Reminiscence - the Making of an Easter Egg (DVD, that is)

Once the dust settled from TS2 production grind, Ash Brannon approached me to ask if I still had a clip I'd made what seemed like months before. It was an "outtake," something that all of us animators wanted to create for dailies whenever time allowed; these went a long way to alleviating the tedium we all experienced in the extended screenings each morning.

Ash said it was for an "easter egg" they wanted to put on the DVD. I had no idea what that entailed (hey, it was the 1990s), and I asked Ash if I should spend a few hours cleaning up the blocking (I'd slapped it together in less than two hours, which was my free window of time before the next screening). He laughed and said to leave it - the rougher the better. Huh. He left, smiling, and that was the last I thought of it until years later, when someone said to me they laughed at my easter egg. My. Egg... DVD they said... What? They told me it was on the TS2 Supplemental Disc in the Ultimate Toy Box collection. Jessie's Song. That car sequence. Oh. Ah! * yes - a light went on, and Ash's request from years ago came back to me.

By then the interwebs were sophisticated enough that I could search for info about this (this amounts to Googling myself, I suppose)(yoiks)

It turns out the laughs I got by poking fun at the sombre tone in Jessie's abandonment sequence really struck a chord with the directors & producers, so John & Ash requested that this be hidden as an easter egg somewhere in the periphery of the DVDs' Story > Jessie's Song menu, and they layered in some sound f/x. I guess this was picked as an example of the effectiveness of comic relief; we appreciate laughs as much as ever when they are least expected. 

Clip from Pixar/Disney. With apologies to Sarah McLachlan, given the perfect tone she struck with her ethereal voice...

Reminiscence: A Quilting of Goldfinches

My cycling distances increased through the summer in preparation for Mont Tremblant, and I felt pretty comfortable with the routes I’d chosen. Mostly oriented northward, they took me off the beaten path often enough that I felt relatively safe for most of the way and at times the seclusion was downright sublime. It was great riding, punctuated only by the occasional anaerobic chipmunk or indecisive squirrel, and that one time a couple of deer sorely misjudged my rate of descent on a steep grade, nearly swapping me my aerobars for antlers.

On a beautiful Sunday morning in July I zig-zagged through a familiar, old, quaintly mis-aligned rural intersection, and no sooner had I slouched back down into my aero position than a commotion rose up behind me to the right. It was the unmistakeable lilting four-beat contact call of the American goldfinch – what bird watchers have likened to them singing po-ta-to-chip, but this sounded more like a party-sized bag full of potato chips; I looked over and saw what seemed like hundreds of them (goldfinches, not potato chips) taking wing from the low bushes in the narrow strip of land beside me. I laughed out loud, thinking first of how unthreatening their quiet chirps were, then of how – aboard my yellow, black and white bicycle – I might have resembled that eccentric inventor in the film, Fly Away Home, trying to get these tiny geese to imprint me as their father by leading them on a flight.

photo by John Benson ibm4381/flickr

Instinctively riding the crazy roller-coaster hard-wired into their brains, the finches collectively resembled a giant yellow, black, and white quilt that had just been ruffled to spread out across some invisible bed beside me. This brief commingling with nature almost took a turn for the worse when the chirping quilt then abruptly tacked diagonally across my bow, so close that I instinctively clamped my mouth shut.

The finches then kicked it up a notch and promptly dropped me, as so many things do…

I hunched back down to work and got back up to speed. As my heart rate and breathing approached the pointy end of my Lactate Threshold, I recognized that while my smile was morphing into a grimace, my facial expression itself hardly changed - a smile is uncannily close to a grimace!

What has this got to do with triathlon, you may ask?

Just think back to every race photo you have ever been in.

If you look past the flushed skin, the head rolling to the side, the clenched fists and cramping muscles, the foamy lips, the sweat glistening and the tears streaming down, there’s actually a smile there. Clearly, on some level, we must really like what we are doing; there are finches flying beside us. They wear no number bibs, personal bests mean nothing to them, but all of us are celebrating the pure and simple gift that is the joy of moving.

