Starbucks

This website survey promised me a 10$ Starbucks giftcard.   I dutifully completed it and they assured me that I would receive my giftcard in the mail within 2 weeks.

They never asked me for my mailing address.

I’m an idiot.

Worst Trade Ever

In 1986 the Wilkie Legionairres novice hockey team traded Brent May away to the Wilkie Diggers in exchange for Danny Ochs.

That was complete bullshit.

Occam’s Razor’s Edge

Honesty is not the best policy.  In fact, a significant amount of the time, it’s not even relevant.

I asked a girl out for coffee.  She said no.  This happens.  She indicated that coffee was “a prelude to a kiss.”  I thought this was a little presumptuous since I happen to know that kissing a girl after a (first) coffee date is a) next to impossible and b) quite gross.  I argued that, if anything,  coffee is “a prelude to a piss”.  Luckily she was just trashy enough to chuckle.  I offered a safety net in suggesting she bring another couple of her choice and make it a double-date.  This would, in turn, give me the chance to make three (good) first impressions instead of just one.

The date moved along nicely.  My couterpart was an excruciatingly good looking Italian boy with spectacular manners and a sultry accent.  He quickly became the prized attraction and I was forced to play a more subdued roll.  Even I had a tiny man-crush on him.

Incidentally, when I was young, I thought accents were the other language.   As a boy I would have thought this boys Italian accent was him speaking the Italian language.  By the same token, I thought people who actually spoke another language, were possessed by the devil…and anyone who didn’t speak English was bat-shit-crazy.  It’s little wonder I was skittish.

We had just finished discussing the weather and our families and I was (quite obviously by now) trying to move the conversation toward work and hobbies (two of my strengths).  At this point The Italian Guy excused himself to visit the washroom.  Presumably because he had no job and collected stamps.  His girlfriend immediately accosted his designer coat and therein found cigarettes.  She turned to my date and inquired through betrayed eyes, “why on earth would he have cigarettes in his pocket?”  The girls spent the next five minutes (seemingly) discrediting the obvious before looking to me for an explanation…

“He smokes cigarettes.”  If I’d said that they would look at me like I’d just told them Eskimos discovered fire by rubbing two Popsicles together.

The simplest solution is often the correct one; however, if the simplest solution has absolutely zero chance of carrying you to your desired result, then by all means, construe an overtly complicated one, ”the cigarettes are in his pocket because a chain-smoking leprechaun lives in there.”  It doesn’t have to be perfect, in fact, it doesn’t even have to be plausible, it simply must satisfy the querying party’s requirement.  The previously happy couple doesn’t have an argument.  My date isn’t forced to defend her friend.  I’m not forced to choose between what I think and what I know.  My date and I don’t have an argument.  And that little pot of gold protecting bastard lives out his days in a hazy blue shroud of chemically induced denial.

I did well in school.  I was an honor student.  I was sorta smart and did most of my homework.  The one thing that (I believe) set me apart from other students was my ability to infer.  Think of an exam (for example).  Some people are good at writing exams and some people are terrible.  Mechanisms, nuances, and trends in standard evaluations (exams) can always be leveraged in order to increase the odds of getting a better grade (sometimes greatly).  Multiple choice questions yield to the processes of elimination, fill-in-the-blank questions provide clues via context, and essay questions allow you to pad answers in value adding fluff.  Furthermore, if you were prepared to temporarily abandon “what you think” in favor of adopting “what they think” you stand an even greater chance of success (teachers pets generally do well).  What I learned was that I didn’t (necessarily) have to know what I was talking about or (more importantly) say what I actually felt to achieve a desired result.  The whole is greater than the sum of the tiny parts (you’ve manipulated)…

I opened my mouth to speak, trying to simultaneously be my most thoughtful and insightful.  “Well, he said went out last night, it’s pretty easy to grab someone else’s coat when you step outside for a smoke.“  Complete rubbish.  The Other Girl sighed heavily in relief, “ya, that’s true.”  I’d effectively abandoned integrity and honesty in favour of making her feel better.

My date noticed.  We spent the next two months getting to know each-other.   More importantly, she spent that time getting to know me.  A pattern emerged, and it didn’t work out.  Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how perfectly you move about the tiny pieces, it simply has no bearing on the overall outcome.  In these instances, you’d be well served to keep your principles close and simply be yourself.

Women are not exams.

Redundency Department

As seen on a recently completed Staff Consultation meeting evaluation form…”The material became a little repetitive.  The material became a little repetitive.”

Sometimes I think I would hate me if we ever met.

Pizza

I once dated a woman whose last name was “Bartlett”, now I can’t eat pears. I will never date a woman named “Pizza”.

A Tragedy of Errors

I’m rusty…bare with me…

They say writers write (I’ve no idea who “they” is, but they seem to be well-informed). Finding the motivation can be difficult. My “muse” (the inclination to write) comes and goes as she pleases. Like the maid you’re sleeping with who forgets that you’re paying her to scrub your toilet (the maid is the metaphor, not the toilet). When in tune the words can pour down onto the page in a euphoric maelstrom taking no time, consuming little effort. When belabored, the writing experience is akin to that of scrubbing your own toilet (again, not a metaphor) taking considerable time and considerable effort; resulting in a good deal of shit.  I have many such bits stock-piled, which I haven’t the courage to share and you haven’t the constitution to read. Often, I sit and wait for a literary desire, then when context, situation, and theme present, I exploit them…much like I would the maid.

