Posts Tagged ‘Funny’

Meowing up the Wrong Tree

Posted: August 16, 2017 in In Transition, Run

As of yesterday, the bones in my left hand have officially healed and the process to restore mobility and strength continues in earnest.  There have been some definite improvements overall but, well, let’s just say that I am resigning myself to the notion that my baby finger might be permanently locked in a position where if I  ever find myself sipping tea with the Queen, I will be perfectly suited for the occasion.


What this really means then is that I can now begin to return to my usual physical routine albeit, it’ll be some time yet before I can acquire any normal purpose and, therefore, results (ie. fitness).

But, hey, at least I can  do stuff.

In fact, I have  been doing stuff already, namely running.

I have forgone the normal weekend long distance marches and hard interval routines to simply getting out and getting my legs back accustomed to moving again.  Getting to burn off all the excess calories that I’ve started to amass over the last month and a half of sedentary lifestyle is certainly a plus as well as man tits are not an attractive feature in my humble opinion – “Dad bods” be damned.  So, really, I’ve retired myself to running short distances for the time being around the neighborhood and just trying to get accustomed to regular activity.

Baby steps, right?

Short as these runs may be, Crystal Beach is not without it’s perks.  It’s actually a quaint lakeside town crammed with cottage style houses and beach homes and where all the roads are tightly interlaced haphazardly in a way that it’s relatively easy to get lost and explore; something I don’t really do much of on my long distance hauls out into the surrounding countryside.  Here it’s pretty much guaranteed that there will be something interesting to see given that it is now in it’s now full bore into it’s tourist season.  that means with every beleaguered step I am greeted with beach goers and the smells of sand, surf, BBQ, suntan lotion and copious amounts of wafting pot.

It is what it is and I’m not saying that this is necessarily a bad thing.

Anyway, on one of my regular routes through Crystal Beach I pass by (at exactly the 1.85k  or 4.35k  mark, depending on which direction I set out from home in) the residence of a local friend and one of my biggest fans lately:  Ally the Cat.

She’s always there.

Here she is on her usual window sill perch whenever I pass by:


Cute, right?

Typically, I have been running lately in the afternoons when there’s more “people-watching” to be had but, unfortunately, this also means that it’s frickin’ hot and by the time I see Ally in her window I’m pretty desperate for a drink.

But does Ally care?

Of course not.

Any requests for a liquid refresher are always met with the same response:



Even when I beg (oh, I beg!).

Not.  A.  Damned.  Thing.

I think she may even enjoy seeing me suffering just a little bit.

And by this time, I am usually suffering with the midday heat and humidity and leaking fluids like an over-saturated sponge.

Not that Ally cares mind you.

I can even read it in her deadpan kitten face:


“Uh-uh fat boy.  You ain’t getting any of my water!”


And, believe me, the thought has occurred me in times of utter desperation to try and crawl through that window in order to get to her water bowl but that’s likely going to be a hard sell to the responding police officers who will inevitably be called to the scene by the neighbors…

…so I usually just keep running.

And so it goes day after day after day; me passing by a window, begging for water and being mocked by a kitten.  At least that’s what’s going on in my heat-frazzled brain anyway.

Maybe I really do need to consider running more in the evenings when it’s cooler.


Wil. E. Ridiculous

Posted: June 22, 2017 in In Transition
Tags: , , ,

I’m pretty fortune to live and train where I do (click HERE).  While I wouldn’t necessarily classify it as “the country”, there is certainly enough of it around.  And while it may be true that there are certain risks that one has to assume when training in a, well, let’s call it “rural” area as I do.  I have learned to deal with coywolves, dogs and dog shit, chipmunks, asshole drivers, moron pedestrians, tourists and rutting goats.

That’s pretty much the full gamut of what this area has to offer hazard-wise.

However, there is one potential danger in particular that has surfaced recently and has me a bit flummoxed by the reaction it’s been getting.


No, not the coywolves as I mentioned up above – them bitches are scary – just your ordinary, average, disinterested urban coyote.

I’ve never mentioned them before as a “threat” because I just don’t see them that way.

I mean, were you ever stressed or threatened by this guy in the past:


Hell, no!

I figured that if I ever did run into a coyote I’d just wait for it to strap on a rocket pack and roller-skates and then just stop short on a cliff edge so that he overshoots me before stalling over open air and then falling to the ground with a puff of dust.


