Fuck you, Sigma!

WARNING: This post contains scenes of graphic violence and coarse language. Viewer discretion is strongly advised.

I absolutely hate – HATE – Sigma bike computers.

Hate isn’t even a strong enough word.  Let’s just say that I suspect that Sigma was actually designed and run by Nazi’s.  Hey, their home office is located in Neustadt, Germany, so it’s not exactly out of the question.

But, I digress.

Maybe I need to fill you in on a little back history first.

When I first started cycling and invested in my first wireless bike computer, Sigma seemed to be the only option. Most of my peers owned one and rightly so seeing that Sigma was the most prominent product on the shelves in any cycling shop. So, not knowing my ass from my elbow when it came to bike computers and available technology, I just went with the flow and purchased what everybody else had and, thus, started this whole frustrating downward spiral with Sigma.

In all fairness though, it started off okay. The computer tracked (and displayed) all the usual data when you ride: my distance, cadence, speed, time, etc.  In fact, it was probably tracking things I didn’t even know it was tracking and, likely, didn’t give two shits about either.  So that was probably my only major complaint at the time in that it had too many “functions” of which I would never really use and you practically needed an advanced engineering degree to actually use the damn thing.  I mean, seriously, who knew that something that only had four buttons would be so bloody confusing to use?  Does anyone even pay attention to “Trip A”, or Trip B” information?

But, hey, that’s hardly reason to hate something.

That all started later…

After about a year, the battery on the Sigma inevitably died and I had to get the battery replaced.  Even with my limited technical abilities, I managed to do swap out the new battery (albeit with the mandatory amount of cursing and swearing) and I even managed to get to get the computer to sync with the wheel sensor – winning! – however, it wouldn’t go into “Sleep” mode and just kept flashing repetitively, meaning that the battery would soon just die out again.  Usually, after 5 minutes or so the computer will go into a Sleep state to prevent the battery from running down.  At least it did before anyway.  Huh.

A quick scan through the product manual and, yeah, it’s all in German, so, fuck…no help there.

FML.

I decided to try and remedy the situation by contacting their online Support team directly, as recommended in the website.  Maybe they could suggest a very easy fix and save me the panicky trip into the bike shop.

Here is my original email:

“Hi Sigma. I successfully synced my Sigma bike computer to my wheel sensor but it will not go into “sleep” mode and keeps flashing. What can I do to fix this situation?”

After eight days, I finally got a reply from Chad:

“The computer will never turn off completely. It does go into sleep mode that will show the clock on the screen.”

Umm, thanks?

I tried again:

“Thanks Chris, I understand that. That’s what it was doing before but now that I have changed the battery, it will not go back into sleep mode. It just keeps flashing? Any suggestions?”

Another four days goes by before I get Chris’ reply:

“I will go into sleep mode after 5 minutes.”

 

The fuck?

He’s kidding, right?

I replied:

“It’s not doing that, Chris. Otherwise I would not be emailing you for help. It keeps flashing and will NOT go into sleep mode. Please help.”

 

Two days later, again from Chris:

“You will see a clock on the screen when it goes into sleep mode.”

 

At this point, I’m totally losing my shit.

Me:

“You’re totally fucking with me, right?”

 

There are no other responses from Chris as, clearly, we have experienced a complete and total communication breakdown.

Time for Plan B.

I bring the whole fucking bike (and computer) into the good people at Liberty! (who, for the record, didn’t sell me this piece of shit in the first place). Hopefully, they could figure out this total computer clusterfuck and get it to go into ‘Sleep’ mode properly.  Unfortunately, they couldn’t and only agreed with my original diagnosis: Sigma sucks.

I opted right then and there to get out of my current relationship with Sigma and upgraded (or, actually, downgraded since it was even cheaper than the Sigma) to a more reliable bike computer from Cats Eye instead.  Money well spent, if you ask me.

Fuck you and good riddance Sigma, you worthless piece of Nazi shit!

So, that left only one important piece of business to attend to:

Confronting Pedestrian Assholery

Lord knows that I have my road rage moments as cyclist, specifically now that the mindless hordes of tourists have invaded my otherwise quiet rural paradise (click HERE), and would LOVE to get off my bike and make with the roundhouse kicks.  Of course, that doesn’t typically happen. In the past have dealt with dogs, idiot drivers, scooters and e-bikes, crazy ass chipmunks, rutting animals and other hazards unique to living in the country (click HERE) but yesterday I faced another different challenge: the idiot pedestrian.

There I was, joyfully zipping through town during one of my weekly bike rides.  Despite the new bi-laws that have been passed recently (click HERE) in regards to motor vehicles giving cyclists a wide birth, I still choose to sometimes ride in the middle of the road (as long as I’m not holding up traffic), particularly when passing through town where there are lots of parked cars, etc.  I mean, why tempt fate right?

So such was the case yesterday.

While doing so, I noticed an older lady up ahead waiting by the side of the road with her dog looking to cross the road.  She wasn’t at an intersection or any of the numerous pedestrian crosswalks that are in town, no, she was just there on the sidewalk waiting to cross to the other side.  She looked right me (several times as a matter of fact) so I know she saw me coming.  She never moved and continued to keep her gaze on me so I figured I was safe to keep going and she’d continue crossing safely after I had passed.  After all, I had the right of way right?

Wrong.

Then it happened.

Just as I approached within a couple of feet she decides to step out directly…in…front…of…me.

The fuck?!

I immediately swerved out of her way, narrowly missing both her and the oncoming car in the opposite lane.

What the hell?

Concerned, I circled back to make sure everything was okay.  I don’t know why exactly, but I felt obligated to do so seeing as she was older.  When I reached her she immediately took on an immediate heir of exasperated indignance like it was *I*  that had done something wrong.

“You really need to watch where you’re going!”, she loudly proclaimed so that the whole street could hear.

I was flabbergasted.

“You walked right out in front of me!  Didn’t you see me coming?”

I was trying to be nice.

Then she added:

“Yes, but you were going too fast!”

I’m pretty sure at this point that steam started spewing from my ears and I briefly considered hopping off the bike to dropkick her right in the cooter, but other pedestrians had started to gather after her first loud proclamation and, hey, when people who haven’t really seen what happened what happened, witness a cyclist losing his shit on old lady and her little rat fuck of a dog, well, who are you going to assume is the bad guy?  There was simply not going to be any winning of this situation so I retreated on down the road fuming.

Of course, social media being the wonderful platform it is now enables me to give her (you) the response I would have loved to have given her in the moment had others not been around.

