Return of the Mack, or “Going Back to the Gym as the Old Fart”

It has been approximately three years (since the outbreak of COVID) that I have even remotely considered myself something as a regular “gym-goer”. I mean, I’ve gone once or twice since the pandemic restrictions have loosened, but I’ve never really been able to reestablish the old regular habit of spending any serious time at the gym lifting weights, spinning, getting sweaty and getting fit.

Nope.

I ate a lot of jellybeans, collected stools (click HERE) and on-line shopped for stupid shit.

Lest we forget (click HERE).

Go me!

I remember those glory days of doing push-up challenges on medicine balls, ridiculously long spins, “mental toughness” sessions, the weekly “Brick Run”; not to mention the regular weekend ‘Friday He-man Night’ with the heavy iron for 60 minutes of hot “me on me” action in the mirror with my guns out and a-blazing for all to behold and admire while I’m getting myself all jacked and SWOL n’ shit. 

Ya feel me, brah?

(That’s exactly how I remember it, by the way.)

I even had “Commandments”, dammit! (click HERE)

However, now that I have only recently reestablished something of a regular morning routine once more, I have noticed that many things—ie. the “gym culture” as I remember it—has changed, well, rather significantly I suppose. Especially in that I am no longer what you might consider to be the “cool guy” that everybody knows and likes—but rather the creepy, old dude in the corner instead that everyone avoids—and, somehow, I’ve managed this incredible fall from fitness grace in only a matter of three years.

WTF?

This past January I had hoped going back to the gym would be something like this:

–

But it wasn’t.

Far from actually.

More like this:

–

Personally, I blame the Millennial’s.

I mean, why not?

It’s not like they haven’t practically ruined everything by this point already right?

Now I don’t want to say specifically that the culture has been ruined per se, just that things have definitely changed—and maybe not for the better.

For starters, unless you’re starting a Lynyrd Skynyrd revival band, no one wears paisley print ‘doo rags’ on their head anymore. I guess it’s not considered a typical ‘tough guy’ look anymore and judging by the weird the looks the Millennial’s were flashing me, they either thought I was pretending to be a pirate, or I was about to break into the chorus for Sweet Home Alabama—which to them, probably means Kid Rock—but, still, it all boils down to the same thing:

HANDKERCHIEFS ARE OUT.

Also, I would hazard to you that the most popular piece of gym equipment now isn’t a specific weight or fancy new cardio machine, or anything else that you might actually work out with, but the little shelf by the entrance of the gym where the sole ‘charging station’ happens to be instead; a spaghetti of wires snaking out to attach and recharge every piece of digital equipment you could ever hope to connect, unless you’re me of course—the guy with the dead technology—made immediately obvious by the two wires dangling out of my ears that attach the “earbuds” in my ears to my own device, which I then rather awkwardly tuck into the waistband of my Under Armour compression shorts.

Pretty fancy, eh?

No ‘air pods’, ‘Bluetooth’, or anything!

My technology is basically operating on witchcraft now.

This means then that this same small shelf with charging station is more or less the hub around which 99.9% of the gym activity is centred, and from which there is a constant ebb and flow of gym-goers who flow back and forth between their phones and workout stations like a human tide. If you ever want to get anywhere near the drinking fountain that’s also inconveniently located in this same vicinity, you will have to time your visit perfectly to successfully coincide with this constantly moving sea of people, lest you get caught up in and swamped by a group of panicking, sweaty gym-goers all desperate to get back to their phones having been away forty-five seconds too long—it’s an end too grisly to contemplate. This leaves everyone then to wander around the gym between stations and equipment like mindless pod people completely tuned into their own little world, ever-powered by the little smart device sitting on the shelf at the back of the room …

It’s weird.

Oh, and where before it was practically unthinkable to cut between someone and, say, the mirror while their workout was in session, I have learned that it’s now even more grievous to come between someone and their charging phone mid-workout.  The other day I unwittingly managed to do exactly this by sheer accident, where I inadvertently came between someone and their charging iPhone on my way to return a weight to it’s proper position on the rack.  The reaction was nothing short of Invasion of the Body Snatchers … 

That shit is likely to get you killed!