However, on the rare occasion I do see them they are usually heading in the opposite direction in order to avoid me – and quickly, I might add.  I guess I can strike a rather menacing image when wrapped in a Lycra cycling kit and wheezing like an asthmatic gorilla.

So I keep telling myself anyways.

Anyhow, lately with all the construction in the area lately sighting a coyote isn’t the rare thing it used to be.  Sure, we hear them almost every night prowling the fields behind our house but we never actually saw them very often as they are typically nocturnal.  Now, well, we see them a bit more often as they are no doubt becoming a bit displaced with this ever-changing environment.

Just last week, upon completing an evening run a coyote popped out of the underbrush just ahead of me and, seeing this fat, spandex-clad train wreck heading right for it – beat it off back into the bush again.

I will say, however, I’d be lying if I said that my heart didn’t skip a beat.

Regardless, beat it I did in true Michael Jackson form, so I kept going and never thought another thing about it.  After all, the coyotes have always been here and aside from their middle of the night howling, they’ve never posed me any real serious threat.

Unfortunately, all the tourists coming back into town now that the summer cottage season is upon us don’t exactly feel the same way.

Suddenly coyotes are a HUGE threat.


So much so that they have recently posted a memo, warning dog walkers about coyotes in the area as well as discussing what they should do if they encounter one.

And me being the sarcastic dick I am, find this a bit funny.

I understand that coyotes are more or less disinterested in humans but dogs on the other hand, well, add a dog to the mix and their interest could surely be piqued.  Especially given all the fluffy little frou-frou lap dogs that the tourists like to tout around on their fake-diamond studded leashes.

In that case, Fifi is essentially a harnessed appetizer prior to the evening’s regular meal.

Common sense might suggest to normal people that one probably should not walk their little mutt after dark, especially in poorly lit areas or along out-of-the-way places – but tourists are seldom normal nor do they occupy anything resembling common sense.

No, instead they issues memos about what to do when you do exactly  that and then  run into the proscribed issue.

Smart, right?

Told you I was a sarcastic dick, didn’t I?

Anyway, I’m making the correlation here that if a coyote were brazen enough to go after Fifi with its owner around in close proximity – stupid as they may be – perhaps I should heed more notice seeing as how in my running tights, I might also be mistaken for a moveable feast.  Maybe there would be some token takeaways – weak as they may be – for me to better educate and prepare myself for future encounters of the canid kind.

Among these brain nuggets are the following:

  1. Stand tall and be assertive.  Coyotes are wary of humans and your presence enough be enough to ward it off.  Maintain eye contact.  Do not turn your back on the coyote and do not run.  Running away can trigger a coyote’s prey drive and cause him or her (nice that they’re not perpetrating any gender stereotypes here) to chase you.


Yeah, as a runner – that helps me not.

Anyone who’s ever seen me at any significant distance into a run knows that “tall and assertive” is not my jam.  At best, I look like Frankenstein with a bad case of scoliosis lumbering through the street.  It’s all I can do to remain upright, much less assertive about it.

And running away?  Ha!

As long as I don’t fall over and freely give up my soft mushy underbelly I’d be doing well.

  1. Haze the coyote until it leaves the area.



You mean like dress it in drag and make it chug a tallboy through a funnel?  I’m figuring that in doing this there is a significant risk that the coyote might enjoy this too much and never leave the area.

Just sayin’…

If what they mean to say is to make a ruckus as to deter the coyote coming any closer, believe you me, I will be emitting a full range of cries, grunts, wails, screams and screeches.   I will be a literal cacophony of despair.  I will make a racket that would have any Einstürzende Neubauten fan handing out ear plugs and it will come naturally, I assure you.

So, if anything, what did I learn?

Absolutely buckus.

However, I now definitely know beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if a coyote should ever make his presence known and decide that I should represent some sort of tasty victual, I’m more or less screwed.

At best, I can scream my ass off and try to stand fully erect but, honestly…why bother?  At that point in the workout the chances are good I’ll be more content to just roll over and accept my fate as the main course at the coyote buffet.

Thankfully, the chances of any of this actually happening are slim to none so I’m not really worried about it.  Unless of course, for what forever reason, I decide to strap on a pink leash and harness and crawl around the Friendship Trail in a pair of furry underwear.

In that event though, the tourists might want to include on their next memo about what to do should they encounter me.

