Reminiscence: Crushing the Cream of the F1 Crop

As a 10 year old watching his 1st Formula 1 race, the 1969 Canadian Grand Prix at Mosport, I was on top of the moon. The daring heroes I'd read about in my few short years were there in front of me, literally screaming past a dozen metres from where I sat in the bleachers. Following the race we had an opportunity to walk along the track; thankfully my father was in no rush to leave, and I soon found myself on the hallowed ground the missiles flew over just minutes before. The same ground that vibrated in unison with my chest cavity as Lotuses and Ferraris swooped past, intercepted my life's orbit and launched me on a new trajectory.

Mr. Hill, airborne somewhere in Europe, c.1969

Like pilgrims toward Mecca, a group of us followed the asphalt path to the paddock, a staging area where the crews, vehicles and heroes gathered to prepare for, and recover from, the scheduled events. Transporters and tents defined the staked out zones for each team. In those days spectators could wander quite freely, the hard-core capitalism that recognized we'd gladly pay extra for getting close up to the cars and drivers hadn't yet caught hold with the organizers. I was like a kid in a candy store, and wasted no time harvesting the autographs of whichever drivers could be found milling about the area. I descended on Jackie Oliver straight away, then a few minutes' wait outside his trailer rewarded me with soon-to-be-champion Jackie Stewart's signature.

When it was clear our time was winding down, I scoured the area for any final opportunities. Just then an untied flap waved in the breeze behind one of the colossal garage tents, as if beckoning me to come closer. I obediently traipsed over and slowly peered through the gap. Cars were parked in various states of disassembly, being prepped for shipping, mechanics hunched over them going about their business. Peering the other way, I saw that only two figures were just standing and talking - lo and behold one of them was none other than reigning World Driving Champion and Hero of Mine, Graham Hill. This was a moment every kid dreams of... their superstar hero just a few steps away from them, free for the taking. Yes, he was talking to someone, but he could surely be dispatched with the boldness only found in a passionate 10 year old fan's heart (in retrospect, as I think about it, it was likely team manager, Lotus founder, and designer extraordinaire, Colin Chapman).

With no further ado, I barged through the opening, wound my way between the toolboxes and jack stands, and inserted myself between the two men as soon as there was a sentence break. I stepped right up to Graham Hill, Driving Champion of the World, thrust my paper and pen forward and said, "Mr. Hill, may I please have your autograph?"
I waited breathlessly.
I also learned an important lesson in comic timing from a master:
Graham Hill, World Driving Champion of the Entire Universe, sized me up, glanced to his mate with a smile and wink, his pencil-thin moustache debonairly arching wryly, and then turned back to me with his reply: "I will if you get off my bloody foot."

With the horror only someone who inadvertently pushed the Queen down a flight of stairs could relate to I looked down, and saw, indeed, my right foot squarely on top of his leather driving shoe - mercifully, the clutch foot, not the throttle one. Time stood still. My heart caught fire. As if from far off I heard Graham Hill, Supreme Champion Driver of Drivers and his sidekick Maybe Colin chuckle. I sprang back, mortified; I am certain a passerby at that moment would have confused me with one of those garden jockey sculptures frozen in a half stride holding a lantern.

Somehow in this tragic unravelling of my life, though I don't recall it happening, he must have taken the paper and pen from my petrified hand and signed off on my loutish visit, because to this day I still have his autograph as proof I didn't destroy him entirely. For the rest of that season I followed all of the remaining Formula One races religiously, hoping against hope Graham Hill OBE never had to retire from a race due to a sore clutch foot. I am only now able to talk about it. That is likely why, to this day, I can always be found wearing slippers or soft-soled running shoes, even if it's to weddings and funerals.

My Welland Half Iron - getting faster, and stupider

05:07:26
111/403 OA
7/35 AG

Bottom line: Really happy to have not over-cooked the 90k bike portion, allowing my 1:40:XX run time to come in just over 6% slower than my stand-alone half-marathon PB - 2nd out of 35 in my AG!

Overall I enjoyed myself quite a bit on Sunday in spite of my struggles with a passive-aggressive semi-conscious ambivalence for the swim that saw me forget yet again to pack my goggles. I usually rotate between a few pairs of ordinary, unremarkable goggs that are well broken in, straps just right, etc etc. You know the types:
This time around, as I scoured the expo for a quick fix, I decided I'll live life on the edge and spice up my growing collection of emergency acquisitions. I'd heard good things about the Aqua Sphere line, and when one merchant passed me his Vista model to try, I shoved it against my face and immediately heard a comforting farting sound as air whooshed out (not what you're thinking)(that was later, on the run) et voila! they stuck firm. I was sold - they stayed put without even their straps, plus the wide contact perimeter promised less vivid raccoon eyes, how could I go wrong?! I quickly donned my wetsuit and dove into the lake minutes before the start to see about setting the strap tension and getting in a brief warmup. The Vistas worked wonderfully... until I took a few strokes.