Also different this time around, well, particular to this gym anyway, is that there’s a television in the corner which, for some strange reason, is almost always tuned to the Home & Garden network.

Now even this might be considered somewhat tolerable, if only for the seemingly endless commercials for women’s incontinence that I also have to endure. Seriously, I’ve seen so many adverts for the new Always Radiant ‘Flex-Foam’ maxi-pads that it’s become like some slow, twisted form of Chinese water torture every time I step on a cardio machine, knowing full well what I’m inevitably going to have to watch on the TV screen in front of me. It’s inevitable. Before I used to try and not stare at the fit, perfectly pear-shaped rear ends on all the young gym bunnies working out around me, now I’m practically begging for anything that moves to stare at aside from the large, flex-foam cushioned derriere’s on the screen before me.

Shit, I’d happily stare at another man’s sweaty junk given the opportunity!

(Okay, maybe not …but still!)

Where I’ve always been an advocate for ‘mental toughness’ training, but this is taking it to new and unprecedented—not to mention scary—levels.  So I can either be the creepy old dude checking everybody and everything else out or, say, become the next Richard Simmons, risking per-mature male sterility after one too many forced viewings of the Always Radiant commercial.

Now doo rag or not, neither is a particularly good look at ‘50’ if you ask me.

Truthfully, I’d rather stare at the rack of tools in my garage (click HERE) as my nuts freeze, turn blue and fall off.

What NOT to Give Your Triathlete for Christmas (Part 2)

In past years I have made the traditional ‘For the Triathlete Who Has Everything’ (1, 2, 3 and 4) post to offer up helpful and exciting gift ideas for your triathlete.  Other times I give more, shall we say, “thrifty” ideas on what to get your triathlete for Christmas (HERE and HERE) and on one occasion I went all miserly and posted about what NOT to get your triathlete for Christmas (click HERE).  This year, I’m going back to the miserly bit but not because I don’t want anything, per se, but because I don’t actually need anything.

Well, nothing that I would ever trusts anyone else to shop for but me – and even then, barely me.

I suppose then that that makes this post the sequel for ‘What NOT to Give Your Triathlete for Christmas’ … just in case, you know, you were still feeling any pressure.

1. A dog/puppy

I get it:  everybody is at some point in their lives in love with the idea of getting a dog.  We pride our own family on being adopters and rescuers of needy cats but even still, HRH will stare lovingly at the puppies in the display pen windows should we pass a pet store.  They will even try to justify this desire of theirs as being a good idea for dear old dad (or mom) since, hey, you know, we like to run and all.  And what a better Christmas present than getting  me a loyal running companion for all those long lonely winter runs?

I call bullshit.

First of all, have you ever tried running with a dog on a leash?  How about having to stop in the middle of intervals to scoop up steaming dog shit?  Sounds like a real giggle, right?  How about when said dog spots a squirrel running in the opposite direction on the other side of the street and you suddenly find yourself being dragged ass over tea kettle across the road through traffic?  No?

Me neither and I aim to keep it that way thank you very much!

Secondly, just because I might be a glutton for punishment doesn’t the poor dog is going to have the same affiliation for minus zero temperatures and icy roadways so, unless you’re going to heartlessly shove poor Fido out the door despite his hesitation, let’s face it – I’ll end up running alone anyway while Fido instead occupies my warm spot in the bed.

2. Tickets to any show after 8:00pm

Are you fucking kidding me?  These people do know we have to be in the pool for 4:30am, right?

Therefore we don’t function very well at night so, yeah, no thanks!

3. Bike decals

Just don’t.

