Why is it that
Forbidden fruit
Turns wise men fools,
Discretion moot?
Though still unripe
And hanging high,
A fiend, I still
Can't help but try
And try, and try
Some more, I must
Imperative!
It's boom or bust
So facing bruise
And scar, and pain
All odds be damned!
I yet maintain
I know I'm beat
You mock me now
Still I engage
With furrowed brow
When far too late
I cede defeat
And feel the sting
In my retreat
Then even I'll
Condone pursuit
All manner of
Forbidden fruit
In my defense:
Last-ditch decree
That humans act
Illogically
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
The 5th Wall
A knight sits atop a majestic white horse. Behind him sits his wife, completely and utterly silent, wearing a large pair of dark sunglasses.
Knight: What a beautiful eve is upon us, my lady! Just look at the oppulence surrounding us, the magnificent beast that stands beneath us, ubiquitous evidence of the slow-moving bureaucracy that fills our coffers so handsomely.....could you imagine any atmosphere more conducive to softening thy loins, on this, the anniversary of our wedding?
Peasant: (yelling obnoxiously) Slag off, knight!
Knight: Excuse me?
Peasant: You heard me, you smug bastard. Slag off! You're acting sucks, you're boring me and your wifey.
Knight: Do you know who I am?
Peasant: Fuck, probably some fuckin' knight, or thane, duke, or some fuckin' classy thing like that.
Knight: Then why would you mock me so? You know I could have your head on a whim.
Peasant: Because you're in a play. 4th wall. You can't touch me.
Knight: If I recall correctly, you plebe, the 4th wall is merely a conceptual term defining the division between audience and stage, and I assure you it has no physical manifestation. (directs horse to rear and kick peasant, who is knocked to the ground) Besides, I never agreed to act in this play in the first place.
Peasant: Ahhhhh, fuckin' hell, Knight, what'd you go and do that for? What kinda actor are you can't handle a bit of heckling?
Knight: Are you drunk?
Peasant: Of course I'm bloody drunk, I'm a peasant at a play, and a shoddy play at that! And if you can violate the concept of the 4th wall, then so can I, watch...
(The peasant grabs the reins of the horse, and the knight struggles to get them back. The horse becomes confused and enraged and the peasant is stomped. Repeatedly. Until he is dead.)
Knight: Crimony! Why must this peasant have tested my will such, on this, the anniversary of our wedding, my lady? This latest happening is not at all conducive to the softening of loins.
Me: Well what the fuck did you do that for?
Knight: Who said that?
Me: I did, over here.
Knight: Well, who are you?
Me: I'm in the audience.
Knight: But the peasant was the only one in the audience.
Me: He was the only one in the audience of the first play. That was the root play of a meta-play. A play within a play.
Knight: What is God's name are you talking about you half-wit?
Me: Well, as we are none creatures living in a vacuum, forever will our conduct be perceived by others, and as such, we are actors in a play.
Knight: Such a metaphor I can abide.
Me: So, these others, they constitute the audience. But, sometimes an actor will "break the 4th wall", leave the stage, and descend into the audience to involve the crowd, in essence making the audience part of the play.
Knight: Ahh, yes, such a wonderful and charitable contribution to the masses, and enhancement of art most grand!
Me: Similarly, sometimes an audience member will heckle, or jeer, or even physically violate the 4th wall.
Knight: Yes, it is a shame, such wretched conduct was the undoing of this insuffrable mess of bones lying just off the stage.
Me: Off your stage. It is still on my stage.
Knight: Stop splitting hairs! Or I might undo you the same way.
Me: I highly doubt that. You will thank your lucky stars that the king finds a way to get you out of this mess. We all know that a good actor should be able to perform his part under even the greatest duress, without breaking character. You allowed yourself to succumb to an outside influence to which you should be impervious. Besides, we are actually separated by a 5th wall. I cannot touch you and you cannot touch me.
Knight: Lucky for you, knave, who would darest challenge the dramatic aptitude of such a noble gentleman.
Me: Lucky for you, too, Knight, because I know people who want to want to hurt you, and probably even kill you. But the 5th wall also shields me from the blood that would be spilled were that fantasy ever realized. And you sir, have real blood on your hands.