The Harpy

Posted: March 17, 2017 in Swim
Tags: , ,

The ancient Greeks and Romans believed in mythical creatures called Harpy’s.  Harpy’s were thought of as a female monster in the form of a bird with a human face.  Their purpose was generally to wreak havoc on their victims by stealing food and otherwise antagonizing and tormenting them throughout the day.

Their name literally means “snatchers”.

Most famously, Harpies are remembered in the Greek legend of Jason and the Argonauts, where they were sent by the god Zeus to torment the blind seer Phineus.  Here they were portrayed as winged demons; voracious, malodorous, and snatching away souls to carry off to Hades (click HERE).

Of course, we don’t believe in Harpy’s any more, unless you consider politicians as those who were put upon the earth for the sole purpose making our lives a living hell, but I digress.


I absolutely believe in Harpy’s.

In my view, Harpy’s still have the same purpose and effect as the ancient mythological ones in that their main mission in life is to antagonize, torment and other otherwise annoy the living shit out of me.  I further believe we all have one and in my case, my own Harpy visits me every morning in the pool.

Yes, I know, I complain a lot about the different types of schmucks you encounter in the pool (click HERE  for a few reminders).

It’s true.

But in this case, it’s not some random moolyak who I happen to cross paths with.


In this case it’s every…freaking…day!

Now for the sake of anonymity, I will refrain from using this particular person’s name (*cough*cough*BILL*cough*cough*) and simply refer to him them as “the Harpy”.

The Harpy has been a long standing regular at all the local pools over the years and the Port Colbourne Aquatic Center is simply his latest hunting ground, however, to call him a “swimmer” would be a bit of a stretch.

I’m sure outside of the pool the Harpy is a nice enough guy.  I mean, sure he has that rather odd look about him that simply screams any number of lonely and angry lighthouse keepers from Scooby Doo, but don’t all old dudes?

Be that as it may, when the Harpy enters the pool 40-50 minutes into my swim, all those misgivings I have about him being a harmless guy go right out the window and I begin to see red.

I literally begin to go all Bruce Banner as soon as he steps on the pool deck.


You see, the Harpy’s main mission is to get in my fucking way as often as possible.  For the last half of my swim (an hour or so), it’s all I can do but stay out of his way.  No easy feat I assure you!  And it’s not like there’s a lot of people in the pool at that time either.  In fact, there may be one, maybe two  other people there at that time meaning that between the 3 or 4 of us we more or less have the entire pool to ourselves.  So how then the Harpy manages to get in my way as often as he does is a mystery right up on par with the Pyramids, Stonehenge and who kidnapped the Lindbergh baby.

For example, the Harpy likes to choose the lane right beside my own and then proceed to do this weird sideways swim right down the middle so that his feet are kicking squarely in the middle of my lane.  On several occasions I have been scratched by his gnarly, sabre-like toe nails.

But does this deter him?

Fuck no.


If I move over to another lane to avoid him, he will inevitably cross over to the lane beside me again and proceed as he was.


It’s maddening.

If I’m doing 50m  sprints, he will decide that this is a great time to go into the opposite end of my lane and begin to bob at the wall.  Never mind that he has the whole fucking pool in which to do this, but he has to choose to do it in my lane!  Sometimes I do flip turns so close to his head that my heels are practically grazing his ears and the sheer force is all but parting what few hairs he has on his head …but does he take the hint?

Of course not!

If I’m doing long continuous swim sets, he will decide to change lanes – in the middle of the pool – at the exact moment I’m passing by.


As it is, he changes lanes about a kajillion times and each and every time he somehow manages to get in my way or interrupt my workout.

In essence, in true Harpy fashion, he literally “snatches” away my focus and motivation.

There are times I have actually stopped my workout outright and glared at him expecting to see him snickering to himself, but then I look into his eyes and this is what I see:

The lights are certainly on but, clearly, nobody is home…if you catch my drift.


So what other option do I have but do my best to ignore him?

I mean, trying to explain my frustration to him would be like climbing a tree to catch a fish…


Fortunately, in most cases the regular morning lifeguard will step in and promptly restore order whenever she notices that he’s becoming erratic or beginning to get under my skin.  Either she’ll chase him out of my lane, or lure him somewhere else so that’s he not in my immediate path.

I love her.

But when she’s not there to act as a buffer (as has been the case all this week), it’s all I can do stop myself from having a nuclear-sized meltdown and bludgeon him to death with my kickboard.