4. Protein powder

I know, I know, its “good for me” and, yes, I do enjoy protein smoothies and stuff from time to time but, by now, I am pretty partial to my own blend and unique recipes so, yeah, cheers!  And if anyone buys me any of that Walmart brand cricket protein shit because it’s all trendy now, I swear, I will come over to your house and slash your car tires.  This does not only prove that you don’t give two shits about me, but that you’re also a tightwad and where I usually appreciate a good sense of fiscal frugality, it’s Christmas for fuck sakes!

How about not totally cheaping out on the cricket powder?

5. A race registration

Definitely do not sign me up for anything specific.

I repeat:  DO NOT SIGN ME UP FOR ANYTHING SPECIFIC.

By this I mean, do not register and otherwise financially commit me to something that is not a triathlon event.

I am not interested in doing a Tough Mudder, Spartan Race, or – God forbid – a Zombie Run so, please, do not commit me to anything outside my own anticipated training and race schedule lest you want me to take a dump in the front seat of your car after I slash your tires.

Now, if you’re offering to pay for something I’m already going to sign up for. well, that’s entirely different and God bless you sir.

6. Body Glide

‘Why not?’ you might ask yourself; after all, I do use and can always use more of the stuff.  But consider this, would you ever in a million years consider giving your wife a mop for Christmas?  Fuck no!  After you dodged the inevitable barrage of pots and pans, you’d be presented with a stern lecture that equates to what Moses must have received at the very top of Mount Sinai, on how a mop is an “inappropriate” gift to give for Christmas.  Now how about giving her, oh say, a douche?

Definitely a hard ‘No’, right?

So how then you do you think I’m going to fucking feel then when you give me a tube of lube for my balls?

7. A Crossfit membership

Why don’t you just do the humane thing and take me out behind the shed and shoot.

8. A CD of anything

Yes, it’s true, I spend inordinate amounts of time listening to music when I swim, spin, lift weights and what have you, but still, please do not get me that ‘Hot Party Tunes Vol. 18’ or ’The Greatest Kick Ass Songs of 2014’.  I will not use them for my next spin class and, besides, who the fuck plays CD’s anymore anyways?

“Stop me if you think you’ve heard this one before…” (Part 10)

I’ve been getting back into a pretty regular off-season winter strength training routine these days.

Okay, the running isn’t going as well as I’d like it to (yet), but the core work, spinning, swimming and throwing around the heavy iron are right on target.

Yay me.

Really, my only complaint is the usual flood of New Years’ Resolutioner’s who are now beginning to flood the gym and invading my holy sacred ground with their stupidity and bullshit – as to be expected I suppose.

Seriously people, observe the Gym Commandments will ya?

Actually, observe ALL the Commandments (click HERE and HERE).

But I digress…

Anyway, as per usual, I try to keep myself to myself while I’m upstairs in the gym area.

I am not there to take selfies or chat up strangers.

I am there to build muscle that I will then use on my swim, bike and run workouts through the coming weeks and months.

And then I go home.

Period.

So there I am this afternoon, politely ignoring everyone else, doing my reps on the bench press and listening to my groovy Parliament funk when this middle age dipshit walks directly up to me and just stands here gawking at my awesomeness.

(Or so I figured at first because, obviously, I am quite amazing to behold in all my gym glory…NOT!)

I mentally crossed my fingers at this point that he was just waiting for the machine, albeit a bit too close, so I smiled politely and diverted myself back to the task at hand of kicking ass on my chest presses except that after another minute or so, he moves a fraction closer, clearly trying to get my attention now.

Fucksticks.

Maybe he just has a newbie question he wants to ask I tell myself, or I’ve maybe dropped my card and he’s nicely trying to return it, or perhaps my balls are hanging out of my shorts and he’s trying to save me from further embarrassment, whatever.

I hate this moment of uncertainty.

Anyway, I reluctantly flicked off the tunes in my iPod (interrupting a sweet jam in the middle of ‘The Goose’) and looked up at him to find out whatever it was he was obviously so dying to talk to me about.

He then proceeds to blurt out this worthy nugget:

“You know, if you really want to lose weight you should try spinning”.

 

And the whole time he’s pointing directly at my midsection.

Is this guy serious?