If “Comedy” left a train station at 9:00 am traveling 80 miles and hour and “Tragedy” left an opposing station at 10:30 am traveling 160 miles an hour, they would smash together amongst a poetic heap of squealing metaphors and twisted analogies. The literal carnage would represent my impetus for writing. I am clever and able to view the world with a sense of humor, but I have an understanding of life’s difficulties (which I feel I’ve earned). While I may feign optimism (for practical reasons), I embody pessimism (for ideological ones). That is the reason I write what I write and I read what I read. “Angels and Demons” is blockbuster fiction spurred by creative genius, exceptional foreshadowing, and a dramatic climax. I received it as a gift and finished it as a favor. Vonnegut survived an entire day in a concrete meat-locker while The Allies bombed Dresden killing over 250,000 innocent people. He later wrote a satirical novel about it. Critics dubbed it “Black Satire.” I’ve read it 4 times.

That’s why when a sequence of events so disheartening, so frustrating, and so depressing occurs, I’m forced to acknowledge the absurdity, the melancholy, and the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. That my friend is when my muse barges through my door, punches me squarely in the groin, stomps on my chest…and waves an indignant finger in demanding I put something on paper…

When you’re young you have big birthday parties and when you’re old you have small birthday parties. Kipp’s birthday party on Saturday was “kinda’ small”. My next birthday party will be “kinda’ small” too. A select few of The Team went to the new Boston Pizza on the east end of Saskatoon. I ended my night early, being of tempered demeanor and limited energies (I was tired and boring). On the way home I drove through Tim Horton’s in order to use the two “Roll Up The Rim To Win” tickets I’d amassed. I presented the tokens to which the attendant turned and shouted “We have a winner!” This coerced an orchestrated response from all of her peers, “Haaay!” Had I known they were going to do this I’d have driven through twice (once for each winning ticket). In any case, I sped off to bed not realizing that somewhere, somehow, I’d lost the plastic clip that serves as my wallet…

I’d been here before, measures have been taken, safeguards employed, mechanisms were in place.

I keep only what items I absolutely require in that plastic clip. As such, I hadn’t lost my health or social insurance cards. They are, along with my passport and birth certificate, in a safety deposit box in Kindersley to which Patsy and I each have a key (I’ve subsequently lost mine). Rosetown (where I now work) does not have a CIBC so I would have to wait until Saturday to replace my debit card. I had enough cash at home to get me to the weekend. The one exception was that I didn’t have enough money to fuel my truck for the commute through the week. I explained the situation to Chelsea (my sarcastic carpooler), who cheerfully volunteered, “You’re going to have a hard time getting to work.”

On Sunday, I used what immediate wealth I possessed to put enough fuel in my truck to get me to a community consultation in Biggar on Tuesday.

Monday came and went like the twenty year old drunken tart who calls 25 times in the middle of the night then show’s up at your condo throwing shoes at your bedroom window and ringing random buzzers until you finally escape the Sandmans grip and answer the door.  That is to say, on the drive home from work Monday I realized that I’d left my truck keys in Rosetown.  I informed Chelsea (my sarcastic carpooler) of both the tart and the truck keys, to which she efficiently responded, “You’re living a life of sloppiness.”  I’m quoting.

I’d been here before, measures have been taken, safeguards employed, mechanisms were in place.

I’d always kept a spare key in my office, which was Kindersley, but is now Rosetown. I keep another key in my laptop bag, which I almost always carry on my person, but that day I’d left in my office in Rosetown. My third key (the key I actually use) was on the keychain that was attached to the lanyard that was swinging back and forth from my office doorknob in Rosetown. Chelsea’s (my sarcastic carpooler) voice pitched as she offered through judging eyes and a murderous smile, “Waaaant me to turn around?” Out of morbid curiosity, I leaped into her cauldron of boiling mockery, “Yes, please.” Her voice reached a crescendo as she cheered, “Weellll I’mmmm nottttt gonnnnnna’!!!!” Chelsea (my sarcastic carpooler) is a sadist.

I’d been in tight situations before; poor, lost, over-worked, depressed, belligerent, heartbroken (all at once I think even). I was confident I could problem-solve my way out of this. I’d simply borrow a car for the trip to Biggar on Tuesday. Then I could ride with Chelsea (my sarcastic carpooler) back to Rosetown on Wednesday to get my keys.

While walking through the parking lot I past my (inaccessible -> locked) truck and surveyed the pile of easels, flip-charts, and supplies scattered about the back seat. Supplies that would be very helpful in facilitating a community consultation in Biggar on a Tuesday…

When an individual becomes impoverished, it’s often determined that no single failure was the cause. It’s usually a cascading chain of cause-effect deficiencies the cumulative result of which produces a broken, homeless, spiritless man living in a box near the ally of 441 4th Avenue North, Saskatoon. My future played out in my head. I’d be absent from the community consultation. I’d be unavailable to answer questions concerning the error-ridden information package I’d assembled. My CEO would appear a buffoon. She would fire me. I’d have no choice but to abandon my condo. Depression would set in. I’d become destitute, and so on, and so forth…until I’d eventually be forced to date women my own age.