It would seem my cadaver-like lack of cheek meat meant these impostors just perched against my face in perfect conditions. Once I added in head rotations and sideways leans, the enchanting suction washed away in a flood of water.
A little (masochistic?) thrill of panic ensued. The shoreline of the canal was fairly steep, rocky and slimy underfoot, so I could hardly remain steady as the Race Director held up his tiny air horn like an executioner's axe and called out "Two minutes!" Each time I feverishly rammed the now-soaked Vistas against my face that same farting sound occurred but it was amplified by the wetness - as any self-respecting 11 year-old boy with a wet palm and open armpit would know - resulting in all sorts of offended looks from those treading water near me. They mostly swam closer to the start line, no doubt to avoid the risk of following me, just in case.
The horn blew. With a final shove-n-seal I gingerly took off, hoping against hope that "this time," if I was really clever about it and careful with not changing the shape of my face, and promised to do more volunteer work during holidays, things would hold together. That lasted all of about three strokes. I tried to convince myself it wasn't that bad, but the water sloshing against my eyeball told me otherwise. I instinctively closed my left eye and carried on stroking, evaluating my situation on the fly (as if I had a choice). It appeared that if I gave up bilateral breathing and continued to only roll to the right, my right eye might just stand a chance by remaining above the water surface the entire time. So Popeye the Sailor Man it was: I resigned myself to an overly-exaggerated roll, to one side only, for the entire 2000m. Once again, a whack of swim training sort of goes out the window, though I am sure if it weren't for the base fitness of all those laps I would have been in quite the dire straits. * To be fair to Aqua Sphere, I am certain that taking a reasonable amount of time to set these up right they'll be a fine pair of goggs.

Otherwise things went well enough. Lots of pelotons formed on the bike portion, helped in part by the flat course and the mass start, but at least the officials were doling out time penalties left & right (maybe next time they can be for > 2 mins. because the benefits could be seen as outweighing the drawbacks) The run was mercifully shaded along the canal, and when coupled with some overcast spells I think we collectively dodged a big hazard; nevertheless many many folks were walking by the time their second loop came around.

Great event, the volunteers bent over backwards for us, traffic control was tops - kudos to Multisport Canada, the organizers for this. But a note to them: Next year, please time it or route it differently from the Welland Rose Festival Parade. After queuing up for more than a half hour watching Shriners peeling around in their little go karts, and hearing the approaching thumps and tinkles from yet another marching band, I found myself wanting to tackle the next crowd-flashing clown blocking my exit from the parking lot.

Had I known, I might have climbed out from the start, tightened up my Vistas for a dry-eyed swim, and finished 10 minutes later.

IM Training update #3 - 1st Century Ride

On the heels of a 2.5 hour long run Saturday, I managed to sneak out the door extra early on Fathers' Day (thanks, boys!) & comfortably log about 163 hilly kms on Sunday morning. I quite enjoyed the experience. My home brew of maltodextrin kept me fueled with no apparent side fx, and it all fit into a still-squeezable 750ml bottle behind the seat... very likely I will go with this for Mt. Tremblant. Now if only I could figure out how to carry enough hydration on training rides to skip finding more every two hours I could avoid the nuisance of searching & stopping!

The new FLO wheels are excellent. I found them to be very true, stiff - thank heavens - and decently stable in cross winds. Only downside: the Conti Attack/Force tire combo was a bear to mount; I'll need to be doubly careful with any roadside repairs so as not to pinch the tubes (latex ones, at that = $$!)

Post mortem: the recovery was excellent! Lucky, lucky man. Now to gear up for the half-iron event in Welland this weekend...

How Slow Can I Go?

PROMENADE AUPRES DE LA SEINE AVEC NAGEUR LENT - the Impressionists understood swimming. Can you name even one who had a pair of goggles?