Taking a Measure of Society's Maturity

If the recent trend towards absurdly giant wheels on vehicles is any indicator, western civilization's zeitgeist is clearly hanging a u-turn and heading straight back to the womb. How else can one explain a grown adult's desire to drive around in something that looks like it just drove off the cover of a Toys R Us catalogue?

For about 1/200th the cost, I could step out of General Motors and into Fischer-Price and not give up a thing. According to that catalogue I'd still have "a real FM radio to pump up the fun, see-through windows, doors that really open and close, flashy 'chrome' wheels and grille, and more!"

(Hey! They're talking to me... I want more!!)

For less than the cost of an adult-sized SUV's tank of gas, I could also enjoy "two speeds forward (2.5 and 5 mph, max.), plus reverse, on hard surfaces and grass, with a high speed lock-out option for beginners and Power Lock brakes."

Now I ask you, what in the name of Ransom Eli Olds Speed Wagon is not to like about that?! Okay, sure - the radio burns through C batteries like a baby whale in a school of herring - but really, if you only want to whine about how nobody gets out of your way fast enough, or how there still aren't enough cupholders, or how the person ahead is blocking your view because they are taller than you, you may as well save yourself some serious coin and go with the lighter version that requires a bit of assembly. It's not like you are going to look any more mature because you bought the real thing.

Sure, Some Days I Feel Old, but Jeepers...

... did ya have to rub it in?!

Just found this as I was rummaging through drawers for a sock to match any one of a half dozen other singular socks in my hand.

I remember that humiliating morning like it was yesterday: We drove up to the kiosk of our local provincial park for a trail run, and the girl scout inside smiled as she handed me more change than I'm used to. Was she trying to tell me something, or did she do this for everyone who seemed more than a decade older than her? I'll never know, and hope it doesn't happen again for at least another 15 years...

My 1st Ironman - Lessons Learned & Sights Seen

11:49:42
793/2100 OA
80/244 AG

- The region surrounding the venue really wanted us to like this event: on our drive in Friday afternoon we passed municipal crews driving huge drum brush sweepers along the bike lanes, water-cannoning as they went. The entire 90km circuit was pristine.

My (Swag) Bag is Bigger Than Yours
Okay, so I am a sell-out. Shoot me. I can't help it if the Ironman Mont Tremblant (IMMT) swag bag given away at the pre-race sign-in is, in a word, terrific. Like any good transition bag it has multitudinous pockets, zipped sleeves, vented pouches, compartments I am still discovering, durable material and hardware, comfortable straps, generous roominess, the works. I guess I know what my price of devotion is now, and I've got to say it's far smaller than a Lamborghini than I expected. The trouble here is - the damn bag is a yeller; the graphics and text scream Ironman! from almost any angle. Fair enough, it's their party, their swag bag to give away. But the question becomes where & how to use it? If it's for swim gear at workouts I'd be embarrassed if real swimmers saw how slow & awkward this alleged "Ironman" swims. Carry all my crap to work with it? Naw, the graphics are so garish it'll look like I'm gloating... same if I use it to schlep the family's lunches, raincoats and camera to the zoo. And the holier than thou statement it would make if I used it as a real transition bag would pretty much oblige me to go out way too hard in each leg of my next event — as if to justify what it implies — dooming me to comprehensive cramps and the issuance of all the wrong fluids from all the wrong places.

So for now it will enjoy an exalted place high up in my closet, its high-contrast Helvetica embroidery yelling at me every time I open the door, as if to remind me to figure out what to do with its awesomeness. Perhaps I can give some hapless dinner guests a tour of the house some time, open the closet for some unfathomable reason, and let it break the ice for me.

- I arrived at the start line on the wings of Lady Luck: healthy and ready - felt like a victory before the cannon sounded!

- On the day prior, at bike check-in, if someone grabs your bike as you enter transition, don't fight them for it, they're likely the valet racking volunteer. Instead, smile and enjoy chatting them up while you get the royal treatment for a moment. They even photographed the bike's race-ready mug shot for security.


SWIM: 1:21:59 - yoiks!