First off, in regard to her first comment: “You really need to watch where you’re going”,  the pure fact that you’re now on the opposite side of the road uninjured lends proof that I WAS paying attention you old biddy.  What’s your excuse exactly?  You watched me coming.  I know this because you took a tentative step out into the road when I was still a ways off and when you turned that empty melon you call a head to look in my direction, you hesitated and remained on the sidewalk because you saw me coming.  You then proceeded to track my progress as I got closer and closer until I was about 10-15 ft away. It was then you decided that it was safe to start your crossing.  How stupid are you anyway?

Did you think that you were impervious to being hit, or that life was giving you the immediate right of way?  What?   Help me understand.  By the way, there was a pedestrian crosswalk not far up the road where you could have crossed safely having the right of way and I would have stopped happily to let you do so.

Just sayin’…

Secondly, as far as “you were going too fast” goes, I was holding a 34km/h pace in a 50km/h zone in the MIDDLE of the road so, no, I was not in fact going too fast. Maybe you ride at a snails’ pace when you ride your bike to market or, say, during tornadoes, but I “cycle” meaning that I keep a fairly steady pace.  So stepping out in front of me while I’m hauling ass means I’m going to hit you if you’re not lucky. I can’t stop on a dime any more than any other vehicle on the road at the time can.

In fact,  had I been driving a car you and your pooch would be dead right now.

Chew on that.

And on that point, while I definitely believe that my (or anyone else for that matter) running you over would have significantly contributed to the enrichment of the gene pool and advancement of the human species – I am a big believer in Darwinism in its most basic of forms – I do feel sorry for your dog that you inevitably walked directly into harm’s way. I mean, what was your thought process exactly?

I can’t help but wonder what else you coax this poor mutt into doing?

“C’mon poochy, lets jump into this erupting volcano, it’ll be okay.”

“C’mon poochy, let’s drink this battery acid, nothing bad will happen.”

“C’mon poochy, don’t worry about that oncoming transport truck, I’m sure it’ll stop.”

Run dog, run.

Sometimes there’s just no helping stupid.

“10 Things Triathletes Do that Piss Cyclists Off” (A Rebuttal)

(Disclaimer: More often than not, I think cycling purists are great people and I’m proud to consider them as my friends and peers. So this post then is more a response to those few “cyclists” who might feel the way the author of this particular article feels. And for the record, I believe they are in the extreme minority.)

I have become aware that there is a rift that exists between triathletes and cyclists.  I’m not really sure why or how this rift ever developed exactly but it’s definitely there.  More correctly, the rift seems to be mostly directed at the triathlete specifically by cyclist “purists” who don’t seem to like us much.  I’m not sure why really. We both ride bikes (probably a lot), are dedicated to the sport we love which, in both cases, involves bikes.  Why all the negativity then?  I don’t get it.

Most recently I came across an article posted by Tri Swim Coach on Facebook entitled “10 Things Triathletes Do that Piss Cyclists Off” that was originally posted to the “About Boulder” website which proudly advertises “Your One-stop Shop for Everything Boulder”  which, I guess, includes hating on triathletes, but I digress. I find it weird you would find a ‘cyclist vs. triathlete’ post on a tourism website but, hey, not much else about the post made any sense either so, yeah, you just knew it was going to be juicy.

The author (Ryan Petry) starts off by stating:

“Triathletes try to be the master of three sports, and I get it, that is annoying. We are like that girl you went to high school with who was the president of the student government, captain of the basketball team, and voted homecoming queen.”

Annoying?

Really?

Maybe we do tend to be a bit ambitious given we’re trying to master three sports at once as he puts it but, clearly, Ryan was too busy playing with himself under the bleachers at lunchtime in high school to ever accomplish much and he’s a bit bitter about it.  That’s not our fault.  His lack of ambition or drive is not our problem is it?  Anyway, he then goes on to list his 10 grievances to validate his ridiculous claim which, I would like to go on the record here and now in addressing.

1. Riding with a sleeveless jersey.

Really?

That’s your first and major complaint: what we’re wearing?  Are you really that shallow?

I guess you are.

He states that:

“sleeveless jerseys are acceptable under two circumstances: You are in a race and just got done swimming, or if… actually there are no other acceptable times”

Does he have a problem with bare shoulders or something?  Hey bud, this is North America not Afghanistan, so when it comes to what we choose to wear we have full freedom to decide for ourselves.  So what I decide to wear is my choice and should be of little consequence to you.

Maybe we should wear a burkha?  Would that make you happy?

2. Talking about the other workouts they that day

First of all, if you have a genuine gripe you should at least put the effort into articulating yourself correctly so that the rest of us can understand you.  Oh, that’s right.  You were under the bleachers in high school.  I forgot.  Maybe I should just assume then that all cyclists are born morons who can’t string an intelligent sentence together to save their lives?  I don’t, of course.

Anyway, assuming you’re bitching about our discussing our other workouts that (we) might have had  that day, is this any different than listening to you wax on about your endless hill repeats, wattage output or the last century ride you did last week?

Oh, and by the way, you could try  to “smack us” as you suggest but be aware that any triathlete is just likely to smack you back into the Stone Age given that your wimpy arm strength is probably akin to that of an uncooked spaghetti noodle. Maybe you should quit resting on the laurels of your sole workout that day and take up swimming or running yourself.

Just sayin’…

3. Riding their triathlon bike on a group ride

Okay, so I’m giving Ryan a pass here as I actually agree with him but not because “triathletes are notorious poor bike handlers”  as he suggests.  Actually, one has to wonder if he has ever ridden a time trial bike at all.  You see, you actually need to be a decent bike handler in order to ride a time trial bike efficiently and since we’ve likely spent a stupid amount of time them we’re probably pretty good at it. It doesn’t sound to me like he has so I won’t beat this one to death.

I do agree with his statement though that “triathlon bikes are built so that you can ride alone more efficiently” , so that doesn’t make them 100% safe to ride with other cyclists in close proximity since we cannot respond to changes in the group as quickly and efficiently as if we were upright on a road bike.  And seeing as I have ridden with a lot of shitty road cyclists, I do not feel safe riding my tri-bike on a group ride and would never do so.

4. Not wearing socks

Again, our choice of “fashion” is your major complaint here?  Are you that obsessive compulsive about what other people prefer to wear?  For the record, not wearing socks doesn’t automatically give you blisters or athlete’s foot, not washing properly does.

But, seriously, why does this even matter to you at all?

5. Brick workouts

“Running after biking is an important part of training, but knowing that after your 4 hour bike ride you are going for a 10 mile run makes even the hardest working cyclist feel lazy.”

That’s our problem, how?