Perhaps, at this juncture, its worth having a summary look at the situation. It was approaching 7:00 pm Monday evening. I had no wallet. I had no more cash. I had no vehicle. I was in a new job and the materials I required for an important out-of-town meeting the next day were locked in my truck. I called Patsy. Here is the allure that is my mother. She did not judge, nor did she lament. She simply asked a question; a question she didn’t even bother to ask of me. She queried up into the air as if to herself, “How are we going to do this?”

Patsy drove her spare car to the city. I drove Patsy back out to Warmen. Patsy gave me $100.00 which I email transferred back to her (since I could still do that). I paid a locksmith and his sidekick (loosely approximating Bilbo and Gollum) to unlock my truck so I could retrieve my supplies. Interestingly, at no point in Bilbo’s thirty minute visit to my back alley in the dead of night did he stop to consider whether or not this was, in fact, my truck. He simply unlocked it obediently while Gollum held the flashlight and coughed away his remaining lung. This isn’t the Shire anymore. I digress. I had everything I needed to ensure my life didn’t stagger into complete ruin.

The rest of the week transpired in reassuringly typical fashion. I retrieved my truck keys and replaced my wallet. Crisis, severe as it were, averted. My own little Dresden.

We are who we are and to a certain extent the qualities that define us will always be. I’m not saying our faults give us license to act like complete nincompoops. I’m saying that no matter how hard we try to manage away the particulars of our shortcomings, they are still very much a part of who we are. I could consciously acknowledge where I set my money-clip, I could hide spare keys in more opportune places, and I could employ safety deposit boxes to no end; however, from time to time I will still find myself near wretchedness and in need of some assistance. In profoundly more complicated contexts, “near wretchedness” becomes less metaphorical and unsettlingly more real.

Everyone who knows me knows how I am, and those individuals fall squarely into one of three categories. There are those who resent me for it, there are those who tolerate me in spite of it, and then there are a few who accept it willingly in trade for all the other things that make me awesome (ok…debateable).  That’s the measuring stick by which I define my friendships.

The Art of Consternation

This is a new low for me. The time that has spanned since our last speaking has whisked by like a teenage shoplifter that’s snatched a purse from the arm of an elderly lady having shady blue hair and orthopedic shoes. It’s sad to think that my lack of blogging has contributed to the disarray of our nation’s youth. In my defense, I have been busy…and honestly, flashy old bitties with blue helmet-hair are simply asking for it.

At this very instant I am faced with a logistical conundrum comparable to placing your foot behind your head (you’ve all tried it). I have a wealth of valuable information to share with you; however, I have only one update in which to share it (all the while I frivolously toss pronouns about). I think what I will do is just lay the data out for you piecemeal, and in the most absolute and accurate contexts (as usual). That way, should you have a small enough laptop, you could transport it to the bathroom and read any section of this update whilst you poo (some of you have done it). Think of this as a digital Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader. A word of caution, I have learned from experience that those things which are carried into the bathroom may be dropped into the toilet (which, even if unspoiled, remains quite unsanitary). This is almost always an undesirable occurrence, unless of course you’re carrying poo, in which case you my friend, are quite gross.

I’ve also been privy to some spectacular conversation of late, which I simply cannot exclude.

This is not in chronological order; it is in alphabetical order, since “Alphabetical” comes before “Chronological” in the dictionary (but I’m pretty sure “Chronological” was in there first).

Ford Exploder.
Purples has retired (likely inductee to the motor vehicle hall of fame). It was a very good car, I’ll miss it dearly. I replaced it with a Ford “Exploder” (the moniker is apt). The very first weekend I had the vehicle we drove to Regina for a Roughrider game. At 9:00 am the following Sunday morning we (the hung-over lot of us) slumped into the rig to race home and watch NFL football. Just north of Bethune, approximately 45 minutes north of Regina (and 3 hours southeast of home) delicious streams of sweet billowy smoke began to pour out of the hood, up the windshield, and back down the highway behind us. I looked at my roommate in absolute horror. The vehicle that I had just spent thousands of dollars on was about to burn to the ground.

We pulled into the Bethune hockey arena. I phone my brother, the consummate Good Samaritan. We had a makeshift shinny game for 90 minutes while we waited for Todd to drive from Saskatoon to Bethune to pick us up. Todd drove us to Kindersley(another 3 hours), then he droveback to Saskatoon (another 2 hours). All told, 6.5 hours of driving that day for my brother. I won’t dive into a soliloquy concerning the rarity that is my brothers’ persona; however, he can surely be counted on in a pinch.