- Even though you can't see the far turn buoys from shore due to the distance and the morning mist, they do eventually show up. They are just awfully far away.

- No matter how many swim lessons you take, nor how many drills and thousands of metres you put in each week, don't forget to practice putting goggles onto a dry face and getting a good seal. Three times in the first 400m or so I had to be That Guy who treads water stupidly, legs flailing, while he tries to re-jig his goggs. The third time I made the executive decision to rip off and discard my swim cap so I could get the positioning of everything Just So. In the meantime, practically everyone got past me, including the dreaded breaststrokers. I spent the next many minutes fighting off wayward feet, elbows, and guilty feelings that some poor volunteer might come across a lone swimmer's cap, think the worst, and call out the dive team...

How poetically symbolic - my swim exit pic. I am getting this sucker framed

The Red Carpet Treatment Not Lost on These Tender Hobbit Feet
My elation at finishing my first IM swim was fueled by the crowd, several people deep, that lined the ~800m run in to transition from the swim exit beach. Happily, this was paved in brand new, cushiony red carpet. As I jogged along to the cheers and cowbells I spied my elder son, and he ran with me where gaps in the crowd permitted; got a laugh from said crowd when I yelled back to him that everyone's going for a bike ride now! as if we were all in some enormous group treasure hunt. Which I guess we were, in a way.

I heard afterwards that a crew spent the entire next day just steam cleaning the carpet to pack up for next year. Well worth it, and very much appreciated!

- After a swim like that, passing nearly 700 people on the bike and the run doesn't seem particularly hectic if you take as long as I did to do it.


BIKE: 6:00:27

- It is possible to complete an IM without taking a single bite of anything; I went with all liquid nutrition, from start to finish. Maltodextrin, calcium carbonate, sea salt and water dissolve into a nice homebrewed glop that sits well in at least this person's stomach.

Re-filled the water between the handlebars at aid stations on the hour; the rear bottle (replaced at the halfway Special Needs stop) had the maltodextrin blend mixed at a squeezable 300 cals/hour.

- The town of St. Jovite is big enough to have a sewer system. That means pipes underground, and recessed manhole covers above. More than once (on the first loop only, bien sûr!) I dipped into a sun-dappled, camouflaged manhole cover and nearly had a moment.

- The winds across some of the bridges along highway 117 really do pick up on the 2nd loop at mid-day. Happily - outside of some of the steepest hills - it was the only time I needed to grab the bullhorns.

Note to self: run a length of clear packing tape across forehead next time to smooth out wrinkles for better aerodynamics

- People really need to up their race craft on the bike, especially where hills are concerned; I constantly found myself bombing past folks who were coasting downhill. I guess they do this for a rest? Trouble is, with a lower top speed they also end up pedalling more intensely to make it up the next hill. They save one match only to burn two later on, then they need a bigger rest on the next downhill, and so it continues...

Just When I Thought I Was Getting the Hang of This...
...at the far turnaround on highway 117 I was struck not only by the afternoon's stronger, gustier crosswinds, but also by some remarkable black clouds brewing over the transition zone dozens of kilometres away. I will always remember this sight squeezing a laugh out of me, along the lines of Bring it on! And boy did they ever bring it - the torrential, but mercifully brief, downpour we received on the run was heavy enough to soak me through, my shoes waterlogged to the point where it didn't matter whether I ran through the puddles and street-side rivers that formed or tried to skip around them.

- Having said that, I appreciated the overall sense I had that handling skills were above those found in some shorter distance events. Often found myself beside folks on roundabouts & turnarounds, with few concerns.

- Those industrial-strength traffic cones that divided our highway rides from cars were so ubiquitous that was easy to take their placements for granted. One cyclist just 50m ahead of me must have had a momentary distraction and clipped his base bar on one. He went down with a loud crashing slap - knocked the wind out of him, likely broke some ribs, collarbone, who knows - his day was almost certainly done.

Luckily this was right near volunteers and police so at least some qualified care was immediately on it. But still, these sorts of things can happen to any of us. One minute you're strolling along the Seine after a great meal, next thing you know you've tripped over the edge and the alligators get you.