With swimming, I don't know if I've yet plumbed the lowest depths of the slowest speeds. I was reminded of this yesterday while thrashing thru my 2500m workout. Doing laps in the outer lane at my pool put me beside some large picture windows that gave out onto the parking lot. Well, yes... technically the majestic Niagara Escarpment filled the backdrop, but from water level all I could see were car bumpers. And unfortunately, I could also see all of the pedestrians walking between their cars and the gym. And they were, all of them, walking much faster than I was swimming. Really good swimmers will cut through the water at a rate you'd need to jog to keep up to. Decent swimmers can match an average walker. But yesterday, my fears were driven home by the steady parade of Joes Public who were inadvertently handing me my Speedo-swaddled butt; no matter who they were, I was swimming uphill in a silent race they were all unknowingly, uncaringly, winning. The toddler who slowed down, fascinated by his reflection in the glass was bad enough, but the last straw for me came when I breathed to the other side and saw a water-walking blue-rinser in the lane next to me with a noodle tied around his waist, putting time on me. Clearly, an attitude shift was due. I had reached bottom. (Figuratively speaking, of course, being in a pool and all, with another 800m of intervals still to do.)

Luckily, while drifting into and out of hallucinations, as I am wont to do when in oxygen debt, I had an epiphany, and suddenly life became much simpler: rather than constantly fight my years-long current of frustration with my swimming speed, I realized I could just choose to accept it. For instance, I will never again refer to my swim speed, as that loaded word just sets me up for disappointment; henceforth I will call it my swim pace. It makes it sound more like it is a choice... no one needs to know that I have the needle pegged while people on crutches saunter past me - at least not until I come up spitting and gasping for breath at the end of the lane. And rather than see myself as slower than most every other hominid on the planet, I would imagine myself transported to where walking means something else all together. And what better place would that be than the City of Lights, Love, and Locomotion: Paris, France. I recalled - yesterday, just before my 4x200m on 30 secs. rest - that some people actually walk slower than I even swim, and I took solace in that. I remembered back to that time in 1984, in Paris, when I sat on the wall of the Seine, and watched as idle strollers, couples arm in arm, were taking in the romance of that magical city. No doubt they had just finished a multi-course meal at a fine restaurant, a shared bottle of Cote du Rhone coursing through their bloodstreams, and they were just sort of... moving along. You could call it walking, sure, because if you compared their position at any given point from a half hour before they were definitely in a different place. Good enough for me... I now have my new standard to meet. I am no longer slower than absolutely everyone else on earth. I might not be faster than they are, but I think I could match them. Especially if the river's current is flowing in the right direction...

IM Training update #2

I made my own gel on the weekend... and it worked! (I shouldn't sound surprised, right?)
Some details:
- I managed to stuff about 1500 cal. of mostly maltodextrin into a 20oz. bottle for a five hour ride.
- included a few tablespoons of Gatorade for flavour, a half teaspoon of sea salt, a teaspoon of calcium carbonate, and... not quite enough water to make it easy to squeeze (more experimenting needed)
- it tasted nice, nowhere near as sickly sweet as packaged gels, was a fraction of the cost, gave me a consistent dose of energy and, most importantly, it earned my GI tract's Seal of Approval.
- in order to ensure the gel's isotonicity with my blood I calculated I'd need to quaff about 1 litre of water/hour, which is more than the 750mls I often get away with in the garage on the trainer. Will need to see what being outside, in warmer weather, under the stress of a race does to that volume.

Now here's one for the books... the five hour ride I did was on the trainer. You heard me correctly. Trainer. Five. Hours.

Pros to doing this:
- I'd never be more than a few steps from home in case the new malto brew didn't work out
- avoided some nasty winds and rains as well.
- got to see a few feature films and numerous episodes of Top Gear on Netflix.
- confirmed my Castelli bibs are divine. No chamois cream, yet no shower screams.

Cons: other than the profound restlessness of being on a fixed bike?! Not too much; even then it was better than staring at a line on the bottom of a pool!

In all honesty, I can confirm my suspicions that riding a trainer is harder on the body - the core, especially - than being just out on the road and my theory is that it is the absence of what I'd call "micro-adjustments." When on a trainer, we have no reason to move besides pedalling, whereas I think the fluid nature of cycling outdoors would engage/relax all of our body's other muscles just enough to break up their monotonous tension.

Looking forward to my first bike TT of the season this evening, a 20k route in a quiet area with a few good hills. It is nice to be able to sprinkle some events into the schedule to keep it exciting and intense.

Running's gone very well (knock on wood) and I must even say that the moments of good swimming "feel" are occurring more frequently and lasting longer. It doesn't mean I am getting faster, but if it means arriving @ T1 as less of a basket case than I was expecting to, I will be a happy camper.