The following Monday I had the vehicle towed to Lumsden. A gifted mechanic who smelt of peanut butter and rubbing alcohol replaced the intake manifold gasket (a small mercy in the grand scheme of engine trouble). I talked my way onto a twin engine airplane that looked like station-wagon with wings. The pilots mustache suggested he was much too young to captain a plane. He noticed the look on my face and admitted he was 21. I cringed inside. We flew from Kindersley to Swift Current, where we had the following conversation:

The pilot turned to me and spoke into his head piece, his voice came through stereotypically. That is to say a) in stereo and b) exactly as the movies depict that sort of thing, “We just have to touch down briefly in Swift Current to load some additional cargo.” I spoke awkwardly into my headset having not yet discovered the proper microphone distance to lip ratio, “Ok, I’ll keep an eye out for the Luftwaffe.” Ironically, the joke flew over my pilots head. The pilot climbed to the back and helped a sporty runway jockey toss bag after bag of cargo into the plane. Eventually, the pilot paused in thought and inquired, “Wait, how much is there?” The runway jockey replied cheerily yet unhelpfully, “A whole bunch, we have some extra pieces that weren’t on the waybill.” The pilots face became stoic as he considered weight versus lift, “Well how much does all this shit weigh?” The runway jockey blew a bubble with his gum as he peered down at his clipboard, “Another 400 pounds.” The pilot spun his head around and pointed down the fuselage toward his unplanned travel companion (me) and shouted in obvious disgust, “Well that guy weighs an additional 200!” The unhappy pilot stomped back into the cockpit and replaced his headset. My heart leaped and my voice shook as I gingerly inquired, “Is everything ok?” The pilot looked at me, immediately sensing my discomfort. His eyes softened and his mouth slid into a wide smirk as he accelerated the small plane down the runway, he reassured “Oh don’t worry, this f*cker is taking off!”

We landed in Regina without incident. I took a taxi-cab to Lumsden. I entered the taxi and attempted to ensure I had enough money to pay for transport, “Can you give me a flat rate for the trip?” The driver replied in a regulatory manner, “No, sorry, it has to be by the meter.” I parried, still trying to determine if I would be able to pay, “So what’ll it be? Like 60 bucks?” The driver disabled his meter and ended the conversation, “Ya, it’ll be 60 bucks.” I suspect it may have been substantially less by the meter.

I picked up my Exploder and drove it back to Kindersley.

Ta da!

Memory.
Things continue to escape my consciousness at an alarming rate. Recently I locked my keys in my truck with it running…..and in gear. More recently, I jumped out of my truck at Tim Horton’s and ran for the door in an effort to escape the testicle-receding frigidness. I glanced back at my truck to see it creeping toward the front door of the store as well. For a moment I thought that my vehicle was attempting to come inside and warm up. Then I realized I’d simply left it in gear. As I ran the condescending police-people in the donut store smirked condescendingly over their condescending coffee.

Quotes.
I cannot possibly imagine how anyone (anyone) could suggest that individuals other than my friends (i.e. “The Team”) generate the most profound and substantial conversation….

Todd rises to leave after having our heartfelt conversation discussing the moral and faith based implications of the lifestyle we’ve respectively chose to adopt. He turns and provides a most genuine wave as he delivers his (now) signature salutation, “God Bless You.” I reply, in stark raving disingenuous, “I didn’t sneeze.”

Curtis poignantly and matter-of-factly (as he has successfully done so often) reigns down the logical and factual ballistic warhead that will assure he triumphs in the subjective realm of movie preferences, “I only watch movie’s I’ve already seen.” He catches himself milliseconds later, “I realize the flaw in what I’ve just said there.”

In what is very nearly a lengthy game of Password, Kevin and Kipp attempt to uncover the identity of what is thought to be a common acquaintance. Kevin initiates the discussion, “Do you know Steve?” Kipp counters, “umm, I’m not sure.” Kevin volleys a clue, “He works at Fabutan.” With Kipp continuing to appear muddled Kevin offers, “He drives a Yugo.” Not yet making the connection Kevin offers the least useful hint in the history of time, “He’s your height…only taller.”

Travis instant messages Nikki quickly and without voluntary thought, “Eye eight two much.” Nikki replies in kind, clever as she is, “Eye feel four ewe.” I immediately text message Curtis, thinking he’ll garner a laugh I follow up that text message with one explaining to Curtis that I am remarkably terrible at managing synonyms, to which he responds, “Those are homonyms.” What’s that? Yes. I am writing a book.

Relationships.
If I’d wrote this six weeks ago I would inform you that I was single. I’m writing it now so I must inform you that I am dating. Her name is Krista. She is, for all intents and purposes, wonderful. Amid one typical pre-dating conversation she turned to me with honest and vulnerable eyes and asked, “Would you stay with me if I were fat?” Knowing the only acceptable answer to that question I assured, “I would stay with you if you were 300 pounds.” She sarcastically confirmed, like a teenager who’d just been handed the keys to her fathers Porsche, “Ok!” It is obvious why my friends like her so.

The Book.
Do not be alarmed if you cannot find me on Facebook (i.e. “The Book”). I have discovered that it is dehumanizing (people are not inventory), and so, I’ve closed my account (which, I will have you know, is something approaching the impossible). I am abstaining on the basis of moral polarity. I do not like the window it provides into my life, for a great many individuals that I do not (exactly) consider to be my friends (nor the window I have into lives I do not particularly care for). Do not recoil from your monitor in shock and awe. If you are reading this, trust that we are friends. It’s just that “The Book” communications are so cold, so impersonal, and leave me with a significant sense and feeling of disconnection. I don’t want to be a part of a network that thrives on such sterile interpersonal gaps.