6. Riding dirty, poorly maintained bikes

Umm, anyone who has ever wandered through the transition zone at a triathlon will already know that those bikes are typically spotless.  And since triathletes probably spent more money on their bikes then they did on their own vehicles, they’re usually pretty meticulous in keeping them maintained.  Conversely, how many “cyclists” have you met that will shown up to a group ride on a bike their grandmother probably used to ride back and forth to market?  Even this isn’t really an issue, mind you, providing it’s been maintained properly, but I think there are more self-proclaimed “cyclists” on farm bikes than there are triathletes on poorly maintained bikes.

Likewise, given Ryan seems to have a very particular idea of what cyclists are supposed to wear, so isn’t this gripe a bit hypocritical anyway?

Oh, and while I’m on the subject, I have another semi-related comment to make here to.  I absolutely LOVE when other cyclists judge me for what I ride – a Trek 1000 that is about 20 years old meaning it’s not the lightest, sleekest, fanciest or mechanically advanced bike on the road.  In fact, it’s about 10-12 lbs heavier than anything else most other cyclist purists are riding.  But you can’t buy speed, can you?  So don’t roll your eyes at me when you see my bike.  Its design or worth have nothing to do with how fast it goes…I DO.  And I love nothing more than dropping “cyclists” on their fancy $10,000 carbon fiber rocket ships to make that very point.  Every time I beat one of these judgmental cyclists up a hill or in a sprint on my heavier, less “pretty” dinosaur of a road bike I steal a bit of their soul.

Judge not you egotistical bastards.

7. Posting swims on Strava

“Strava may offer options to upload your swim workouts, but it is pretty silly when you think about it. All you are saying to your cyclist followers is “look how much I work out”. Don’t go taking their KOM’s either or they will really freak.”

So using the provided options is “silly”?

Okay.

Whatever you say, chief!

But, again, if our workout schedule upsets you bud, maybe you should consider getting out from in front of the boob tube and – you know – pick it up a bit, especially if we’re stealing all your KOM’s.

8. Using weird bike accessories

“Mini aero bars on your road bike, special compartments to hold your gels, water bottle holders behind your seat, and other race specific items. So not pro.”

Umm, it kinda is.  Especially since we’re probably riding 5-6 hours and we typically don’t like to stop at Tim Horton’s or Starbucks every 15 minutes for a “pit stop”.

9. Compression socks

“These socks are great for recovery, but going to dinner or riding your bike in them is frowned upon by pretty much everyone.”

Again with the fashion?

That’s almost 1/3 of your bitches about triathletes being about what they’re wearing.  Who named you the Ralph Lauren of cycling anyway?  Or are you just like the little boy in grade school who torments the girls with whom you have a crush on?  I think Ryan is beginning to display some deeper issues here.

10. Ironman tattoos.

I earned my M-Dot and I’m proud of it (click HERE).  Maybe you should consider getting a Starbucks tattoo on your calf to commemorate your many stops for coffee during your own cycling workouts?  I find it interesting though that you apparently spend a lot of time staring at other dudes calves.  Maybe you should spend less time bitching and take your turn at the front of the group.

Again, just sayin’…

What this all boils down to for me is that I don’t really consider myself a “triathlete”, but instead a swimmer, a runner and a “cyclist” exclusively of one another.  I also recognize that haters are gonna hate, hate, hate, hate so I’m just going to shake, shake, shake, shake it off.  Why can’t we all just get along?

Happy riding, Ryan.

Rap Battle: Mountain Biker vs. Road Biker

I know it’s probably poor blogging form (not to mention severely lacking in creativity on my part) to post back-to-back video posts, but this was simply too good to pass up.

Enjoy.

Avoiding Cujo

I’ve discussed before some of the hazards of living and training in the country (click HERE) and yesterday during one of my bike rides – while not unique to the country – I discovered another: dogs.

It happens to every cyclist at some time or other.  Dogs are to cyclists what asshole drivers are to runners I expect.  Sooner or later you’re going to encounter them.  This certainly wasn’t the first time I’ve been chased by dogs and it probably won’t be the last either, but it was definitely one of the more, well, memorable…let’s put it that way.

It all happened innocently enough.

Sometimes when I’m out riding I like to explore a bit.  Lord knows there’s lots of room to roam out here with vast stretches of country roads, rural access routes, and hidden fire lanes; endless miles of them to be exact.  Each season I discover all new roads and even entire subdivisions that I never knew existed previously, and yesterday was one of these easy exploration rides where I don’t really have a predetermined route and I simply let the wind take me wherever it wants.

So at one point in my ride I decide to turn left onto a paved fire lane that runs along the lake and, hopefully, over to the next major road that runs parallel to the one I was currently riding (more on that in a moment).  Lots of these fire lanes have lots of really cool and beautiful cottages that I like to lust after so I really enjoy when I find new ones that are safe to take my road bike on. Lots are unpaved unfortunately, so for the time being they remain a mystery.

Except two seconds after turning onto the lane, I am blindsided by Cujo who races up on my left from behind a bush and attempts to take a huge chunk out of my calf.

I’m sure every cyclist knows that instant rush of adrenaline when they realize that they are under attack and that ‘fight or flight’ impulse kicks in.  It plays out in our heads something like this:

“FUCK! PEDAL YOU BASTARD!  PEDAL!!”

So pedal I did…fast.

Except that another three seconds into the getaway and – BAM! – I was blindsided on the right side by Bride of Cujo who suddenly appeared from behind a parked car in the driveway of a house.

Now, remember that these rural fire lanes are very narrow – two cars can hardly pass one another – and here I am smack dab in the middle of a canine ambush; the filling in a ‘FML’ sandwich.

There was no time to douse either of them with my water bottle either as they were already on me and trying to chomp down on my furiously working legs – on either side mind you – so I simply did the only thing I could…I pedaled my ass off!   Eventually, I out-sprinted both curs but not until I had pretty much tapped into my top speed.  Good for me.  Only one problem…the fire lane was a dead end.  It did not connect up to the next major road like I had hoped.

Oh shit.

Fortunately, the dogs had given up the chase and returned to their original ambush positions.  So here’s where it get interesting.

I turned around and pedaled slowly and cautiously up the road looking for any sign of my aggressors. Thankfully, their owner had come out of the house and were standing in the front yard, apparently to see what all the commotion had been about.  Thank Christ.  So I called out to him:

“Hey, can you hold your dog’s so I can pass by?”

Simple request, right?   Surely they’d have no objection, right?  Wrong.  Think again.  The response stunned me.

“Oh, don’t worry. They’re friendly.”

Surely he jests.  Both mutts had just been snarling bloody murder and attempted to devour my legs and I’m supposed to believe they’re friendly?  I know how close I came to being the evening meal, thank you very much.  Ever seen the zombies eat the guts out of a fresh corpse on ‘The Walking Dead‘?

Yeah, that was almost me.