- Although it took several more minutes in transitions, I am glad that, for my first time at this distance, I went from swim jammers to bike shorts to run shorts; the peace of mind this flexibility gave me added greatly to my serenity. Next time, though, I smash it with a trisuit or equivalent.


RUN: 4:08:20

- I have heard that a thoughtful gesture in these big races is to take a moment to hand off a note of devotion to your S/O when you start your run - something acknowledging your appreciation for their support, how much they mean to you, all that mushy stuff you were too tired to express over the previous half year of training. So I had something written up and, exiting the tent at T2, I scanned the fencing until I found her. Trouble was, she was standing back from the fence and the crowd, across the drainage ditch behind the crowd, up on a knoll to get a better view for taking pictures. Clearly a quick, romantic peck & hand-off wasn't in the cards. I held my note up helplessly, grimaced, she held her arms up, with a slight smile/WTF look, and I pulled up to a panic stop.

Luckily I'd printed my note up on some thick card stock, so I folded it in half like some two-year-old's idea of a paper airplane, leaned between some of the folks in the crowd, and Frisbee'd it as best I could in her direction. My years of playing Ultimate paid off - the dang thing sailed far enough to land on her shores of Isengard. The cool thing was, as she scrambled down the slope to retrieve it I could swear I heard the crowd around us collectively sigh & go, "Ahhhhhhh!"

- Forget the shoe ads. Something I could never know from running pristine trails through the escarpment while training: AC/DC's Highway to Hell, pumped out of a U2-sized sound system while a few hundred strangers clap and cheer is what actually makes me run fastest.

- If it has to rain when you're running, it may be best for the sky to just open up and pour. With a good pair of merino wool socks on, once you are thoroughly soaked, splashing through puddles and drainage rivulets won't make a difference and you get to feel like a kid again.

- Once again, Mizuno Precisions did the trick for me... never once thought about anything below my ankles (except when spectators cheered for the shoes' garish colour scheme - hey, I had my name on my LRS' waiting list for these and I wasn't going to get picky about what they pulled in from their distributors!)

- It is possible to complete an IM almost fully naked ;) ie. with no GPS, no power meter, no HRM. Just my trusty Timex wrist watch with a split time chronometer*.

* I am a living Timex commercial. What gives me chills, more than the lightning, thunder, and downpour at the end of the run, is that my watch's battery gave up the ghost just as I crossed the finish line. After more than five years of use, the display began to fade - of all times - on the second loop of the run, to the point where I could only see the main time numbers, not the small splits above it (at first, I mistook it as a sign I was either rapidly aging or about to lose consciousness). I even recall it working as I took a last glance rounding the final climb along Rue Kandahar in the pedestrian village before entering the downhill to the finish chute. Then, after crossing the line, I looked down to stop it as we approached the volunteer "catchers" and saw the display had gone blank. I kid you not. Timex Watches: Now With Batteries More Faithful Than the Family Dog...

Big discount at the post-race expo meant big-faced replacement... suitable for my limited Geezer Vision

Post-race: being soaked to the skin makes a long line-up for poutine just not appealing enough to endure - regardless of how good it is purported to be - so I caught up with my three drenched, indulgent family members and we retired to our nearby room. Screw the ice bath, I took a long warm soak.

- Just like I have heard, recovery really does feel easier than after a stand-alone marathon. It must be that I was so tuckered out from the swim and the bike that I couldn't muster enough speed to really trash my legs! (EDIT: Having said that - just over a week later, I bent over and twisted to pick up the soap in the shower and *doink* my sciatica shot a reminder through my lower vertebrae that I will always need to be vigilant. A week on and after a round of NSAIDs I am now able to sit and walk and talk like a human again. Ironman my ass... )

- The cost of staying in resort-calibre accommodations is quickly forgotten when you can take a gondola to & from the transition zones and you've got a view like this from your balcony:

- where else but in this locale can IronSherpas can be bribed with everything from crepes to a grocer selling boneless skinless chicken breasts, all within a stone's throw from the transition zone?!

each of my sons devoured one of these while their old man was floundering in Lac Tremblant.