Knight: It's not on my hands, knave, it's on my horse's hooves.
Me: Now you're the one splitting hairs, Knight.
Knight: What a beautiful eve is upon us, my lady! Just look at the oppulence surrounding us, the magnificent beast that stands beneath us, ubiquitous evidence of the slow-moving bureaucracy that fills our coffers so handsomely.....could you imagine any atmosphere more conducive to softening thy loins, on this, the anniversary of our wedding?
Peasant: (yelling obnoxiously) Slag off, knight!
Knight: Excuse me?
Peasant: You heard me, you smug bastard. Slag off! You're acting sucks, you're boring me and your wifey.
Knight: Do you know who I am?
Peasant: Fuck, probably some fuckin' knight, or thane, duke, or some fuckin' classy thing like that.
Knight: Then why would you mock me so? You know I could have your head on a whim.
Peasant: Because you're in a play. 4th wall. You can't touch me.
Knight: If I recall correctly, you plebe, the 4th wall is merely a conceptual term defining the division between audience and stage, and I assure you it has no physical manifestation. (directs horse to rear and kick peasant, who is knocked to the ground) Besides, I never agreed to act in this play in the first place.
Peasant: Ahhhhh, fuckin' hell, Knight, what'd you go and do that for? What kinda actor are you can't handle a bit of heckling?
Knight: Are you drunk?
Peasant: Of course I'm bloody drunk, I'm a peasant at a play, and a shoddy play at that! And if you can violate the concept of the 4th wall, then so can I, watch...
(The peasant grabs the reins of the horse, and the knight struggles to get them back. The horse becomes confused and enraged and the peasant is stomped. Repeatedly. Until he is dead.)
Knight: Crimony! Why must this peasant have tested my will such, on this, the anniversary of our wedding, my lady? This latest happening is not at all conducive to the softening of loins.
Me: Well what the fuck did you do that for?
Knight: Who said that?
Me: I did, over here.
Knight: Well, who are you?
Me: I'm in the audience.
Knight: But the peasant was the only one in the audience.
Me: He was the only one in the audience of the first play. That was the root play of a meta-play. A play within a play.
Knight: What is God's name are you talking about you half-wit?
Me: Well, as we are none creatures living in a vacuum, forever will our conduct be perceived by others, and as such, we are actors in a play.
Knight: Such a metaphor I can abide.
Me: So, these others, they constitute the audience. But, sometimes an actor will "break the 4th wall", leave the stage, and descend into the audience to involve the crowd, in essence making the audience part of the play.
Knight: Ahh, yes, such a wonderful and charitable contribution to the masses, and enhancement of art most grand!
Me: Similarly, sometimes an audience member will heckle, or jeer, or even physically violate the 4th wall.
Knight: Yes, it is a shame, such wretched conduct was the undoing of this insuffrable mess of bones lying just off the stage.
Me: Off your stage. It is still on my stage.
Knight: Stop splitting hairs! Or I might undo you the same way.
Me: I highly doubt that. You will thank your lucky stars that the king finds a way to get you out of this mess. We all know that a good actor should be able to perform his part under even the greatest duress, without breaking character. You allowed yourself to succumb to an outside influence to which you should be impervious. Besides, we are actually separated by a 5th wall. I cannot touch you and you cannot touch me.
Knight: Lucky for you, knave, who would darest challenge the dramatic aptitude of such a noble gentleman.
Me: Lucky for you, too, Knight, because I know people who want to want to hurt you, and probably even kill you. But the 5th wall also shields me from the blood that would be spilled were that fantasy ever realized. And you sir, have real blood on your hands.
Knight: It's not on my hands, knave, it's on my horse's hooves.
Me: Now you're the one splitting hairs, Knight.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Race #2
Isn't it funny how fast a plan can go out the window? For instance, around the end of last season, I assumed I would be racing Elite right now, theoretically hob-nobbing with the cream of the crop and being faster than I've ever been.
Then I moved residences. And before I moved I didn't ride as much as I should have. Which probably stemmed from the lack of motivation caused by stressing myself out trying to accumulate uber-mileage in January.