So here’s a bit of a progress update on my Frank & Friends 10k Swim for Strong Kids training program.

My (our) annual charity swim has been planned for April 15th at the Port Colborne YMCA and Aquatic’s Complex and my training has been going well.  On the average I am swimming anywhere between 15,000 to 17,000 meters a week with my long consecutive swims on Saturday’s (after riding 20k out to the pool on my mountain bike no less) so far stretching to 5,000 to 6,000 meters without any breaks.

And it feels good.

Also, I have just recently just set a bench mark personal best at the 100m  distance by finally getting my time down under a 1:30.  Probably not a big deal for other swimmers but for me, this is HUGE progress.  My daily core workouts are inevitably helping to make all this possible and all things considered, right now I’m feeling very strong in the water…more so than where I have been in previous years at this point with my 10k program.

In other words, things are going great.

What is different this year, is that I have enlisted some help in a friend who will be joining me in this whole 10k swim madness, Stephen Apps.  Steve was one of the first people I met through the TryForce club years ago and was one of the big motivators and inspirations to train for and complete my first Half Ironman distance triathlon in Welland (click HERE), culminating with my competing in Cancun (click HERE) the following year and eventually the full Iron distance Wales (click HERE).  So, although he may be surprised to hear it, Steve has been a major influence on my life over the past 8 years or so.

Now, we usually just bond over beers with is significantly more fun.

Anyway, this year Steve has graciously offered to join me for the Frank & Friends swim and has jumped back into the pool and launched into his own training plan for the April 15th event date.  However, this week he has been taking a bit of a much-needed break from the program and relaxing somewhere in Costa Rica.

(lucky bastard)

I’m envious.

Of course, I figured the only training he’d be doing this week might be the one arm curls he performs every time he hoists a tequila shot to his lips, but then this video pops up in my Facebook feed suggesting that Steve isn’t actually relaxing at all:

I just don’t know what to say.

Here I am up at stupid o’clock every morning suffering through endless intervals and grueling paddle workouts, and here is Steve doing obscene things to a floating crocodile in a tropical paradise.

Clearly, he has the better training program.

Good on ya, bud.

I’m sure it’s happened to every swimmer at least once before.  In fact, it’s happened to me on a number of occasions actually, just never on such a grandiose scale or under such inauspicious circumstances.

But, hey, at least it’ll make for a good story at my expense.

Today is our family Christmas seeing as how HRH  is home again after spending the Christmas weekend with her father.  So while Kelly was off making “the exchange” and dropping off to visit the grandparents I decided to slip in a nice, relaxed long swim seeing as how I didn’t have any real time constrictions today as I’m still on holiday leave from work.

Part of my planned workout this afternoon was a series of 200m interval sets in the pool which, after a lengthy warm-up of drills, I launched myself into.  I practically had the pool to myself.


The first few intervals went by relatively easy and uneventful.  Everything was turning over great through the water and I felt smooth, sleek and powerful; just the way one likes to feel when doing their swim intervals.

I was reveling in this feeling when my mind started to wander a bit to other things (as happens).  What should I have as a snack when I get home?  I wonder what I’m going to get in my stocking later on?  Did I remember to wrap everything I meant to?  What on God’s green earth is that weirdo doing over there in the corner?

The usual.

Anyway, around the 4th or 5th 200m interval I began thinking to myself that my swim trunks were feeling kind of loose.  Which at first I was happy about.  I mean, after all this working out who wouldn’t to lose a little weight after the holidays, am I right?

But by the sixth interval I realized that I hadn’t really done much working out in the past three days other than drink and eat my fill of holiday indulgences and there was likely no way in hell I had actually lost any actual weight.  In my Speedo’s, my ass probably looks like two raccoons fighting in a sack of corn as it is.

So by the next interval I started to worry.

Something definitely wasn’t right in the state of Denmark.

It’s probably best at this point if I break down my thought process over the next 200m for you lap by lap.

The first 100m :

“Huh.  The water suddenly feels a little cooler.  I wonder what’s up with that?”

100m :

“Oh shit.  I wonder if I have a hole in my swim trunks.”

150m :

“Please Lord don’t let there be a hole in my swim trunks”.

I knew I needed to quickly assess the situation.  So on my next flip turn at the 175m  point I reached down between my legs for a little feel around and what I felt wasn’t good.

To put it bluntly:

Nothing but sack!