“Really”, was all I could respond with.

I was 100% taken aback.

Who does that?

Unfortunately, though, he didn’t note the tone of sarcasm in my voice so he continues:

“Oh yeah, you’d totally burn some serious calories doing that.”

 

Yup.

He was serious alright.

For those of you who grace these blogs pages fairly regularly, you will already know that I tend to bump into some pretty weird people quite a bit.  Despite all my very best efforts to avoid people – the morons and know-it-all’s particularly.   I have absolutely no idea what it is about me that drives people to do this as they all seem to immediately target me in order to offer me all sorts of unwelcome advice, tips, suggestions or whatever other bullshit it is that’s on their pea brains that also they’ve decided that I simply can’t go living without hearing.

Jackasses.

So numbnuts continues on:

“I hear there’s a great spin class here on Monday nights at 6:30pm.  I hear the instructor is really good so I’m going to check it out next week.  You should come”.

 

Now, the obvious implication that I am fat aside, what this shit-spackled Muppet fart also doesn’t realize is that *I*  am that  Monday night spin instructor.

Dude, my belly has about as much to do with my ability to churn out the cycle wattage, as pickled herring has to do with ice cream.

Although, I’m not about to tell him that…yet.

Instead, I just said “Okay, you’re on.  I’ll see you there.”

Personally, I cannot wait for Monday night as the poor bastard has no idea what he’s in for, as I am going to crush him like a late season Gewürztraminer.  This fat bastard is going to throw the hard intervals at him until his limbs fall apart like a chocolate orange and his spirit begins to crumble like downtown Haiti.

And judging from what little activity I actually did see him do for the remainder of my workout – which was little – he’s not going to walk for a week.

So, yeah, get ready to have your nips blown off, bud.

And, hey, maybe next time you’ll think twice about passing on advice.

How do you like my fat now?

The Shower Commandments

(Disclaimer:  I realize that much of this post comes from a dark place.  Baring in mind that I am now 45 years old going on “TGIF Early Bird Special”, I find that I have a lot to bitch about these days and I recognize that.  This is definitely one of those posts.  If those types of rants tend to annoy you, click ‘back’ on your browser and tippy-toe out of here.)

The “off season” training program has officially kicked -in with the falling of the first snow a few weeks ago, so what this means then for the uninitiated is that it also marks an official return to indoor workouts.

Well, more indoor workouts than usual anyway.

Sure there are a few bad asses like myself who pride themselves in maintaining a structured outdoor winter training program regardless of how ridiculously cold out it is but even still, there’s the strength-training, core, yoga, swimming and, yes, sometimes it’s just too stupid to be outside when the shit really begins to fly so there will be the inevitable treadmill and spin sessions as well.  So what this all really translates to now is that we have to spend more time with one another vying for space and valuable resources.

I hate it, but I accept it.

On that pretense, I once wrote The Gym Commandments to educate myself – then a mere newbie on the inner goings on at the gym – on how to share the gym space with others so that nobody ends up with a barbell sticking out the side of their head, and then The Locker Room Commandments for not, well, ending up with someone’s penis waving uncomfortably in your vicinity.  And here I am six years later still abiding by these same necessary laws as they are what genuinely separate us from the other beasts walking this little blue planet of ours, and even expanding on them to more include the true “DMZ” at your local gym facility, the dreaded showers.

In other words, how not to be any of these guys:  click HERE.

Most of the men I see in my gym’s locker room every day are probably decent people.  They have, one assumes, respectable, well-paying jobs, families, certain codes of ethics and morals, and they are presumably upstanding members of society.  So why, once they pass that threshold that reads MEN, do they devolve into feral beasts? Why do they discard the entire social contract by which they abide outside the locker room once in the realm of towels and benches?  Balls out, butts jiggling, hogging coveted real estate, they become locker room anarchists. To put it quite abruptly, lots of weird shit goes on in the Men’s shower area, so much so that I feel that a rehashing of the basics is necessary for review.  After all, we are all mere riders on this same endless highway ribboning through the madness of it all, so we should at least be making things less stressful on each other by all agreeing to observe an officially recognized code of shower room ethics.