So I did the smart thing, and re-adjusted my plan.
New plan: set sights way lower.
Cop-out? Perhaps. But I would rather cop-out of a lofty goal whose manifestation in real-life terms would probably mean a whole lot of compromise in my quality of life, than not cop-out of that goal and spend every waking hour dedicated to eking infintecimally small percentages of speed and fitness out of a body that is neither eager nor willing.
This is not to say I do not want to be faster. Well, actually now that I think about it, that is pretty much exactly what I am saying. Instead, I'd rather be a better bike rider and racer, than I would a physical specimen as the result of hundreds of hours of winter training. Because then I would have to dip into my un-necessary winter nap time to find hundreds of hours to mindlessly waste time on the internet.
And THAT would be unacceptable.
Furthermore, those hundreds of winter hours spent training are fleeting. They mean virtually nothing in perpetuity, as the human body is a fickle creature with a serious "what have you done for me lately" kinda mentality. Scan results from a decade ago and see how many people on top are in the same position now. Hell, you can even look at last year's results and see a lot of folks slipping, and a lot of them making big gains.
I do not want to fall into that category. I do not want to enter a sub-prime mortgage with my love of the sport, chasing a big dream on credit but ultimately ending up bankrupt when the reality of the usurious price I have to pay to achieve it kicks in.
This is why the singlespeed category exists.
It is where fast riders, if not the spring training camp types, go to avoid burning out while also hoping to not fade away. I would say it would be sandbagging if not for the high level of competition that the top riders in the category bring to the table. And at Albion Hills, despite a confidence-uninspiring off-season, I was hoping to rise to that reasonably high level.
After carefully studying and dissecting the results from Ocup #1 that I missed with a painful strain in my neck, I decided that I would be happy to finish top 4, and would ride a conservative pace to try to achieve that goal. Then the start gun went off and yet another plan went out the window. Steve Martin and Dave Dermont went off the front, and they were 2 of the 3 I was expecting to have in front of me. So, naturally, I took a look around, and instead of letting them go, I rode as hard as I could to catch a wheel. Then it was the 3 of us with a 20-30m gap on the rest of the field. After another few hundred meters, Steve started pulling away from Dave, who I was riding behind.
As I had already decided that a top-4 finish was a satisfactory result, it made total sense at this point to peel off around Dave, and sprint my ass off to catch Steve's wheel again. I wasn't wearing a heartrate monitor, so it would be impossible to tell whether or not I was actually riding conservatively until I cramped up on the side of the trail before finishing the race. So I used some empirical observations (laboured breathing? check. legs burning? check. haven't led Steve for even a moment and he doesn't seem to be having much trouble? check) to determine that even though I had thrown 66% of my game plan out the window, maybe, just maybe, vying for the win 15 mins into an hour+ race was probably not a good idea. So I let him go. At least there was no sign of third place...
....for about another 5 minutes. Davis Ross had my tail with a couple kms left on the 1st lap, but when I offered him the pass to chase Steve, he declined. We rode a majority of the 2nd lap together until he started to put some more time into me toward the end, but the gap was still manageable. Unfortunately for Davis, the gap quickly shrank and disappeared when he had a pedal unthread itself about 1.5km into the third and final lap. I am never thrilled about gaining a spot that way, but neither was I going to let such an opportunity go to waste, so I put my head down and hammered even harder.
I was hitting some heavy lap-traffic by this point but everybody was really good about letting me by. Some people who knew the deal told me that Steve was "just ahead" or "only 25 seconds", but with only a couple km left I had a feeling that this would be too much to overcome. I was right and in spite of my ludicrous cadence to finish the race off, I heard Chico announcing him as the SS winner about 30 seconds before I crossed the line.
So my plans changed, and I think both of them were for the better. I am not resigned to a full season racing SS but at this point it seems a good fit. It was a good battle with Steve and having this race under my belt it may be even more fierce if I choose to keep racing this category. I am convinced* that it would have been a dog-fight to the line with Davis had he not run into that bad luck. (*he probably would have beat me, I had to convince myself otherwise)
All in all a great, late, start to my O-cup season. I look forward to continuing to put the 'fun' back into FUNdamental racing strategy.