- Lastly, and far from least: the locals and volunteers are insane. Their iron-calibre ability to cheer so loudly, so inventively, and so infectiously, for so many hours, even in the pouring rain, for heaven's sake, is truly inspiring. Thank you, everyone, who helped make this happen. It was truly epic, in no small part because of you.

IM Training Update #4

TODAY'S THEME:
Head to the woods to get out of the woods

Since overdoing it on my hot HIM run in early June (stoopid competitiveness > 2/35 AG and injured because of it), I'd been haunted by a relatively minor - but sore - ball of foot issue that I was worried might devolve into metatarsalgia, especially in this final peak training block. I've tried to be sensible since then, putting in just the right types of runs/week to keep the fitness, and baby the foot wherever possible, give a few extra days off here & there, keep swapping out shoes types, and so on. It seemed to be trending positively, but there was still the question of how the final few long runs would be (let alone the IM run itself).

Had a 2:45 run on the schedule for last Sunday, and I was determined to approach it as carefully as possible, so I wrapped the dog with old-school moleskin and this time drove myself to my favourite trails rather than run there as I usually do (which would have entailed running on pavement for 6 of the 32kms). I think it may have made all the difference to stay on dirt all the way: I sit here typing 3 days later with two intact feet! The moleskin came loose in the 1st hour so I stopped & removed it... the lion's share of the run was just "me and my shoes." I really focussed on mid-foot landings (which was counter-intuitive, perhaps, but I reckoned that using my full arch/instep skeletal suspension would cushion the ball of the foot better than landing further back and rolling onto the balls.)

Fingers crossed this sticks; I feel really lucky to be getting away with it - so far. For me this reinforces how we need to make our own reality checks and not rigidly adhere to routines when some common sense dictates otherwise.

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...

Banner Day: Half Marathon PB & a Lick of Paint

Burlington's Chilly Half Marathon
1:34:33 - 26/237 AG, 244/3294 OA

Had a blast today competing for the second time at this event. Compared to last year's ice-pocked surfaces, this edition had dry roads going for it, although the 40+ km/hr headwind gusts along the final 8kms made me want to shift to a lower gear at times. A group of about eight of us seemed to bunch closer together as we approached Burlington's downtown for the finish across from city hall. The pace steadily picked up in the final 2 kms or so, different people taking turns surging ahead. It stirred up some long-forgotten race craft memories for me, and I quite enjoyed it; as we turned right and headed up from the lakeshore to the finish line we all let it rip with the crowd's yells and cowbells ringing in our ears. I thought, This must be what it is like in one of those campy heist movies when the getaway car breaks down and all the crooks try to outrun the police and no one wants to be last, in case they're caught. Good fun - and no doubt we all had better times than we might have otherwise. I don't recall a finish quite like that, and hope there are more racers like this surrounding me in the future. Too often I think everyone is in their own world (of pain, preoccupation, fatigue, whatever) as a race runs down - especially the longer ones, perhaps, which can devolve more into being just about completion than competition - and we all just seem to slog across the finish, maybe breaking into a valiant hustle for the last few dozen strides. But this was a good barnstormer with competitive adversaries.

The organizers did a solid job putting on this show. Loads of volunteers, lines of (not lines for, lines of) shuttle buses at both ends of the morning, a wonderful venue for remaining warm (the newly-opened Performing Arts Centre... how often can you sit back in a plush theatre seat to await the call to the start corrals?) lots of easily-accessed refreshments at the finish - including chilli & beer! - not to mention the coolest "twist" to a finisher's medal I've seen!

The little chilli pepper guy in the middle of the medal not only has a "rhinestone" inset but he also spins like a top!