In truth, I didn’t feel any material at all.  Just a whole lotta bare ass and, well, you get the idea.  In other words, I had been mooning the entire pool each and every flip turn…seven of them to be exact.

Now I’d like to say that this last 25m sprint back to the wall was my fastest ever and I set a new PB but given the added “drag” I was now pulling through the water (ie. my dick) this wasn’t likely the case.  By the time I got back to the wall and really checked out the damage, I was dismayed to learn that the hole was freakin’ huge.  My swim trunks had pretty much burst at the seam at the back from the waistband all the way down and around my taint and even up into the front.

Really, I was now wearing a pair of nylon/elastane chaps.


But then I realized something else, even though I had made it back to the wall without anyone seemingly noticing my shameful display of buttocks, my embarrassment was only just beginning.  Now I had to get out of the pool and over to my towel way over on the far wall…

Way.  Over.  There.

FML x 2.

And by now the pool was full of screaming kids and parents, whereas when I had started the workout I more or less had the pool to myself.

This wasn’t good.

I carefully hopped up and sat on the pool deck with my legs still dangling in the water.  Okay, so far so good.   Nobody had noticed.  But I still had to get over to the towel on the far wall and if I stood up my cock and balls were surely going to drop out and expose themselves like a boxer’s punching bag.

Instead, I started to scooch backwards on my ass to the wall.  At this point, the female lifeguards (who aren’t exactly personable to say the least) started to notice my peculiar behavior and all three of them suddenly fixed their gaze solely on me inch-worming my way backwards across the pool deck on my ass.

Uh, ‘Hi‘?

I probably looked like one of those little dogs dragging it’s ass across the carpet.

Not exactly my finest moment to be sure.

I tried to give them my best “there is nothing to see here” look, but nothing doin’…they keep their gaze firmly locked on me.  I decided that, hey, maybe I could get a little help over here so I tried to casually motion for one of them to come over and, you know, possibly just hand me my towel.

But, nope.

They just ignored my pleading looks and continued to stare.

Thanks girls.


Thanks for nothing.

I wasn’t about to call out across the pool deck and call more attention to myself so, fuck it, I stood up, turned around and casually walked back my towel with my bare ass clearly in full view of God and everyone.

I hope they enjoyed the show.

Lord only knows if I’ll even be allowed back in the pool again.

So if anybody should ever hint to you that I have any shame, I want you to kill them and do it slowly.

Very, very slowly…

(click HERE for Part 1, click HERE for Part 2)

The moment I hung up the phone with my brother, the panic started to set in and I started to question my decision.

What in the sweet Sam Hell have you gotten yourself into?

What on God’s green earth makes you think you can complete a triathlon?

You know you’re going to shit yourself, right?

It never ended and these types of nagging questions induced night sweats and kept me awake for the next week or so.

The first of the new triathlon workouts was to be a run-specifc workout and I was absolutely beside myself with terror.

It didn’t help matters that it was occupied by all these ridiculously skinny, athletic looking types.  By comparison, I looked like a disadvantaged cousin who had just stepped off the turnip truck for a weekend visit.  I didn’t own any fancy “running gear”, and the only pair of shoes I owned was the same pair of sneakers I had purchased from a discount store when I first started walking.  They were well worn in by this point and smelled like pits of Hades.

I felt hopelessly out of place.

The workout was a workout that took place on the 200m track upstairs at the gym and was run by a guy named Devin who, himself, looked like a thoroughbred greyhound.

The workout itself was completing a few intervals around the oval track at a quick pace, interspersed with some bouts of walking recovery.  I hated the running parts, but I totally rocked the walking recovery.  When I did run, it certainly wasn’t very fast and I got lapped by the other gazelles quite regularly.  It was very discouraging and I was sweating like the pig who knows he’s dinner.

Sure I used the elliptical and treadmills regularly but actually running  was a very different beast that I was not yet accustomed to.

Fortunately, Devin was a great guy and very encouraging and after 30 minutes or so of huffing and puffing my way around the track, he congratulated me on a job well done.  In fact, everybody congratulated me on a job well done.  And, hey, despite experiencing at least a dozen heart attacks and near death experiences, I was proud of my accomplishment too.  It was the first time I had actually ran anywhere  since grade school.

The next workout that week was the dreaded “Brick” workout.  By this time, I had already consulted the Google box on the subject and had learned that brick workouts are triathlon specific workouts aimed at learning to run on fatigued legs.