Random thought that occurred to me as I sat today scarfing down a bowl of my favourite blend of GORP: once the IM is over I am going to be lost if I can't eat like a horse any time I want to. Oh, and the GORP blend? Salted peanuts, roast almonds, raw sunflower seeds, raisins, and dark chocolate chips. Come to think of it, I haven't had any for over an hour... excuse me a minute, will you?

What a Difference a Year Makes...

Ran the 20th Anniversary edition of the Sulphur Springs 10k Trail Run on Saturday with my 17 year old son, Graham. It was our second time there, and this was a far cry from last year's cool, damp conditions. Between another year of base-building, hitting a few more hill workouts, the dry conditions, and seeding ourselves closer to the front we really set ourselves up for success.

And what a success it turned out to be: 14th & 15th out of over 300 entrants. Not bad for a father/son team - but fully nine minutes faster than last year?! After the finish I even had to confirm with Joe Hewitt, the RD, that we took the right route at the foot of the final, killer, climb (we had.) The confusion stemmed from one runner just ahead of us who disappeared like a deer when she abruptly turned left at a ribbon we'd followed at the beginning of the run (it was a loop course.) A group of about six of us stopped in our tracks, second-guessing our judgment. We swivelled around, looking for a volunteer, an arrow pointing somewhere, a stack of rocks, anything but a ribbon from the start of the race when we were now just a kilometre from the finish! Standing still at a race: nope, never done that before...
Like a half dozen sweaty adventure tourists waiting at the wrong site for a helicopter rendezvous, we shared a few smiles and sentence fragments, "Aren't we supposed to... ?" "Do you think we should... ?" then we collectively shrugged and bolted for the hill home. This just added to the sense of the event's relative quaintness. The glorious weather, beautiful trails, and relaxed atmosphere made for a sublime running experience, one that I am looking forward to repeating next year (and perhaps at one of the longer distances, if I can just figure out how to convince Graham that extending our training runs is a really cool idea.)

a very neat participants' perk: New Balance sandals with a map of the course embossed on the soles! My son's pair is the bigger one...

Solving my #firstworldproblems One Pair of Shoes at a Time

In the whole scheme of things, I'll admit this is so trivial as to be practically embarrassing, and the day will surely come when I pray this was the greatest of my concerns. But this ain't that day - I am chuffed beyond belief, and no doubt anyone who has ever loved the feel of a pair of running shoes will be able to relate. After months of (casual! honestly!) searching I had given up hope of ever finding, anywhere in N. America, a pair of Mizuno Wave Precision 12s to replace the now-worn-out work horses that coddled my feet through their first marathon. The official word was that they were discontinued in anticipation of the June 2012 release of the Precision 13s.

Fine. I had clearly missed the boat for replacement and was doomed to train for Mont Tremblant in some other footwear; still, I hadn't felt emptiness like that since I was seven years old, when my teacher - who I had a crush on - moved away and her replacement turned out to be an old guy with stinky breath and boogers up his nostrils. My "flow" had been interrupted, and I've spent the past five months staggering through my longer runs with a variety of old shoes, rotating through them on mere whims because, really, what did it matter any more, when my favourites had gone AWOL?

Then, as luck would have it, I casually explained my ennui to Patty (my new best friend in the world, who works at my favourite LRS) and her eyes lit up, What size did you say you need? I told her, she made a beeline for the shelves, and produced what could well have been the only new pair of Precision 12s on the continent. Their Mizuno rep had swapped a batch of odds and ends with the store to balance out inventory, and I came out a winner this time, proving we should never give up hope, even if the "facts" seem to suggest otherwise.

Scheduled for a two hour run tomorrow, and can already feel the miles floating past...

First Ironman Training "Progress Report"

This IM training is difficult to schedule! I mean, I knew it would be, but being already at upwards of 15 hrs/wk, I find the impact on family time is remarkable compared to even half distance training; I'll clearly need to take more care scheduling things as Build & Peak stages arrive. Up before 5 this morning to squeeze in my first ever 4 hour ride - the 1st hr was in the garage on the trainer due to darkness. Something like 727m elevation change in the 3hrs outdoors. It was only about 4*C (39F) with a fair windchill, so I felt the full brunt of numb, frozen toes & hands... I could tell I was still pedalling because I wasn't falling over, and my shifting was a crapshoot! I know I may regret wishing for warm days come June and July, but this "Dude can't abide" with the way my feet thawed in the shower - not since childhood when we'd stay out 'til dusk on an icy pond curling with frozen dog turds have I felt such a burning sensation as I defrosted.