I want interaction, I want stimulation…I want to know people (and them to know me) for who I am, not for what “The Book” profiles me as. I want to approach a woman and tell her she has nice shoes, and then offer to buy her a steak dinner. I don’t want to “drill-through” three people I don’t know and message some lady who looks good in a picture she selected from 500 she took herself. Please don’t misunderstand, I am not lobbying for you to quit “The Book”, I simply (personally) find it disjointed to the point of unhealthy (for me). Please continue posting images depicting my unnaturally high cheekbones and endeavor to generate lengthy threads detailing the fine musculature of my calves, but in the end please read about me here. And if, by some unlikely circumstance you have an authentic urge to socialize with me, then pickup the phone…and text me.

Triathlons.
I am allergic to steak and granola bars. I began my official triathlon training program on January 3, 2009. It began (the very first day), with the flu. I stayed in bed the entire day and abandoned two workouts. That’s two more workouts than I skipped during the entire 2008 marathon campaign. I could taste the guilt. I persevered, despite the melodrama, and had six great workouts Tuesday through Thursday respectively. On Friday I woke up and rode the bike for 80 minutes. Then I went to work where I finished a business case for the provincial government and chaired an ethics committee meeting (you read that correctly). At that point I was sent home for having food poisoning that I’d obviously contracted from the granola bars and steak I’d eaten the night before (some called it “flu like” symptoms). Unwilling to yield, I slept for two hours, then drove to Saskatoon for my afternoon swim.  I spend the immediate 2 hours (after arriving in the city) on Kipp’s cold bathroom floor in the “Fenrich” position whilst I worked my abs via endurance vomiting. Then I felt better.

Other than that the first two weeks have been as expected. My weight plummets as my body adjusts to the regime, so I eat everything. In a minor change from last year, I havedecided to widen my palette. I still don’t eat “zero benefit” foods (fast food, cakes, microwave meals); however, I will yield to more elaborate (and delicious) items (pizza, salad dressing, etc). Everything in moderation. The bicycle seat continues to be a bane in my butt. A fact which, upon my yammering about under my breath, “Jeeze, my ass is sore,” causes a measurable amount of confusion. I am lifting weights again. I am weak; however, I glean a small amount of encouragement in that my miniscule body-weight allows me to do many chin-ups creating an illusion of strength. I continue to run fast, even when not scared. I have had difficulty gaining access to a city pool. It seems the elderly love to swim (…err…float). The swimming lanes are like long narrow mine fields riddled with wrinkly ordinance rich in life experience. I may resort to simply booking (and paying for) a swimming lesson then politely asking that the lifeguard bugger off.

Work.
I have accepted a temporary six month position which has nothing to do with what I am trained to do. My new role will consist of more planning, organizing, phone-call making, and hand-shaking (luckily, I have been practising all of these things). I am excited and look forward to learning from some very wise leaders. I am moving to Saskatoon for the duration, so I can workout in the city unabated. Being in Saskatoon will also afford me more time with family, “The Team”, and of course my girl. All of these changes are exciting and welcome.

To say that the future is uncertain would be like saying “Travis is a bit of a scatter-brain.” Many, many different things could happen and there is an equal chance that when it all shakes out I end up in Kindersley, Rosetown, and/or Saskatoon. I plan to work hard, focus on the present, and keep you thoroughly updated. I have spectacular friends and coworkers in Kindersley whom I regret seeing less. The gang at the Kindersley Sub Office, my roommates, the boys, my workout buddies, everyone.  Kindersley has treated me well, despite my abuse of it.  In that regard leaving is a very sad thing.

Well, that felt quite action packed (except the end there, which got kinda’ Zolofty). I feel like the Vin Diesel of the blogging world. Anyhoodle, that’s about all I have room for. I will try my hardest to keep you informed, presuming something relevant and interesting happens to me in the next few weeks (hopefully not months!)

SOS 2009 – Part 1

It has been a while my friends.  I feel like I hardly know you.   Like a casual friend from years past that I emphatically avoid upon random encounters. Here you’ve cornered me in some innocuous meeting place and I’m forced to make idle chit-chat in trying to impress upon you how much better my life has been than yours…

So much has happened in the last two months (much of which I’ll not utter here). I suppose I should begin (or very nearly begin) with congratulations to Hemant and Michelle. The two are engaged to be inseperable and I (personally) couldn’t be happier. It’s a wonderful thing when someone finds someone (particularly “someones” of such quality).

I’d like to talk a little bit about this Triathlon (”Spin Off Spadina 2009“).  I’ve dubbed it “SOS 2009″ (which I feel is clever and succinct).  While nine months may seem like a long way off, it really isn’t in terms of the things that I must accomplish prior to race day in order to ensure non-death.

My training program will be more complex than it was for the 2008 Saskatchewan Marathon, so I solicited help from the Saskatoon Triathlon Club (STC).  On September 12th I posted a very genuine (and very “newbescent”) message in the Training Updates section of their website.  Last week I stopped at Brain Sport in Saskatoon to pick up a few supplies…

I walked into the store knowing what I wanted to purchase. With a firm desire to avoid aimless searching I informed the sales attendant directly, “I need a Strasbourg Sock.” The salesmen guided me to the shoe area where we chose an appropriate size. I followed him back to the counter as his curiosity overtook him, “Plantar Fasciitis?” I corrected him with the timidity of a man who doesn’t know what he’s talking about, “Nah, my RMT recommended I use it since I’m having such trouble with cramps when I swim.” The friendly banter continued as he rang in my purchase, “Oh, you’re a swimmer?” My integrity corrected him, “No, at least not yet, I’m training for ‘Spin Off Spadina’.” He collected my hard earned money, “You’re swimming with the triathlon club on Wednesday nights?” I delivered the critical information, which I believed, would finally solve the riddle as to why he hadn’t seen me in regular Saskatoon training circles, “No, I’m from Kindersley, so I mostly swim there.”  He peered at me with all the wonder and fascination of a man who’s just remembered where he’s parked his car, “Ooooohhhh, you’re the guy who posted the message on the STC website.” It seems that Saskatoon triathletes are a tight community.