Now, don’t get me wrong, the owner was probably right and I don’t think the dogs were outright vicious.  Except when a dog sees a cyclists’ legs a-spinning away they think: “Oh boy! Get it!”  It’s a game.  It’s ingrained in their DNA.  I understand that. That’s why dogs chase cars.  I get it.  Having said that, I wasn’t about to tempt fate with another pass either, especially with both dogs now standing on guard in the front yard staring me down at full attention.

“I’d rather you held them please”, I hollered back.

Again…fair request, right?  Wrong.

“I said they’re fine. They won’t bite you”  was the response.

I was flabbergasted.

“They sure just tried their best mister”, I responded. “Please, just hold them for me will ya?” 

I was basically pleading by this point.

“Well it was your fault for going too fast. You scared them when you speed up. You were going too fast.”

Surely this fuckstick was joking.

He wasn’t of course.

“I sped up because they were trying to bite me”, I answered back.

What was this guys’ issue with holding his dogs anyway?  Who does that?  I’m being nice here, aren’t I? So here I am trapped in a dead end lane being held hostage by Captain Numbnuts and his Hounds from Hell.

Awesome.

Again the dipshit countered with the incredulous reply: “I said they’re friendly.”

Now, just because you say they’re friendly doesn’t necessarily mean it’s so and the chances are that he just missed seeing his pooches trying to make short work of my legs altogether, so I’m not at all confident about my chances of riding past them again safely.  So by now I’m pissed and feeling pretty threatened.

“Clearly you missed them chasing and nipping at me.  Look, hold your damn dogs…please!”

I admit it…I was losing my cool and just wanted this standoff to finish so I could go on my way.

“Remember, you’re a guest here”, he said.

Is he fucking kidding me?  This is fucking ridiculous.  Since when am I a “guest” simply by riding down a road?  Public roads are public thoroughfares…for everybody…I don’t have to be fucking invited.  I might have pointed out that if I was in fact a ‘guest’, then holding me hostage at the end of the road surely wasn’t going to win him any hospitality awards but I thought better of it.  I doubt he would have saw the irony in it anyway.

Anyway, by this time, seeing as how this exchange was happening some 100m  apart, his wife had now appeared on the scene and decided to join the verbal foray.

“They just don’t know you. You should have stopped to get to know them”, she quipped angrily.

Oh.  My.  Fucking.  God.

And when was this exchange of pleasantries supposed to occur, before or after they had feasted on me?  Likewise, by that same logic, if I stopped at every house on my runs and rides on the off chance they had a dog I should first make friends with so that I could pass safely then I’d never get any freakin’ where.  My brain was starting to spiral out of control.

“Look, are you going to hold you dogs or not?”, I asked.

“I said before, they’re friendly. I don’t need to”.

So what choice did I have?  I figured I had to call his bluff, except, I had literally clipped in and took two slow pedal strokes carefully in their direction when Cujo bolted back out into the road to block my path once again growling menacingly.  Clearly he was not done with this game yet.  I stopped.  What had we had now was a classic Mexican standoff in the middle of nowhere.  Of all the times not  to have a cell phone.

“Look, if you don’t control your dog I’m calling the Humane Society.  Whether you like it or not I am allowed to ride on this road, your dogs, however, are not allowed to roam free off leash and chase people.  It’s your choice!”

I was bluffing of course as I don’t carry a cell.

It’s not what I wanted to say, of course, but I also didn’t want to end up as the pu pu platter for his pooches either.  I would have rather told him what a vapid idiot I thought he was and proceed to dropkick him in the nut sack, but being out here in God knows where, well, I also don’t want my genitals to end up as a wind chime on his front porch either.

Thankfully, he idiot grabbed his mutt just before it decided to lunge at me again and his wife followed suite with the other dog.  I took the opportunity to sprint past, but not without seeing the dog practically drag its owner down the street after me.  But at least I was free.

Now don’t get me wrong…I’m not anti-dog, like, at all.  Dogs will be dogs.  What I am, however, is anti-asshole dog owner.  And these two fucktards just made the shortlist.

So I guess I can cross off that particular fire lane for future riding.

Save

The Dog Shit Dialogue

Yesterday my girlfriend pointed out something completely disturbing to me; something that, for whatever reason, has so far managed to completely allude me.  Remember, I run, cycle and roam this entire area for at least 25k in all directions and, yet, somehow, I have never actually dialed into this heinous circumstance which, as it turns out, is all around.  Just thinking about it now is making me want to hurl.  Shit, I may never be able to run or ride in total peace ever again.

Before I get to the gory details, let’s remember where I live.  I live in Ridgeway, along the shore of Lake Erie and adjacent to Crystal Beach, the “South Coast of Canada”.  It’s beautiful here.  For my runs, there are numerous back roads and through fares along the lake’s edge and out into the surrounding cottage neighborhoods.  There is a lighthouse that I run to regularly and even beaches on which to train, if I so choose.  There is the Friendship Trail, a magnificent paved pathway that follows the old railway line from Port Colborne to Fort Erie.  For cycling, there are endless county roads and the Niagara Parkway that stretches all the way past Niagara Falls into historic Niagara-on-the-Lake and St. Catharines in the south of the Niagara Peninsula, and Lakeshore Rd. which, more or less, follows Lake Erie all the way through Low Banks and into to Dunnville before turning abruptly west towards Port Dover.  Or, I can keep more local and ride the back way into the surrounding townships of Sherkston, Bertie Township, or Stevensville.  Whatever it is I end up doing, let’s just say that I have lots of room to roam.  So, now that this god-awful abomination has been made aware to me I might now just have a tad bit more trouble enjoying any of it.

Are you curious yet?

Here it is:

Yesterday Kelly decided to go for a walk.  I think she went to the store to check some lottery tickets (we’re forever hopeful if anything) and otherwise get out to enjoy the evening while I napped on the couch with the kid while watching ‘The Nature of Things’.  Anyway, upon her return she announced that she was particularly disturbed to see little baggies of dog shit hanging everywhere.  Really?  Why haven’t I noticed these?

“Yes”, she continued.  “There are bags of dog poop hanging from tree branches all along the Friendship Trail.”

It is kind of gross when you think about it, but I also figured that she might be exaggerating just a wee bit given she didn’t stray very far from home, so I decided to check it out today while out for one of my easy afternoon runs.

Low and behold, my sweetheart was not wrong or exaggerating…in the slightest.  Nasty.

That’s not fruit.

There they were, dozens upon dozens of little black and white baggies all neatly strung up to any nearby tree branch which just happened to be within an easy arms reach from the paved trail like some sort of perverted Christmas bauble.  And not just along the paved Friendship Trail either, but along actual wooded streets and roadsides.  Good lord, these bundles of feces were absolutely everywhere!  Maybe I was just choosing not to notice them before, but there will be no avoiding them now.  Gross.