I'm lined up to do IMMT as my first, this August. I've done several sprints, an Oly, and a HIM in prior years, with numerous running events from 10ks thru marathon distance. I am lucky enough to have dodged injuries so far, and ungifted enough to have dodged the podiums (by a wide margin) as well. I'll be in the 50-54 AG @ Mont Tremblant.

Currently wrapping up my 7th week of following Matt Fitzgerald's Essential Week-By-Week Training Guide. I chose this 24-week plan because I had good success (for me) using his HIM plan to prep for the hilly Muskoka 70.3, so I figured if it ain't broke...

For those familiar with it, I am using level 4 for the swim and level 9 for the bike & run. My reasoning is that given how much I dislike swim training (though my attitude is improving in lockstep with my endurance in the pool) I don't want to invest the amount of time that would be needed at this stage to improve significantly. It's a bang for the buck consideration; I see my late-onset swimmer "style" as something of a finger print that I won't radically alter in the next few months, so while I will still keep up with my coached club swims and work on drills, I'm resigned to focus on increasing my distances to build up fitness & I'm pretty satisfied with that.

I will be looking to up my bike mileage whenever possible. I came to triathlon from a very modest biking background.

And since running has been on a steady rise through my three years in multi-sport - picking up speed & endurance without any injury (knock on wood) - the level 9 distances are not intimidating given what I've been used to in the past year+.

I splurged on a Castelli Free Aero Race bib - very nice... the Progetto X2 pad was absolutely "invisible." Thanks to folks on the Trifuel forum advocating bibs from their first-hand experience, this is now one less worry as I approach the longest of training weeks. After the ride I felt excellent - no screams in the shower when water hit the Joy Zone, and I never once had to do the R&R (Rise & Reposition) thing at any point in the four hours.

I'm not using a power meter - not that I am opposed to it, just can't justify the cost right now. I have had excellent results in the past three years solely based on RPE, with a touch of HR now and again as my version of a poor man's reality check. Fingers crossed I can carry this sense through the 140.6

Simple Pleasure this morning: I was reminded of that extreme feeling of thirst quenching I get from a glass of plain water ~ 20 mins after the initial recovery drink & shower. It's like the perfect moment of desire meeting with satisfaction.

Around the Bay 30k & My Post-Race Appointment to the Ministry of Silly Walks

2:21:09 chip time
74/517 AG
631/6119 OA

Happily, quite uneventful! The race was well-managed, as always, and began on an overcast, relatively warm (7C), fairly windless morning. Surrounded by the collective warmth of over 6,000 runners, I felt I could have managed with just a t-shirt, but as soon as we made it to the lakeside and the hills of Burlington's North Shore Blvd. I could just see my breath - the perfect day for an event like this.

With a few split times noted down on a wrist band, I was aiming for a 4:45/km pace based on best estimates from the recent Chilly Half Marathon and my 2011 marathon, which would give a 2:22:30 finish - a solid 10 minutes faster than last year. At first I worried this might be too ambitious a step in one year. Then I thought of the alternatives, and when the images came around to one of me in diapers at an old folks' home in a few more decades - I said screw it: go for the gusto and rein it in later if necessary. There'd be lots of time for crokinole in the years to come...

By the first 10k I was even a full minute up on where I needed to be, and from then on did my best to pull back a tad to just maintain it with my goal pace. I expected that the notorious hills found in the mid-20kms would yank that minute - and perhaps much more - back from me. Instead, my winter training runs through the area with the TCoB and Pace Performance seem to have paid off; the hills didn't really phase me and it appears I was able to maintain that cushion of time right through the end.

On the Side

- I was happy to see that my 2:30 pace bunny from last year was back in the saddle again. Quite the thing to recognize individuals in such a large crowd. Mind you, the foot-tall pink ears don't hurt.