Close-knit as they are, they have been kind enough to offer assistance.  A woman named Jenna has been helping me pre-plan the training program that I will begin January 1, 2009.  I will develop excel spreadsheets to track swimming, cycling, running, recovery, and diet.  First drafts of that spreadsheet indicate that I’ll require 260 workouts through the 168 available days.  From July 2008 through now, I’ve been establishing the foundation required prior to beginning the actual training plan:

• A comfortable 35 minute   1.5 kilometer swim (all freestyle)
• A comfortable 70 minute 42.0 kilometer cycle
• A comfortable 50 minute 10.0 kilometer run

I can tell you that the last month or so I have been working very hard on these bases. I can swim my 1500 m in under 40 minutes; however, I still do about 1/3 of it in a breast-stroke. I haven’t been cycling much, but I rode for an hour two nights ago with no discomfort. I intend to spend a good part of my winter on the bike. I have been running a lot in the mornings lately, and have no issue covering the 10 km distance; however, I would like to be quite a bit faster than my 44:19 pb.

I’m running 5 mornings a week and swimming 4 mornings a week. As such, I’ve had to get back into a bit of “recovery” work. I have a standing appointment with Kipp Lucas (RMT), who will undoubtedly garner significant props by trainings end. I’ve also re-instituted a regiment of ointments, yoga, and cold baths.

During the last month I’ve had to be careful in ensuring that I get enough carbohydrates (two workouts/day). There have been times when I got light-headed (late morning or early afternoon) and had to scramble for the nearest piece of fruit/candy in order to raise blood sugar levels. I’ve gotten used to this and altered my diet so that it’s nearly discontinued. On Tuesday of this week I awoke dizzy. At 4:00 pm I went to see my doctor.  He’s a fine fellow; young, bright, and enthusiastic.  His face carries the look of a man who has an honest passion for his work.  He looks as British as he is and he’s my height only a lot taller.  He “enjoys seeing me because it’s always interesting”.  We (my doctor) determined that I’d incurred a repetitive stress injury from swimming. It seems there is some swelling behind one of my ears (left I think) that’s placing pressure on a nerve. The clinic ran blood sugar and hemoglobin tests and found my blood sugar quite high since by then I’d eaten every cookie I could find.  In any case, I have a prescription for something called “Serc”.  After seven days, if the dizziness subsides, I can get back into the gym.

Diet is the most complex component of a training program (for me anyway). I typically find it very difficult to maintain. I’m not just talking about unhealthy foods, that part isn’t that hard. What I find so difficult is consistently eating the proper amount (and types) of fuel required in order to sustain continuous endurance workouts. Your body requires such high levels of everything that the smallest deficiency ends up presenting itself in astonishing fashion (like a prostitute named Virginia). I find the Excel spreadsheets (logging all foods eaten) to be of great help; however, they are tedious to maintain (a sacrifice I suppose). I have scheduled another appointment with my dietitian (Ann McCormick, HRHA) to ensure I’m on the right track. I am taking two protein shakes a day (4:1 ratio carb/prot) in addition to my pills (2 a day multi, vit c/e, st jons wart, omega 3, calcium/mag, potassium sulphate) and a typical diet to ensure I get what I need.

I borrowed a bike (to the delight of my bank account).  The CEO of the company I work for was gracious enough to ask her daughter, who (due to genetics) was gracious enough to lend it to me.  I have absolutely no idea how to size, ride, or maintain it.  I suppose I’ll have to do some reading.  I only worry that what credibility I hope to establish with the STC will be whisked away by my pink bike.  I suppose I’d better be fast.

My Bike

I’ve also lost my Oakley Thump MP3 sunglasses.  What?  Travis lose something?  No.  It can’t be.  Yes, unbelievable as it is, they are gone.  I left them at the track one morning (sorry Curtis, not at your condo so you cannot lay claim to them).  I’ll be replacing them immediately.

A Midsummer Night’s Neurosis

Last week I wrote an entire narrative defining the time I’d spent planting trees while I was in college.  It was a solid premise.  Whimsical, if rambunctious, tale from the writer’s youth.  I spent the entire week polishing the piece before filing it as “unsuitable for public consumption”.  Not only did it lack substance and meaning, but it failed to echo the clever underpinnings and humorous analogies that hold (however loosely) my readers attention.  The illicit substance propaganda also read as “marginally career limiting”.   So, I’ll try again, in an effort to put forth a better…er…effort (off to a rough start aren’t we).  Trust that whatever follows, poor reading as it may be; is better than what you almost read today (unless you almost read something Oprah recommended).