Before today I would have told you that dog walkers here in the area are absolutely fastidious about cleaning up after their pets as it’s very seldom I ever come across a pile of shit, much less a freshly squeezed turd along the trail or roadways.  I do sometimes stumble across (or around for that matter) some country hazards like piles of horse shit out on some of the back roads but that’s entirely expected when out running in farming areas.  But dog shit?  Almost never!  Turns out that while the locals have been great at picking up their dog shit, what they haven’t been so diligent about is actually carrying it home with them, or otherwise disposing it thoughtfully or environmentally.

I get it, I wouldn’t want to carry around a bag of hot dog shit with me either but, hey, that was their decision when they decided to be a dog owner.  What I really don’t get is why bother going through all the indignity and trouble of scooping up their beloved animal’s dooky, only to place it in a specifically allocated plastic bag and then affix it to nearby shrubbery.  That shit makes no fucking sense!  Where is it going to go?  What then?  Is there some sort of “Dog Shit Fairy” that I don’t know about?

Seriously, I spotted enough bags today along the Friendship Trail today to decorate the Times Square Christmas tree.  How’s that for a disturbing image?  Is there some sort of traditional or cultural significance like people will come to whack at them like a piñata or something?  Is this a type of geocaching?  After all, there are garbage cans provided at most entrances and exits to the trail, so why not just ditch them in there?  I’m totally stymied.

The worst thing is that there is absolutely nothing I can really do about it.  I’m hardly going to go collect them all myself and dispose of them, am I?   Shit no!  I’d need a much bigger vehicle than I have now.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to cry foul if dog walkers are letting their pooches poop off to the side of the trail in the woods, etc., that shits organic, besides, squirrels and deer are dropping deuces in there already, so what’s another pile of turd?  Heck, even if you’re going to scoop it up and leave it there to collect on your way back home, okay, maybe, but if you’re conscientious enough to clean it up then, for fuck sakes, do something with it apart from tying it up for all to see and then simply forget about it.  These people deserve a dropkick to the trachea.

Exhibit A, or the ‘Big Bag of Evil’

The worst offender I saw today was a large menacing white bag tied alongside the road with what looked like the end remains from a T-Rex that had obviously been frozen and thawed out about a zillion times in the past few weeks so that it now looked like an enormous water balloon of evil.

Imagine the outcry if I decided to do something like that!  Yeah, picture it: I’m mid-run and suddenly overcome with the urge to pinch a loaf.  Instead of quickening my pace home, stop and farting it out, or suffering the cramps, I decided instead to drop my tights and crap into a plastic shopping bag and then tie it with a bow to the nearest post, tree branch, or fence.  How do you think that’s likely to go over?  Even if I intended to come back and reclaim it to bring home and throw it out in a bin, the act is likely to still be frowned upon.

So what does any of this have to do with running, triathlon, or even a healthy lifestyle?  Well, nothing.  It’s just something that has only recently revealed itself to me that I can begin stressing over now that the nicer weather is back and more and more people are out enjoying it.  It pisses me off now that my nice, relaxing afternoon runs of enjoying the weather and the birds singing also means that I inevitably have to put up with bags of dog shit silently swinging in the breeze as well.

Oh joy.

Surviving “Winter Rage”

• Long Run (click to see stats & route)
• 25k (2:26:05)
• Avg. Heart Rate = 150 bpm
• Max. Heart Rate = 168 bpm
• Avg. Pace = 5:51 /km
• Max. Pace = 4:18 /km
• Calories = 2671
• Temp = -16 º (w/ 90 kph gusts of wind)
• SOTD: ‘Truckin’’ by The Grateful Dead

When it comes to winter running, sometimes I think ‘whatever doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger’, and then sometimes I think ‘you’re an idiot’.  But, hey, training schedules are training schedules and if I changed the plan every time the weather changed for the worse, I’d get nowhere…fast…especially these days.  So when the weather turns really shitty, I bundle up, load up the iPod with good tunes, put on my best brave face, think the happiest of thoughts, and head out anyway; time to get ‘er done.

I’ve discussed before the merits of braving the elements versus playing it safe (click HERE), but things have changed significantly for me since then.  First, I’ve moved into a more rural area.  Once I’m out…I’m pretty much committed as there are no short cuts home.  In fact, sometimes the way back might prove to be even more treacherous than sticking to the planned route.  Furthermore, sometimes the weather takes a turn for the nasty while  you’re out and now you have no choice but to ‘embrace the suck’ and continue on.  Secondly, I’m infinitely tougher, both mentally and physically, than I was back when I first contemplated this dilemma so I’m less likely to pack it in or abandon my run altogether if it’s not, like, 100% impossible outside (think: tornadoes, volcanoes, lightning storms, real ‘End of the World’ type stuff).  But that’s not necessarily a good thing either.

Anyway, I have noticed one peculiar thing lately while out braving the winter weather and, honestly, it doesn’t really have much to do with me, like, at all.  Living out here in Ridgeway, I have found most people – motorists I’m talking about – to be very be respectful of runners.  I chalk it up to being out more in the rural countryside versus the normal rat race lifestyle of the city.  For the most part, drivers slow down, move over and otherwise let me pass safely.  That’s awesome.  I typically offer a friendly wave as a thank you as I like to propagate that kind of behavior and, more often than not, that gesture is returned with a smile and a similar wave.  But, when the weather turns shitty, those return waves are not always given quite so willy-nilly anymore.  No, suddenly, there is a chill in the air and I don’t just mean in the air temperature either.  In fact, my friendly gesture of thanks is now typically returned by a vigorous shaking of the head as if to say ‘what an idiot’  or – quite often – that universally recognized one-finger salute; yup, by those same people.  So, besides the weather, what’s changed to orchestrate such a turnaround in attitude?

While I will agree from time to time that I am, in fact, an idiot for being out in the conditions I am sometimes, does that really deserve such an angry 360° response by motorists?  Hey, I pay city taxes like everybody else and – last I heard anyway – I have every right to use those same roads that motorists do, whether I’m driving, running, or cycling for that matter.  Shit, I can crawl through the streets if I chose to.  Besides, it doesn’t seem to be a problem when the weather is nice, so what’s their beef all of a sudden when the weather is not so nice?  It is ‘all bets are off’ and we assume a ‘survival of the fittest’, or ‘every man for himself’  kind of mentality?  Surely that can’t be the case is it?

