The 19th Annual Moon in June road race

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surviving Bad Design - Part One

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

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


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


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

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

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

Venturing into the world of longer course efforts...

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

Ripples in the calm of Lake Routine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It can't be rocket science, can it?

such a cool thought...

National Cycling Centre of Hamilton from NCCH on Vimeo.

I Will Die on Upper Middle Road...

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

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

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

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

How it could be...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doggone troubles

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

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

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

My trusty steed

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

A bit of (my) cycling history

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Decades passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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