 

I recently attended a house party where a friend referred to me as “neurotic”.  At first it seemed a miserable little word, as difficult to pronounce as it is to define.  It is one of those words who’s meaning you cannot tell by context alone.  “Travis is one neurotic son of a bitch.”  That tells us nothing.  For all we know it could mean “devilishly handsome” or “long in the trouser”.  So, I did what I always do when confronted with conversation peices that I do not fully understand, I faked a neutral response, “well, maybe (not necessarily) I am a little (not much) neurotic at times (but never after lunch).”  Then I scoured the Internet for a definition where I learned that I am, indeed, one neurotic son of a bitch.  Incidentally, I left this house warming party in a state of emotional mush amid overwhelming (and astoundingly unfounded) concerns that my girlfriend and I weren’t getting along.  Sigh.

 

At this same house party I squirted my delicious friend Kipp with mustard from 20 feet away.  Oddly, a week later (almost to the hour) I threw a Salt shaker at my bland roommate (Winks) and struck him in (or around) his face.  I have no idea why I’m suddenly mistaking my good friends for tasty meat products.  I digress.

 

I’ll concede that I’m neurotic, but I wish to point out that I manage its tangible presentations at (a minimum) a satisfactory level.  I yield to my girlfriend in arguments I cannot win, I’m hardly ever startled by my own shadow, and I never watch the 4th quarter of Saskatchewan Roughrider games.  There are, I think, other ways the characteristic presents itself that aren’t so easily contained.

 

I have nightmares.  To a certain extent I always have and (perhaps not to the same extent) I expect everyone does.  I confided in a close, yet unhelpful, friend concerning how I should treat such nocturnal interruptions.  He stated, “Just manage nightmares the same way you watch horror films.”  That advice is about as useful as Chapstick when your head’s on fire.  I manage horror films by refusing to watch them, and that’s worked out quite well.  If I were going to watch a horror film (which I’m not) I’d employ the age old technique of covering my eyes and repeating the survival mantra of, “its only a movie, its only a movie.”  According to my friend, the very next time I’m completely asleep and being chased down a long dark hallway by Mr. Clean (adorning stilettos and a feather boa) I should stop, cover my eyes, and yammer “its only a dream, its only a dream.”  Not only is this bit of advice completely useless as a defense against a cross-dressing marketing icon; it also neglects one critical bit of logic.  The difference between a horror film and a nightmare is that, in the first instance, you’re aware you’re watching a film.  In the second case, as far as you’re concerned, the nightmare is your reality…and no matter how ridiculous it may be, you’re going to believe it to be real until it’s over.  At which point I (personally) wake up in a cold sweat before entering an Olympic hurdling event toward my on-suite washroom (lest ”Mrs.” Clean attack from the adjacent furnace room).

 

My alarm clock has not gone off in 17 years.  I have the ability to sit up in bed precisely five minutes before it’s scheduled alarm time (which is, these days, 8 am).  Because of this I’m not accustomed to the eardrum shattering shriek these devices produce.  Imagine my surprise when, one morning, an alarm clock erupted in my bedroom at exactly 6 am.  A fact made even more suspicious when you consider that this was a second alarm clock not of my own.  Here’s the rub.  Over the last month my years of conditioning to wake prior to an alarm clock sounding have taken over and programmed my body to discontinue sleeping prior to the rogue alarm sounding.   Now I wake up at 5:55 am, for absolutely no reason in particular.  I sit up, I wait for the 6 am alarm to stop beeping, I go back to sleep, and I wake up precisely 5 minutes before my 8 am alarm.  This can’t be good for my neurosis.

 

Six weeks ago I performed my most astounding sleep related indiscretion to date.  No element of colorful writing can do this feat justice.  At 4:30 am on a Monday morning I got out of bed and walked upstairs.  I sauntered into my roommates’ bedroom.  Winks looked up at me and said (and I quote), “Weber, you are one creepy [expletive].”  A completely accurate statement as it were.  I turned and stomped out of his room and proceeded to march around the house for a half an hour.  I returned to my bed, sent Ashley a text message (stating that I missed her), then layed back down.  I’d been sound asleep the entire time.

 

Winks realized it amid the 30 seconds that I’d teetered beside his bed and smiled at him like a perverted carney (lucky for me, or I’d have received an elbow to the sternum).  He was good enough to get up and follow me around the house to ensure I didn’t decide to barbecue the neighbors’ cat.

 

It’s no secret that varying levels of stress can cause trouble sleeping and (perhaps) some small element of anxiety has crept into my psyche and caused these minor disturbances.  Having said that, I’ll be the first person to admit that my melancholy, maladjusted, and muddled neurosis makes for considerably better reading.

It’s Good to Have Goals

Well, that’s it I suppose. I ran the Saskatchewan Marathon last Sunday.  Thank you for all the sentiments and I’m flattered by all the website visits.  There were around 200 hits in the 2 days following the race.  Here are a few appropriate pictures…

In fine form…

You can run faster when a camper is chasing you (and how’d this guy get on the course?)…

This photo accurately relays how I felt after the race…

Following the race, from May 26th through June 3rd I’d been a champion of gluttony and sloth. For those among you who have concerns about my purposely disregarding capital vices, I’ll have you know that I am a model of piousness when it comes to the other five (except maybe lust, but really, we only see each-other on weekends).  On June 4th (Wednesday) I returned to the gym.  Point forward I will adopt the opposing virtues of patience, temperance, and diligence. If you’re waiting for me to earmark chastity, forget it.