Is it because I have to sometimes run a little further out in the road since typically the roadsides are either covered in 2ft. snow drifts or coated in 2 inches of icy slop?  Is that the issue?  Or is it because the motorists are suddenly, for whatever reason, in a huge hurry to get somewhere that they otherwise wouldn’t have to be when it’s nice out and having to slow down a wee bit for me is some enormous inconvenience?  And why is it that motorists seem to be driving faster than usual on shitty weather days?  I mean, it slippery as fuck out, shouldn’t you be slowing down anyway?  That’s the SMART thing to do.  Seriously, I had a pick-up truck pass by so close to me today going at least 30km/h  faster than the speed limit allows.  Where’s the sense in that?  And I get the big ‘fuck you’  thrown in my face?  Huh?  Really?

Once, I even had a passing driver stop altogether, roll down the window and proceed to scream at me for even being out in the first place.  I guess when it snows, unless you have a vehicle, you’re not allowed to leave the home.  His logic seemed to stem that I shouldn’t be running against traffic but on the other side with the traffic.  Yeah, right!  Hey, asshole, given there are morons out there like you with no respect for my safety, I tend to prefer having you well in my sights as you approach rather than take the chance of you sneaking up behind me and mowing me down.  Capeesh?  Your behavior actually validates that I made the right choice about which side of the road to run on.  And it’s not like there are sidewalks out here 95% of the time so, yes, I run on the road against traffic and I do make every attempt to get onto the side of the road for passing motorists, but sometimes that’s just not possible when the weather is shitty.  Hey, blame Mother Nature…not me.

I guess their argument is that it’s not safe to be out at all.  Maybe that’s it?  But I look at it like this now, if it’s so unsafe to be out…why are they?  Am I supposed to curb my activity so everyone else can carry on with theirs without the inconvenience of my (seemingly) getting in their way?  Maybe, they’re in my way?  It’s all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?  What I do know, is that taking hairpin corners on country roads in excess of the speed limit isn’t particularly safe either is it?  No.  Likewise, if I took to assuming that logic of not leaving the house because it was “unsafe”, I’d never leave the house.  ‘Fitness’, after all, is not just acquired in the nice weather.

Let’s get something straight, you don’t have to agree with me on this – like at all – that’s okay.  But, hey, that also doesn’t give you (the driver) the right to suddenly turn into the Grim Reaper and throw caution to the wind in regards to my safety.  Don’t be a jack ass.  Think.

Personally, I just don’t see why we all can’t all just agree to slow down when the weather turns foul, be safe, and get to and from wherever we’re going, despite how we might choose to get there, and simply arrive alive?  Why the winter rage?

The Gordon Ramsay Rhubarb

It’s my opinion that you can do just about anything at Chapters.  You can go and practice your tuba and nobody will so much as bat an eyelash in your direction, so if I can go and grab a vanilla Rooibos tea from the adjacent Starbucks and flip through some triathlon magazines for free, excellent.  Hey, it’s Friday night and I’m a free man having already dropped the child off at her fathers and Kelly is at work, so it’s the perfect opportunity to catch up on some reading.

Life is good.

Except, that what I found on the cover of the first Triathlon Magazine I grabbed was none other than – *ahem* – Gordon Ramsay?

Surely they jest.

But, no, there he was grinning smugly across the aero bars of a bike that – alone – could finance feeding a small starving country.  Apparently, unless the headline isn’t trying to deceive me, “Ramsay may be able to handle the heat of Hell’s Kitchen, but is he prepared for Kona?’  Wait, Gordon Ramsay is racing Kona?

Pardon me, but, how the fuck did that happen?

Please somebody, enlighten me.  How did this come about?  To my knowledge, there is only four ways that somebody can compete on the sacred Queen K and Ali’i Drive during the Ironman World Championship and I haven’t heard Ramsay of doing any of them.  Yes, it’s a sad day for the sport when it’s more about who you are and not how you qualified to enter the biggest race in the world of triathlon.

First and most obviously, one can compete at Kona after having qualified at another Ironman competition.  About 80 percent of the participants at the Ironman World Championship get there by qualifying at another 140.6-mile race.  Qualifying is possible at each of Ironman’s full-distance races around the world.  The number of qualifying slots at each race varies, but it’s usually somewhere between 40 and 100 slots with most Ironman races having approximately 50 slots.  Each race is divided into age groups, and qualifying slots are handed out by placement in one of those groups.  That means, of course, that someone actually has to get out there, have their ass kicked on another course and earn themselves the opportunity to do it all over again against the worlds’ finest later in the year.

Did Ramsay do that?

No.

Apparently, he was scheduled to race in Ironman New Zealand earlier this year but had to drop out due to injury so, no chance of him qualifying as an age grouper there unless you consider ‘pussy’ an age group.

Huh.

Secondly, some there’s also a chance to qualify for Kona with a strong showing at select Ironman 70.3 races.  While most 70.3 races do not have Kona slots to give away, a few do.  In total, it makes up about 10% of the Kona entries.  In 2013, the qualifying 70.3 races were:

• Ironman 70.3 European Championships (30 slots)
• Ironman 70.3 Auckland (30 slots)
• Ironman 70.3 Eagleman (30 slots)
• Ironman 70.3 Hawaii (72 slots)
• Ironman 70.3 Japan (30 slots)
• Ironman 70.3 St. Croix (30 slots)

That’s great but, unfortunately, ‘ol Gordo didn’t race in any of those neither.  He did race in the World’s Ironman 70.3 Championship in Las Vegas, Nevada recently though.  Now how that  fucking happened is also anybody’s guess but, given his finishing time of 6:38:36, it’s doubtful that he qualified for Kona there either – even with the roll down.

The mystery intensifies.

Another way to qualify for Kona is through the Ironman lottery system, which saves 200 entries, about 10%, for aspiring triathletes.  Of those, 100 go to legacy lottery winners. Now, it just isn’t that simple either – no – to qualify for the Legacy lottery, an athlete has to meet all four of these requirements:

• Has never raced in Kona (nope)
• Has completed at least 12 full-distance Ironman races (yeah…no)
• Has completed an Ironman race in each of the last two years (umm, nope again)
• Is registered for an Ironman race for the year they are trying to gain Kona entry (‘fraid not)

The other 100 lottery slots do not have such restrictions.

In fact, anyone can sign up for the general lottery one time per year, though an athlete who’s a member of Ironman’s Passport Club can get a second entry.  In addition, if you’ve signed up for the lottery multiple years in a row, your chances of getting selected will increase.

Okay, so maybe here’s a potential angle on how Ramsay achieved Kona as anyone selected in the lottery only has to complete an Ironman or Ironman 70.3 event within one year of Kona itself to validate their slot which he did in Vegas; however lackluster a performance.  Although, it must also be said that it’s not exactly a little known fact that the general lottery is a pretty huge longshot.

