touched one person's foot in the final funneling in to the exit, but that was about it. Only one mouthful of water, which I managed to spit out without panic rather than swallow . I can't imagine a more gentle introduction to tri swimming than this, and yes, I know it was good luck and there may be a real donnybrook the next time!

The next hurdle for me was the whole dignity-exiting-the-water thing, and I knew I had to nail this one or else make the sort of spectacle that's painfully retold for ages at family gatherings. Discretion being the better part of valour, I chose to not break into a heroic sprint as soon as possible and risk falling, and instead staggered up to the transition zone with the measured purpose of a bar patron zig-zagging to the john after several hours of drinking. In this time I got the wetsuit unpeeled as planned (let's see a typical bar patron do that); I managed to even hold my goggs and swim cap in one hand and release them as I pulled my sleeve inside out to trap them - just the way the pros did in the video. (Funny, they don't show the pros checking the organizer's Lost & Found for dropped goggles, though - they weren't up my sleeve when I got home!)

It was a consolation to arrive so late to T1 as my bike was standing out like a gaudy wallflower at a dance everyone else had left. Some DUD highlights of this stage included: 1) not tripping - nor pulling down my tri shorts - while quickly stepping out of my wetsuit legs; 2) swilling some watered-down Gatorade without barfing or otherwise choking; 3) tucking my ears into my pterodactyl helmet while turning away from my cheering section so they wouldn't see me grimace; 4) didn't trip on my Sidi's cleats while I ran; 5) chose to forgo the flying squirrel mount... better my family watches me take a moment to clip in and rocket off, than see me rocket diagonally over my top tube and into the arms of the 115lb volunteer who was thinking the worst she might experience that day would be Gatorade trickling down to her elbows.

The ride was, for me, terrific. Nothing to write home about, but I felt good, enjoyed myself, and never cramped up or bonked. The other riders were generally quite well-mannered and capable. I experienced the unique thrill of passing countless people, and even re-passed the two who got by me early on. My RPE corresponded perfectly with what I think my words of encouragement were for fellow bikers, degenerating from "Good job, man!" on the early flat segments with a tail wind to more like "Gaaaa - uh, guh..." on the uphills before the final turn. I had great success with my aerobottle drinking, which to me meant not only hydrating well but also not spearing my gums over bumps. The only real glitch in the day came when I went to tug my gel off the top tube and found I couldn't get it free; I had used masking tape to anchor its bottom end for the car trip (see how prepped I was?! Gu taped on at home!) and forgot to remove this as I set up in transition. No worries, I thought, it was a relatively short race and I was otherwise well-nourished, so I made a point of grabbing a Gatorade instead of water at the first run aid station to make up for it.

An odd event came a few minutes from the end of the bike leg, as we approached the park. I recall seeing a bright red Prius stopped at a sideroad, several people standing outside it. The race route, on country roads, had few spectators up until this point (outside of the turnaround and main intersections where police and volunteers were stationed) so the Prius really stood out. It reminded me of my sister's car. Could this be a cluster of volunteers, or course marshals? The group started to cheer as I approached while passing two other riders. I was incredulous; it was my siblings. I managed a little wave, sort of like the Queen does - had to keep it aero, though; it never occurred to me that Elizabeth II is thinking the same because her parade carriage is so slow - and while I instinctively hi-tailed it out of there so the other riders wouldn't tease me, deep down I was bursting with pride that my sibs would go to such lengths to show their support!

not a smile so much as a grill to keep the bugs out

My dismount upheld my DUD record. I came full stop and dropped my unclipped toe to terra firma. The cheering was a real boost, even if the crowd were just showing their relief that I didn't bite off more than I could chew. T2 was a quick enough to suit my expectations, and I felt real nerves now knowing this was my moment of truth. Would the knees hold up? Were my bricks sufficient prep for this? I took another quick swig of drink after yanking up my speed laces and was off, making sure to pace myself until my legs felt as if they belonged to me.

The run itself was almost surreal: hundreds of folks more or less quietly running an up-and-back loop of a single vehicle trail through fairly close undergrowth, an occasional high five between club members punctuating the muted huffing and puffing. A highlight for me was receiving a drink from a very special volunteer: my buddy, Luke, whom I've known ever since grade one. He's an ultra-marathoner now, and was helping out at this event. I wasn't sure what my chances were to bump into him today, and here he was with some of his typically soft-spoken words of encouragement. As I paused to chug a drink I asked him for any advice he could offer, and it was, Just relax! That was a welcome reminder, because until now I certainly must have looked like a middle-aged first-timer afraid of blowing up in front of hundreds of people.

It turns out my siblings weren't done with me yet. As I approached the primary turnaround - a hairpin where we shift into the other tire track - the familiar red Prius was waiting at the crossroad! Not only that, but the doors and hatchback were open, the better to amplify Queen's We are the Champions blaring from their stereo! Unbelievable. I was dumbfounded, did a little pirouette for them on the turn, and carried on laughing as much as my lungs could manage. Apparently a runner following me called out to them, Do you know him?!

What a family...

The remainder of the run was a thrill to me because the knees did, in fact, hold up and they made no complaints whatsoever. This was the culmination of months of slow and steady increases in volume, seeing if I could make the grade with patience alone. My final few kms were a bit quicker; I realized only at that point that this was my first ever foot race and I think the adrenaline rush of this new door opening for me provided a boost!

For fun - and as a nod to Simon W. - I tossed my hat into my family "crowd" as I approached the line. My older son, Graham, paced me on the other side of the fence for the final 100m... a memory I will always cherish. Suddenly, it was over. I crossed, upright and pain-free, no leaking fluids, a smile (of sorts) on my face. Hugs all around, some leisurely re-hydration, and I began checking the calendar for my next event! It was a privilege to have the fitness to participate - that's the overriding sensation I'm left with - and I found the healthy and friendly atmosphere infectious.

For those of you who've made it this far: thanks for your indulgence. I really learned a lot reading your race reports and forum discussions, and hope this is a help to any others thinking of trying this sport... I can't recommend it enough! Your first tri can be challenging, exciting, rewarding, and even - if you're really lucky - dignified!