Yes, friends, the gym shower area absolutely needs to be a place of strictly observed rules of conduct and listed here are some of those proposed basic guidelines I suggest we all consider if we are ever going to coexist peacefully at the gym:

1. Thou shalt not be a dick with the towels.

For those members who pay for and use the towel service, two towels is perfectly reasonable.  Don’t be an asshole and take a stack of five.  One for your body which then becomes one for your feet to stand on while the other (unused) towel can be used for spot drying and general modesty protection (refer to The Locker Room Commandments linked above).  They are not for playing “spooky ghost”, wiping ones ass, or running around flicking other dudes in the ass.

If you are doing double (or even triple) duty as far as workouts go, you can request an extra towel as long as it’s being used for either the purposes of drying off or standing on.  Period.

2. Thou shalt not hog the handicap shower stall.

Using and occupying the reserved shower head and bench that will likely occupy a corner of the shower area for those who need a little extra assistance is simply not cool; no matter how quick you think you’re going to be.  This is the equivalent of occupying a handicapped parking space so you can just “run in to the bank”, or “pick up a few items from the grocery store”.

Nobody cares how quick you are, you’re still being an asshole for parking in a handicap spot.

And, yes, I know how much fun it can be to use the attached manual shower head as a pretend microphone and belt out rousing shower renditions of ‘Great Balls of Fire’ for all your naked able-bodied friends, but don’t do it.

3. Thou shalt keep thyne eyes forward as all times.

While it is already a well-established rule that one should always keep their nakedness to a minimum, it is also the obligation and responsibility of the others present to keep their eyes to themselves.

Let’s face it, the locker room being men-only, is wall-to-wall butts, balls and penises and therefore you should definitely never look at any other man’s private parts in any other way but purely accidental (like HERE and HERE).  Should you need to actually engage someone in conversation (which is not recommended, for the record – see Rule #9 of The Locker Room Commandments), one should lock their gaze straight ahead to a neutral position such as another locker, the ground, bench, or the ceiling, anywhere but the other dudes junk…no matter how impressive or intimidating.

4. Thou shalt not poke, pick, prod or otherwise fondle their junk.

I get it, its Man’s inherent nature to explore himself when naked.  But for the love of God, do it at home.  Light some candles; put a little ‘Smooth Operator’ on, whatever, but do it quietly and do it where others have no opportunity to bear witness.

5. Thou shalt practice water conservation.

The most common violation in terms of the future of mankind is allowing the water to run while shaving. It is an insidious, entitled habit which will doom all of humanity to a future of drought and privation.

It also poisons the locker room dynamic.  On the one hand, there is the shaver, perhaps blithe but nonetheless sinning.  Then there is the observer (i.e. myself), for whom the endless stream of water is an insult, representing, as it does, a conception of nature that is at once exploitative and deeply harmful. There can be no verbal admonishments in the locker room so the observer is left to swallow bitterly his outrage and cast dirty looks in the mirror.  Do not let the water run while you shave.  Don’t be an asshole.  Think of the children.

6. Thou shalt not touch another man’s faucet.

Nuff said (click HERE)…

7. Thou shalt not readth the daily scripture in the shitter.

Seriously, guys who like to hang out in the toilets all day with the daily news need to be rounded up and systematically sterilized.  Most of us when we hit the gym are time crunched so when Mother Nature calls we don’t want to spend the better part of our workout time waiting for these dipshits to read the Sports pages while they squeeze out their daily strangle.  Get in, do your business, get the fuck out.  And clean up after yourselves for God sakes!

If you want to hang out and catch up on all the daily gossip and developing headlines over a lingering bowel movement, stay the fuck home and do it in the comforts of your own bathroom as the rest of us simply want to take a shit.