I’d already had my first taste of running on fresh legs and I didn’t like it.  Likewise, my only familiarity with “spinning” was watching all the cardio bunnies through the window in the gym’s spin studio in between sets of weights.  Judging by the pained expressions on their faces, it didn’t strike me as something that I would enjoy either.

Put the two together?


I figured though that seeing as how these workouts were going to be a primary staple in my weekly routine in the coming months, I had better get acquainted with this beast called “Spinning” so one evening I decided to cinch up the ‘ol apple sack and signed up to participate one of the regularly offered spin classes.

I had no idea what to expect exactly and I easily twice the size of anyone else in the class.  I stealthily slinked into the back of the class, mounted a bike – not having any clue on to properly position myself  – and just started mimicking what everybody else was doing; namely, pedaling.

Pedaling fast.

The instructor was playing this high speed techno music at top volume and was telling everyone repetitively to “visualize our destination”.

Geez, I didn’t realize that this was also supposed to be some sort of spiritual journey as well.

Who knew?

Well, what I can tell you for certain is that if our destination was meant to be the light at the end of a very long white tunnel, I was certainly on the right track.  My heart rate was beating like a jack rabbit on crack, I was forming puddles of sweat on the floor underneath my bike and, worst of all – my ass was killing me.  In fact, everything below the waistline was on fire.  For the next two days or so I was walking around as if I had just completed a two week donkey ride through the Sierra Madres.  Remember that I had no concept of “wicking” fabrics or proper cycling apparel.

The very first thing I did the day before my first brick class was buy a pair of padded cycling shorts and I felt absolutely ridiculous as it was like I was wearing some sort of adult diaper.  However, if this is what it took to keep my fat ass and, subsequently, my family jewels from being set aflame, so be it.

To say I was anxious about the first brick class would be the understatement of the century.   The class was full of the same gazelles from the run workout earlier that week plus some new rather sleek-looking folks who were already talking about all the races they had signed up for.

I started to panic.

Here I was, a fat guy in Depends amid a host of ultra-fit athletic types who – clearly – had done this before.  They had the right gear, the proper clip-in cycling shoes, and they knew the lingo.

What in the hell had I gotten myself into?

The instructor’s name was Bill and, like Devin, he was a pretty cool guy.  Bill was already 60 years young and, as it turns out, a fountain of information.  He helped me adjust my bike properly and explained how all the gears and settings on the bike worked; something that had clearly been emitted during my first spin class.  It’s not that this made it any easier mind you, but it did give me a bit of added confidence that I was now doing things correctly rather than just fudging my way along at the back of the class.

For 90 minutes – yes, 90-goddamn-minutes – we spun our asses off and at certain points, hopped off our bikes and went up to the track to run.  Now, understanding how my running had panned out earlier that week on fresh legs, well, let’s just say that running on tired legs is a completely different beast; something I’m not sure I could have ever prepared myself for.  It was as if my legs had actually turned to bricks themselves, meaning that “Brick workouts” are very aptly named if you ask me.

It was definitely hard going.

Shakespeare is quoted as having said “a coward dies a thousand times before his death, but the valiant taste of death but once”.

Well, I call bullshit on that.

While I can assure you that I did not pussy out and I actually gave it my best effort for the whole 90 minutes, I think my heart still stopped at least a thousand times.

But survive I did and I even received a nice compliment on my effort not just from Bill, but from several of the other participants as well, so I was definitely encouraged.  Despite my lingering feeling of being the odd man out, they certainly were a nice group of people.

The next workout that week was the Masters swim session also run by Bill as well as another guy, Roberto.  My exploits into swimming have already been documented in a previous post (click HERE), and I wasn’t as anxious about it as I was about the other two workouts that week.  Of course, it didn’t go exactly how I anticipated it would but I’ll let you click on the above links for that full account.  What I was most concerned with was the 6:00am start time…on a SUNDAY!

Seriously, though, I thought Sunday was supposed to be a “Day of Rest”.

Madness I tell you!

Anyway, I met in the lobby of the YMCA at 5:45am that week with about two dozen other bleary-eyed and bedraggled triathlete wannabe’s.  Once the door opened, I proceeded to go through the next 60 minutes of near drowning and by the end I was completely disillusioned with my swimming.  I had originally thought I was a decent swimmer but, as I learned, I knew about as much about “proper” swimming as I did about running and cycling.  Afterwards, Bill lead us through another 45 minutes of torture in the spin studio and a 20 minute core workout after that so that by 8:30am I was about as near death as I’ve ever been in my life.