During my return to the gym my legs might as well have been flailing octopus tentacles while my wind approximated that of an 80 year old chronic paint huffer. I made it through the hour; however, it represented an awful workout. What I can tell you is that afterward, I felt absolutely incredible. Initially, I found that odd.

I hadn’t realized it until after that workout, but for the 10 days following my race, I hadn’t been quite right. Physically I felt lethargic, managed headaches, and didn’t sleep well. What’s worse, between my ears I’d felt uncertain, inadequate, and lacked confidence. These characteristics, while unnoticeable to those around me, presented themselves quite plainly. I was skittish and non-committal with friends and family while introducing an astounding dose of insecurity into my relationship. Immediately after yesterdays workout these oddities (effectively) dissipated.

It seems I am an individual who requires…rather survives…on goals. I need to set positive ones, I need to allow my disposition to carry me to their end, and I need to quickly set new ones. There is an inherent danger that once I have reached a particular goal I will immediately flounder; thereby failing to sustain any improvement in my four areas of concern (relationships, finance, career, and health). In the past I haven’t always managed my goals appropriately and I believe it has cost me…

I was a brilliant kindergartner. I did not require velcro anything, I didn’t eat chalk, and I hardly ever crapped my pants.  In the second grade I faked a speech impediment so that I could pursue an affair with the buxom guidance counsellor.  Through middle school I fell victim to the garbage that claims many potential students. This culminated in my nearly failing the 6th grade (literally, although I was no mathematician either).  My parents cleverly correlated the absence of a post-secondary education with a life of poverty and despair (I may have read Jean Valjean in there somewhere too). I went from Sweat-Hog to scholarship and remained an honor student until graduation. I was enthusiastically welcomed into the University of Saskatchewans Engineering program.  Having struck my target, I promptly sat back and watched the world go round as I flunked.  This was as much an error in goal setting as it was in anything else (yes, I am well aware that the loose liquor and cheap women didn’t help).

To compound my present issue (an urgency to set new goals), those four areas of my life which I ponder ad naseum have never been better. It seems, or seemed, that those areas were constantly atop a four pronged seesaw that demanded some dive when others rise.  Before college, I was a 19 year old stud, completely in love, had no career, and absolutely no money. In college, I was a 21 year old stud, dated enthusiastically, worked toward a promissory note good for one career, and had absolutely no money. After college, I was a 26 year old coronary, my relationship was held together by a lack of conviction, I had been promoted 3 times in 2 years, and I had some money.  Presently, I’m of reasonable physical stature, I’m with the most wonderful woman in the world, I am very grateful to my employer, and I don’t lack for what I want.  It’s difficult for me not to think of those areas as four plates spinning atop wooden sticks (with history demonstrating that I’ve the capacity to manage only two plates).   There’s an arrogant irony here in that I’m effectively complaining about how happy I am; however, I think it’s really a matter of wanting to do what I have to in order to preserve that state.  I’ll be the first to admit that I spend far (far) too much time trying to be happy and much too little time being happy (but I think we all do that).

So for the last ten days I have been struggling to choose an appropriate goal lest Karma, the cosmos, and/or simply my own self-fulfilling sub-conscious penalize me.

First I spoke to Michael Horbay at Team Diabetes in Saskatoon. We plotted/schemed to have me raise $6100.00 for the diabetics of the world so that I may run Decembers Honolulu Marathon (on that foundations dime). I considered this seriously before declining the invitation. It’s simply too close to my September trip to San Francisco. This was a bit of a downer; however, that marathon isn’t going anywhere and I’ve no plans to discontinue racing.

Yesterday Brian Michasiw called me in response to an email I’d sent him earlier this week. Brian is the owner of Brainsport and winner of the 2007 and 2008 Saskatchewan Marathons. I’ll admit I was significantly enamoured.  I’d asked him for a sense of my ability and any direction he could provide. He gave me plenty of good information and pointed out (multiple) areas in which I could improve my training. One thing he did say was that I, “may improve by as much as an hour on my next marathon time.” Suffice to say his implication (however tempered and unlikely) that I could run a 2:42 marathon, made me feel like racing.

With that in mind I’ve committed to three races of significance prior to the end of 2009. I will run the half marathon in Regina at the Queen City Marathon in September 2008 (in less than 90 minutes). I will “run” the 2009 Spin off Spadina Triathlon one year from now. I will run the full Queen City Marathon in 2009 in an attempt to qualify for the Boston Marathon (3:10). I realize this is all very long range for me, and things can change; however, those are my goals as they stand, and effective immediately I’ll work to that end.  The half marathon in September will afford me some leniency during my busy summer; the triathlon next spring should provide me a more rounded fitness base before a long summer of marathon training in 2009.

An interesting note on the Triathlon idea.   I’d boasted to my friend Krista that a triathlon couldn’t be that hard.  I lobbied that a 1500 meter swim, 40 km bike ride, and 10 km run wouldn’t be that difficult compared to the 42 km marathon I’d just completed.  Yesterday I went for my first swim.  I did 14 lengths representing 350 meters.  I nearly drowned.  The lifeguard hovered in and around my general area at all times.  Today I can barely walk, it seems I have some work to do before next spring.

I feel better already.