In the past, Ironman has disclosed that more than 7,000 athletes might apply for the Ironman lottery each year.  So at those odds, about 98% won’t get picked.  So unless Ramsay also happens to be the luckiest bastard on the face of the earth, I’m choosing to believe that this wasn’t the way he got to Kona either.

So that leaves the charity slots.  Hey, got money?  You’ve got a shot an at entry!  Each year, Ironman auctions off four entries on eBay with proceeds benefiting the Ironman Foundation. In the past, the entries have been gobbled up for a price tag of more than $40,000. Is this how Ramsay got in?  Surely he’s got the dough, right?  Except, nowhere can I find that this is actually the case and, believe me, I tried.  I mean, if you’re sponsoring a particular charity why wouldn’t you advertise that and instead keep it a secret?  Unless…..he just purchased a slot.  Or worse yet, he was simply “invited”.

I guess we’ll never know.

What I do know is that this whole shit show really rubs me worse than an ill-fitting wetsuit.  It’s no secret at this point that I’ve made it a life goal to qualify for Kona and I plan on doing it the old fashioned way by actually qualifying, and the odds aren’t exactly in my favor to do so.  I get that.  I also realize I’m not the only one with that particular dream.  So you can imagine my dismay at seeing Chef Ramsay on the cover of a popular triathlon magazine (not to mention the numerous videos on YouTube and other popular social media sites) already proclaiming to be an ‘Ironman’ and how excited he is to get the official ‘tattoo’.

What a farce.

Sure, he lost some weight and now advocates a healthy lifestyle but does that really earn him a chance to race with the worlds’ greatest when there are others out there busting their ass trying to accomplish the impossible?

I think not.

It’s a dark day indeed.

Hey forget all that training and competing bullshit, all I need to do now is get rich and famous – maybe host a television show or two – and before you know it, SHAZAM!  I’m in like Ramsay!

Cycling in Hindsight

I have recently acquired a new piece of equipment that has instantly become integral to my training plan this year and no doubt, will become a source of debate on our next group ride but, first, a little background.

A few seasons ago, a member of my TryForce group – let’s call him, Doug –  showed up to one of our organized group rides with this odd piece of equipment affixed to his sunglasses and was instantly on the receiving end of a flurry of good-natured ribbing from the rest of us.  Now, Doug is an accomplished cyclist and Ironman and someone who I hold in high regard and yet, just showing up with this weird thingamabob as part of his riding kit, was not, well, shall we say, immediately understood.  So, apparently, both roadies and triathletes alike tend to frown on using gizmos of this nature – this gizmo specifically.  And seeing as how triathletes are like the Batman of the athletic world in that they lust after and collect all types of crap, I found it surprising that anyone would actively voice such doubt about it.  After all, we’re talking about people here who will willingly wear aero helmets with tight, form fitting clothes so that they look almost alien-like as they cruise along on their customized $10,000 carbon fiber rocket ships.  So where this instant skepticism comes from I have no idea.  I felt for Doug, but I didn’t instantly run out and buy one for myself either…until this year.

In case, you haven’t figured it out, I’m talking about a helmet mounted rear view mirror for cycling.  I know, I know – *gasp* – you don’t actually wear one of those things do you?!  Horror of all horrors!  Well, yes, I do…now.  And I love it.  It’s actually mounted on the frame of my sunglasses and enables me to see what moolyak in a Dodge Caravan (sorry, Saskia) might be careening towards me from behind.  I think of it now as my ‘advance warning system’ while I’m out riding.  I mean, if rear view mirrors are mandatory for all other modes of vehicular transport, what’s the big deal on a bicycle?

So where does all this controversy come from in the first place?  Do people consider it unnecessary or, maybe, feel that it’s just plain dorky?  I dunno really.  I’m not into cycling or triathlon to be fashionable, so that particular argument is lost on me.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I get that you can just look over your shoulder and when you’re out riding alone I still tend to follow this practice and leave the mirror at home but, when I’m out riding with either Kelly as we train four our epic 940k cycle ride this summer, or the kid as she prepares for her first kids triathlon in July, I prefer to know what’s going on in all directions all the time.  And considering some of the close calls I had last year while training for my Ironman, well, these are just chances I’m not willing to take with my family.  So if wearing a rear view mirror while cycling qualifies me as a pedaling faux pas, then so be it.

Where we live now, there are very few sidewalks and so, when I’m out riding with my eight-year-old, we have little choice but to ride out in the street.  Now, we do live out in the country, but that doesn’t also mean that everyone drives slowly and respectfully – far from actually.  It’s true, some bumpkin driving a farm truck down rural routes is every bit as likely to not give a shit for my safety as that moron driving within city limits. An idiot driver is an idiot driver and statistics have shown that idiot drivers tend to strike from behind.  The idiots.

Now, I understand the valid arguments against the use of mirrors, the most common being that they distract the rider from the road in front of them.  But, like I said before, idiots tend to creep up from behind.  The other rationale is that they may tempt a rider to be lazy and take a lane without actually turning to look over their shoulder.  I don’t buy the distraction argument—there are so many things that constantly distract us on the road, I don’t believe adding a mirror to the mix significantly changes the equation.  And while I agree that a rider should always look over their shoulder before taking a lane (and I do), there’s no reason why adding a mirror will necessarily cause a diligent cyclist to suddenly drop their guard.  Basically, when it comes to being safe and keeping my family safe, I welcome any opportunity to see the greater world at large beyond what’s immediately in front of me.

Now, I admit that a mirror does take a little getting used to but, as it turns out, there are several other uses for this miraculous device that I hadn’t anticipated.  For example, I can use it to check and reapply my makeup, use it to clip my nose hair, send signals to aircraft flying overhead should I ever become totally stranded and lost in the wild and, if I position it just right, I can usually catch a glimpse of my girlfriend jubblies on the off chance she’s riding behind me.  And THAT, right there, makes it worth its weight in gold, folks.

So should you or shouldn’t you?  I don’t really care and I’m not about to suggest if you should or shouldn’t.  It’s a personal choice.  When I’m on my own, that’s one thing but when I’m not, I’m making the decision that provides as much safety as possible for us to enjoy ourselves by recognizing those unseen dangers that might be coming up from behind at 80kph.  And for only $9.50 at Mountain Equipment Co-op, who can afford not to?

Confronting Father Time

In the past few years of being a regular gym goer, I’ve become quite the locker room observer of human etiquette and behavior.  Of course, this is all for anthropological purposes rather than, say, the gay kind; kind of like Jane Goodall and the chimps.  I’d love to say that, typically, most people are courteous and accommodating in the change room but, unfortunately, history has taught me that this is seldom ever the case; particularly when it comes to the old gaffers.  Today then was just another classic example of what the few and the righteous such as myself, have to deal with from time to time between workouts.