The thing is, that after it was all said and done that week I felt as if I had accomplished something significant.

And, in actuality – I had.

The other valuable benefit to becoming a member of this herd of tri-gazelles was the meet cup for coffee after Sunday’s workout.  It was here that I started to form meaningful friendships with these people as well as beginning to glean the ins and outs of the sport like nutrition, equipment, etc., so that little by little I was getting myself mentally prepared for the inevitable challenge that I had signed up for with my brother.  I even started doing more running on my own outdoors – albeit without much structure – I swam some added laps and, yes, I even joined a few more spin classes during the week.

Consequently, my confidence began to grow week after week as did my fitness.  I’m not going to say that any of it was necessarily easy or comfortable at first, but it did eventually become part of my new weekly routine as did walking and weights and, in time, I even learned to enjoy it…somewhat.

You could even say that I became hooked.

Throughout that winter, I kept up with the routine and all the workouts and eventually, I wasn’t feeling like the helpless fat kid as much as I was beginning to hold my own with some of the other more experienced gazelles.  By spring, I was more or less ready as I was ever going to be to take on this triathlon challenge.

The thing is, I still needed to find a bike and, as I learned, a wetsuit.

Fortunately, anticipating these two necessary expenditures I had saved up a little money from my paychecks for this purpose.

First up was the wetsuit.

One Saturday afternoon, I joined four other first time triathlete wannabe’s from the group (all females) on a wetsuit shopping excursion to ‘Swim n Sport’ in Burlington. Now, if you’ve never shopped for a wetsuit before, you’re in for a real treat.  Just imagine having three young and attractive shop attendants try to wedge all your bodily “man folds” into a sausage casing.  The task was absolutely Sisyphean in nature.  As one fold of fat was neatly tucked in, another would suddenly spring free so that there was more constant yanking, pulling, poking, prodding and stretching than I ever care to remember.  In fact, until now I have pretty much entirely blocked out this memory from my consciousness.  It was like trying to stuff the Michelin Man into a neoprene condom.

Yeah, not sexy!

After about 30 breathless minutes of being forcefully stuffed into a basic entry-level wetsuit, I stood looking at myself in a full length mirror while the poor girls huffed and puffed nearby.

My reaction?


Again, a feeling of ridiculousness totally overwhelmed me but, by this point, I was pretty certain that after all their effort, the shop attendants would have lynched me right there in the store had I chose to change my mind and decide against it, so I reluctantly handed over my credit card and a brand new Nineteen wetsuit was mine all mine for the  substantial cost of $399.99.

And believe me, this was no meager expense for me at the time.

What it did mean, of course, was that I had pretty much made up my mind by this point that triathlon was going to be a major part of my life for some time to come, even though I hadn’t yet – you know – actually competed in one.  I justified it to myself that it was a necessary investment in my newfound healthy lifestyle and, hey, if I couldn’t complete the actual triathlon itself, I may as well look the part, dammit!

Now all I needed now was a bike.

The problem thought, was that a new bike was well out of my price range at this point in time.

Fortunately, fate stepped in yet again.

One of my older co-workers, Jan, had been following all my triathlon exploits to that point with a sincere interest.  Her kids had all participated in triathlon years before so she already understood all the effort it took to adequately prepare for one.  Each day she would quiz me on my last workout and my overall progress and was very encouraging and supportive.  When I told her I was still looking for a bike, she told me that she had one I could just…have.

I was like:


She assured me that it had been sitting unused in her basement for quite a while collecting dust and if I wanted, I could just have it.  It would likely need a tune up but, other than that, it should be adequate enough to see me through my first triathlon.

I was absolutely beside myself and reluctant to accept such a generous offer but I agreed to at least check it out.

She wheeled into the office one morning and it was an old Trek 1000 aluminum-framed road bike.  It was dusty, had some dents and dings on the frame, two flat tires, a rusty chain and…it was gorgeous.  I wheeled it down to the nearby cycle shop which was conveniently located nearby and after they spent a little time on it lubing the chain, changing out the tires and adding clipped pedals, what I wheeled out again a week later was a perfectly decent and 100% usable road bike.

I had no idea how to actually ride it, but I now had myself a bike.

(to be continued…)