8. Thou shalt conduct thyneself respectfully in all locker politics, both pre and post shower.

There are only two parties in the locker room: the Occupier of said space and the Desirer of it. The property of these two men is often in adjacent lockers. Once the Occupier becomes aware of the Desirer, he must make a good faith effort to step aside. Depending on what stage he is in, this might mean continuing with an increased clip or, and this is what often does not happen, grabbing what few remaining items he has left and relocating within the same aisle to allow the Desirer, in turn, to become the Occupier.

As for the Desirer, he must have patience and prudence. If there is no space to access one’s locker, or even if there is but none to perform the act of drying and dressing, he must wait. However, he may adopt the slightly bored but nonetheless recognizably covetous look as to indicate he is waiting.

(Note: There is a 90-second grace period for both sides.)

9. Thou shalt towel himself off thoroughly and quickly in the shower area.

Toweling off from a shower is perhaps the most important element in locker room etiquette for, from it, follow a host of complications. If one does not dry off one’s feet before one return’s to one’s locker, the trail of water will trigger the impulse of other members to place their bags onto the benches and thereby making the politics between Occupier and Desirer more strained.  Likewise, if one does not properly dry off ones balls, penis and butt area, this might lead to butt-in-face problems later on so drying off must be done quickly and thoroughly in the close proximity of (or even inside) the shower itself prior to accessing the locker room.

10. Thou shalt not pee in the shower.

This was recognized in my previous Locker Room Commandments (actually, it came up on lists of other commandments as well) but it’s worth reiterating again.  When I see a yellow rivulet heading toward the drain in a communal shower, there is not enough bleach in the world to make me stop screaming.

11. Thou shalt not whistle, hum or sing in the shower.

I get it, you’re hap-hap-fucking-happy with how your workout went but, still, don’t.  It’s creepy.  You’re not loitering on a street corner somewhere trying to spot your next mark* are you?  No.  So, unless you’re about to break out into some dance with your buddies, cut with the whistling bullshit will ya?

12. Thou shalt not make unnecessary noises whilst showering.

Unless they are auditioning for an Oil of Olay commercial, no one needs to make all those moaning and groaning noises.  Sure it feels good, we get it.  But they don’t also need to make with the “ooo’s” and “ahhh’s” …that shit is creepy.

13. Thou shalt not wear a shower cap.

Seriously, grandma?

14. Thou shalt not use a bar of soap.

In today’s day and age, there is no need to bring your soap to the shower in bar form; especially given that we’ve all likely seen the same prison films.  Use a shower gel instead, like Axe Body Wash, and never use gels and lotions with less-than-masculine sounding fragrances like ‘Evening Primrose’, ‘Glacial Mist’, or ‘Lilac Explosion’.  If it doesn’t smell like a mix of alcohol and ball sweat, it is likely off limits for your usage.

In the unfortunate circumstance where you have in fact, “dropped the soap”, do not bend over to retrieve it.  Instead perform a quick, protected squat in order to retrieve your item and spare everyone around you that awkward moment.

15. Thou shalt not insert thyne phallus into any random hole or openings of any sort.

I don’t know what it is about some men, but whenever they see a hole in something they immediate begin to wonder what it’d be like to stick their dick in it.  This type of behavior has no place in the gym, the locker room, and the shower room especially – anywhere actually as this never ends up terribly well for anyone in real life scenarios so leave it for the amateur porn videos, fellas.’

*Unless it’s ‘The Colonel’s Bogie‘ in which case, it is absolutely mandatory that it be completed through to the very end and that everybody join in with you.

Meowing up the Wrong Tree

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:

Nada.

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

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.

Coyotes.

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.

Easy.

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.

2. Haze the coyote until it leaves the area.

 

Haze?

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

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.

Myself?

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.

No.

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.

FML.

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…

Pointless.

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.

Getting the Raw End of the Crocodile

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.

“Stop me if you think you’ve heard this one before…” (Part 9)

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.

Beautiful.

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!

Oh.

Shit.

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.

FML.

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.

(Bitches)

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…

For the Triathlete That Has Everything (Part 5)