Seeing as how it was a slow day at work today, I decided to slip in a quick workout in the pool since my ass was too lazy to crawl out of bed this past Thursday.  As it turns out, the middle of the day is the perfect time to swim laps since, like, hardly anybody is there apart from the odd old lady breast-stroking in the far lane.  Beautiful!  It was the near perfect workout, marred only by one schmuck who decided it was better to swim across my lane directly in my path rather than use the ladder to exit the pool but, other than that, it was great; in and out, 3k, no muss no fuss.  Until I hit the showers afterwards that is…

As I said before, the nice thing about going to the gym in the middle of the day is that it’s not nearly as busy as the peak periods of the day that I normally go at, and that includes the locker room as well.  One might say it’s like Shangri-la when you don’t have to immediately go all Frank Dux in ‘Bloodsport’ and compete for locker space, sinks, or just a seat in the sauna.  It’s amazing; except for today apparently.

When I finish my workout I like to take my time in the shower, get composed, and what have you, before I resume the rest of my day.  It’s my “me time” (when I’m able) so to speak.  So I deposited my stuff back at my locker, grabbed my shower and body gel and headed for the showers feeling pretty good about the extra training day results.

Now, lately, my left foot has been a bit tender and stiff so I’ve taken to giving it periodic massages when the opportunity presents itself, so seeing as how the showers were empty I plopped myself down on one of those plastic mobility stools they have for those with disabilities, or whatever, and proceeded to give my foot the once over under the hot spray.  After a minute or so of, oh, so wonderful self-indulgence, another guy who might have been Father Time himself entered the shower area and, noting that I was using the stool, proceeds to give me a very distinct ‘stink eye’.  However, being the polite guy I am, and assuming that he might actually need the stool giving that his entire frame looked about as sturdy as a coat hanger wrapped in cellophane, I asked:  “Oh, sorry, do you need this?”, indicating the stool under my bare nekkid ass.  I mean, I can continue my foot massage back at my locker on the bench, no big deal really.  So I offered up the stool which Father Time readably accepted with nary a look or statement of appreciation.  ‘You’re welcome’, I thought to myself but, oh well.

So what did Father Time actually use the stool for?  Did he need it to sit on?  No.  Did he need it for support of any kind?  No.  As it turns out, he needed this particular stool to rest his towel and shaving kit on.  I know, right?  Hey, pops, I’m sorry if my inconvenient inconvenience has in some way inconvenienced your convenience, knowwhaimsayin?  You could always use the provided shelves to rest your effects on, or whatever but, hey, just as long as you’re happy.  So I laughed it off in my head as just another nutjob doing nutty shit – as one might expect in the locker room from time to time – toweled off and headed back to my locker to resume the rest of my post-workout routine.

When I got back to my locker though, my nice, clean, organized and quiet little corner of the change room now looked like a war zone.  Pants, socks, shoes, underwear, and assorted toiletries were lying around absolutely everywhere; on the counters, the stools, the benches… everywhere.  And seeing as how it was only me and Father Time in the change room at the time, it wasn’t hard to figure out to whom it all belonged.

According to my prescribed Locker Room Commandments, Rule #1 goes thusly:  “Thou shalt not take up more space than necessary”.  Typically, the amount of space you can safely occupy in the change room is proportionate to the amount of space directly in front of your locker.  In other words: not much.  But given that there was nobody else around, I can understand wanting to spread out a little bit but, seriously, buddy had shit EVERYWHERE!  Every stool either had his dirty yellowed drawers on them, or a soaking wet towel, or his smelly old man socks, or his Geritol, etc.  Bad enough that he needed every level surface available to fan out all his old man shit, but he needed my shower stool to boot.  Fucking RI-DIC-U-LUS!  Somebody needs to school grandpa on basic locker room etiquette 101. God can only wonder what he’s like at home.  He must have either the most understanding, patience, dutiful wife, or an entire team of Oompa-Loompa’s to follow him around and pick up his shit; certainly not me.

So, with all the careful dexterity of a military bomb disposal soldier, I delicately removed a few of his garments and tossed them in the general direction of his open locker in order to clean out a space large enough to sit down and get changed.  Once I had adequately concealed my dangly bits (as is also part of the Locker Room Commandments, see Rule #2) I grabbed my shaving kit because, you know, I like to get all clean and smooth for the girlfriend every once and a while too.

But, once again, each and every possible surface and sink basin in the washroom had been left in some sort of disorder, or with a carelessly discarded towel.  Seriously, dude?  At this point, my congeniality began to waiver.  Unfortunately (for him), at this exact moment, Father Time appeared around the corner with a rather sour look on his face.  “Did you move my stuff?”

Now, I’d like to say at this point that I reminded calm and rational but, instead, I chose to channel my inner black ghetto woman:

“As a matter of fact, yes, I did.  I’d like to sit down somewhere at some point, and you seem to feel that you own every surface in the joint.  Oh, and while we’re on the subject, is this yours too?”, as I hauled out a soggy hand towel from the sink behind me.

The look of surprise on his face did nothing to mask his guilt.

“Yeah, well, I’m not your wife and it’s not my job to clean up after you, dude, so I’d appreciate it if you stopped leaving your shit everywhere since we all have to share the same space.”

He gave me that discernible look like ‘I can’t believe you’re talking to an old man like me in that fashion, sonny’  but, really, I couldn’t give a shit at that exact moment.  He can do and act any way he pleases at home but if he was going to cop an attitude with me over having to move his stanky ass gym socks and underwear from one of the stools just so I could sit down, then he was also going to hear about it. Then, just to prove my point (while adding a little insult to injury), I added:

“Oh, and by the way, you’re shaving kit is still in the shower on the stool I was using.” 

Take that, grandpa!

“Well, I’ve been coming here for…”  he started, but I cut him off.

“I don’t care; a slob is a slob is a slob.  And, you sir, are a slob.  If you’ve been acting like this for that long then it’s high time somebody told you to pick up after yourself.”   There.  I said it and gave him my best ‘Buddy, I will wear your ear as a necklace‘  look.

Fuck him.

Rather than press the issue any further he retreated back around the corner from whence barnyard he came from and I went back to the business of making myself beautiful.  A few minutes later (hey, when you look this good you don’t need a lot of time) I returned back to my locker and was pleasantly surprised that he had picked up most of his crap off the floor and surrounding area and either had tucked it in his locker or back into his gym bag but, whatever the case, it wasn’t spread out all over the locker room anymore.  Excellent!

Signed, sealed, and delivered.  Message obviously received.

Of course, we didn’t exactly shake hands or even make further eye contact, but I’m happy that my point had been made.  We all have to use and share the space provided and it only takes one slob to ruin that experience for everyone else.

So, for the love of God, PICK UP YOUR SHIT!