The GPS Inside Us

Like most everyone, I was hoping to improve my time at this distance. Doing so would set up my Ironman Mont Tremblant training in the best possible way, motivation-wise. In keeping with my low-key (read: cheapskate) training methods, I continue to not own a GPS pace watch, in favour of RPE (Rate of Perceived Exertion) to set my tempo. I rationalize this as a great way to remain in touch with how I am feeling at all points of an event. In this case, I wanted first & foremost to improve my 1:39:xx personal best time, but my A goal was to get as close to 1:35 as possible, assuming all systems felt good throughout. It would stretch me to near the limit I thought I could hope for at this point in the season (and in my life!) This meant a goal of under 23:00 mins. for every 5kms covered, ideally closer to 22:30. I knew I had a chance to nail it as I kept hitting my Split button on my watch at the 5/10/15/20 km intervals and got back readings of 22:33, 22:21, 22:23, 22:31! Between my adrenaline of seeing the consistent numbers, and the clot of like-minded runners surrounding me in the last 15 minutes, I had no choice but to come out with a new personal best!

The Honey-Do List Gets Trimmed

After the usual post-race shower & self-congratulatory food fest I found myself dressed in old clothes, so I took the opportunity to apply a second coat of Benjamin Moore eggshell acrylic to our entire upstairs, including the two story staircase. Lots of up-and-down on the ladder, with nary a cramp or tweak of knee pain. In hindsight, it was probably a good way to remain limber in the hours following an event like that. Can't help but wonder now if I could have sprinted even harder at the finish...

Aliens Among Us

These are alarming times, and I am getting testy about it. Take microwave ovens, for instance. Some models beep up to five times when the food has finished heating. Is there some societal fear behind this innovation? That I might decide to heat some food and then forget I am hungry? Perhaps there's a greater number of people than I realized who turn around and find themselves in the kitchen for no apparent reason, and it is only thanks to the genius of appliance makers that a string of five annoying, uninterruptible Pavlovian beeps brings them back to their senses. Come to think of it, every time I press a keypad button, I hear a beep, even when it is clear that my entry is changing the display. Could be a concession for the visually impaired, you might say. How could it be, when the panel is an absolutely flat touch screen, with no distinguishing textural features to identify the buttons in the first place?

Then we have automobile makers thinking that electric door locks need to announce they have executed The Lock by honking the friggin' vehicle's horn. Why is that necessary? I push the 'lock' button, I understand the vehicle locks itself. If it's locked, I know the alarm is "armed," for heavens' sake. If it matters to me, I can even do this within earshot of the door lock mechanisms clicking shut as my rolling fortress seals itself off from the nefarious scum wandering the parking lot pushing their grocery carts. I swear I am going to punch the next SUV driver who blithely walks away from their truck and then flicks the key fob over the shoulder to Activate Locking & Alarm Mechanisms Now! just as I am strolling past the grill. You heard it here first.

My washing machine beeps every time I switch a dial to a different setting. Do I not recognize when I am grasping a dial and turning it from Normal to Permanent Press? And don't even get me started on the quasi-alarms that Windows builds into their OS, spewing Musak declarations that, "Yes, I am really shutting down because you told me to shut down and I asked you to confirm that you want to do this and you did agree that, yes, this is what you wanted to do so I am doing it for you like you told me to." It's like a dog, waiting for my praise or a biscuit. Don't take it personally, computer, but, all robot apocalypses aside, the last I looked you were still just a machine and as such, when I tell you to shut down, I want you to just shut down and shut up about it - hold the emotional melodious goodbyes for when you get your hard-drive swapped out or something a bit more serious.

So it is a small wonder that when we unwrapped and fired up our new waffle iron, I nearly dropped my bottle of maple syrup on the floor when five strident beeps rang out shortly after I'd poured the batter in. It's not some male point of pride that made me skip the owner's manual on this - I just assumed I plug the stinking thing in and it heats up and then I cook my waffles and then I unplug it when I am done. Delving into the manual showed me how dangerously ignorant I was; there was a small chorus of beeps that, if listened to keenly like a bird watcher waiting for calls in the forest, would navigate me through the stages of warm-up, readiness, mid-way testing, and must-surely-be-cooked-to-perfection-by-now. Once my nerves calmed down and I ate my carillon-cooked waffles, I pulled out my trusty side-cutters and like a vet with a Cocker Spaniel pup I flipped that iron over and snipped away the troublesome bits. That last process wasn't in the owner's manual, but for those of you wanting a bit more control - and silence - your life, here is how it can look:

so satisfying...