- Unfortunately, for a spell I was pacing not too far off a barker. She was one of those types who perhaps fancies herself to have more experience and speed than those around her (so why's she running with us?), giving her the right to vocalize all of the thoughts that many of us think but are either too polite or too laid back to speak. I slowed at one point to grasp a drink at an aid station late in the race, with a plan to carry it forward to drink in the cup toss zone beyond. I wasn't fast about it, my coordination at 25kms in wasn't meeting any country's Olympic cup-sweep qualifier standard, but I was by no means parking myself in the way. Instead, I heard Nostoppinghere! over my shoulder as she padded past. Right, duly noted, coach. Then a few kilometres further on we were negotiating a 90 deg. turn, and, as always, I was running the tangents, being deliberate to always leave a "lane" to the inside should anyone faster than me wish to pass. I always try to do this as a courtesy, not sure if it is even an unwritten rule (though it sounds like a nice gesture). Sure enough, Mrs. Hustlebark announces her presence as she tucks in for a pass with something along the lines of Shouldn'tcuttheinsidelikethat! For Pete's sake, lady, just stuff a gel in it. I started to wonder if I was being tested for a runner's license I didn't know about and if I now blew the parallel park I'd fail altogether. Funnily enough, I noted that she was cutting the corners where pylons were set up in mid-street. When I made my subsequent pass on her (which happily "stuck") I thought of barking out that her number was on backwards (she had a triathlon race belt that slipped around) but instead thought I'd take the high road and just silently went past... trying all the while to keep my gasping in check to make it seem like a piece of cake.

- Speaking of passing, one fellow who seemed to be in my AG must have blown by me at least five times over the course of the event. Sure, there's normally an ebb and flow between participants that sees them trading the edge back and forth, but what was remarkable was our speed differential - it was like a Maserati constantly ripping by only to need to stop for gas every 10 minutes. One time it was ostensibly to tie a shoelace, another time I think he was stretching out his muscles, etc etc. I don't know if he managed to catch up, or even continue, to the end, but it is easy to imagine him telling friends how he really likes running but is always battling one injury or another. I just wanted to reach out and say Hey pal, take a little off it and you'll make it to the end!

But that might have just come across as barking.


Ah Yes, Post-Race

Given how uneventful this race played out for me, still, there always seems to be a story. In this case: I find it funny how I can somehow manage run a hilly 30km race, finish intact with a new PB, feeling on top of the world, only to scotch it all by stretching my legs too far too soon and winding up doing the Dance of the Cramps - by the roadside, no less.

Being part of a single-car household, I needed to get out of Dodge ASAP after the event to pick up family members at another event, so I made a beeline for the parking lot. It was packed with others arriving for the myriad festivities on, so I did a quick baby-wipes/shirt change and vacated the space before it got more hectic, telling myself that I felt so good I could wait until I got near the expressway to go through my stretching ritual. What's 15 minutes, right? After hydrating and noshing to my heart's content as I drove, I pulled over on a nice wide gravel verge of the onramp I came to. I got out of the car, strolled to the right front fender, and luxuriously elongated my calves with a gastroc stretch. Then it was time for the quads, so I bent down to grab my right foot, planning on hucking my leg up behind me so I could feel that nice pull up the hip flexors. Suddenly I found myself splayed on my Corolla's hood in a painful cramped pretzel, as if I was being busted by the Highway Patrol for dangerous driving. I slid down, pretending I could stand on my legs, and proceeded to stagger around the car like John Cleese doing his Minister of Silly Walks routine, looking for that one illusive pose, that single gesture, that would tell my muscles it was okay to let go now, because daddy's here and everything will be okay. Holy mackerel.

Not only that, but as I was only just starting to be able inhale again, a car pulled over and backed up to me. Great. Just what I needed - a stinking Good Samaritan to complete my humiliation. It turned out the guy was from out of town - just like me - and he was lost, but unlike me at that moment, he was able to walk and talk like a human. He approached me and then quickly slowed when he saw my plight, asking Are you all right? Good, I thought, he wasn't sure... perhaps it wasn't obvious from a distance that I was in distress. Yes, I snorted, just working out a little tightness after my run. I hoped he wouldn't ask for details and, to his credit, he just launched straight into his plight, opening up the rumpled hand-drawn map that had led him astray. While I was in considerable discomfort, I couldn't shake my innate desire to help out a fellow traveller and dutifully pulled out a regional map we had, setting it on the trunk. With my lower lip quivering and eyes welling up, we leafed through the patchwork pages until he found his miscue and I finally found a ridiculous pose that relieved the tension. With a handshake of gratitude he was on his way, and we were both the wiser. He knew what any visitor to Hamilton learns eventually: there are some places you really can't get to from "here", and I learned that even if I execute a great race, I can't keep taking my dismal muscle strength for granted and will need to address that before going longer or faster.

And so it begins... IM training under way

First of 24 weeks' training down in the books, and I was done like dinner. Never before did the words Recovery Day sound so sweet; I already know why some people sport messages on the backs of their jerseys that say This sounded like a good idea 10 months ago...