Andrew
PS thanks again to my saintly parents for the ride and feed in shit weather.
Then I moved residences. And before I moved I didn't ride as much as I should have. Which probably stemmed from the lack of motivation caused by stressing myself out trying to accumulate uber-mileage in January.
So I did the smart thing, and re-adjusted my plan.
New plan: set sights way lower.
Cop-out? Perhaps. But I would rather cop-out of a lofty goal whose manifestation in real-life terms would probably mean a whole lot of compromise in my quality of life, than not cop-out of that goal and spend every waking hour dedicated to eking infintecimally small percentages of speed and fitness out of a body that is neither eager nor willing.
This is not to say I do not want to be faster. Well, actually now that I think about it, that is pretty much exactly what I am saying. Instead, I'd rather be a better bike rider and racer, than I would a physical specimen as the result of hundreds of hours of winter training. Because then I would have to dip into my un-necessary winter nap time to find hundreds of hours to mindlessly waste time on the internet.
And THAT would be unacceptable.
Furthermore, those hundreds of winter hours spent training are fleeting. They mean virtually nothing in perpetuity, as the human body is a fickle creature with a serious "what have you done for me lately" kinda mentality. Scan results from a decade ago and see how many people on top are in the same position now. Hell, you can even look at last year's results and see a lot of folks slipping, and a lot of them making big gains.
I do not want to fall into that category. I do not want to enter a sub-prime mortgage with my love of the sport, chasing a big dream on credit but ultimately ending up bankrupt when the reality of the usurious price I have to pay to achieve it kicks in.
This is why the singlespeed category exists.
It is where fast riders, if not the spring training camp types, go to avoid burning out while also hoping to not fade away. I would say it would be sandbagging if not for the high level of competition that the top riders in the category bring to the table. And at Albion Hills, despite a confidence-uninspiring off-season, I was hoping to rise to that reasonably high level.
After carefully studying and dissecting the results from Ocup #1 that I missed with a painful strain in my neck, I decided that I would be happy to finish top 4, and would ride a conservative pace to try to achieve that goal. Then the start gun went off and yet another plan went out the window. Steve Martin and Dave Dermont went off the front, and they were 2 of the 3 I was expecting to have in front of me. So, naturally, I took a look around, and instead of letting them go, I rode as hard as I could to catch a wheel. Then it was the 3 of us with a 20-30m gap on the rest of the field. After another few hundred meters, Steve started pulling away from Dave, who I was riding behind.
As I had already decided that a top-4 finish was a satisfactory result, it made total sense at this point to peel off around Dave, and sprint my ass off to catch Steve's wheel again. I wasn't wearing a heartrate monitor, so it would be impossible to tell whether or not I was actually riding conservatively until I cramped up on the side of the trail before finishing the race. So I used some empirical observations (laboured breathing? check. legs burning? check. haven't led Steve for even a moment and he doesn't seem to be having much trouble? check) to determine that even though I had thrown 66% of my game plan out the window, maybe, just maybe, vying for the win 15 mins into an hour+ race was probably not a good idea. So I let him go. At least there was no sign of third place...
....for about another 5 minutes. Davis Ross had my tail with a couple kms left on the 1st lap, but when I offered him the pass to chase Steve, he declined. We rode a majority of the 2nd lap together until he started to put some more time into me toward the end, but the gap was still manageable. Unfortunately for Davis, the gap quickly shrank and disappeared when he had a pedal unthread itself about 1.5km into the third and final lap. I am never thrilled about gaining a spot that way, but neither was I going to let such an opportunity go to waste, so I put my head down and hammered even harder.
I was hitting some heavy lap-traffic by this point but everybody was really good about letting me by. Some people who knew the deal told me that Steve was "just ahead" or "only 25 seconds", but with only a couple km left I had a feeling that this would be too much to overcome. I was right and in spite of my ludicrous cadence to finish the race off, I heard Chico announcing him as the SS winner about 30 seconds before I crossed the line.
So my plans changed, and I think both of them were for the better. I am not resigned to a full season racing SS but at this point it seems a good fit. It was a good battle with Steve and having this race under my belt it may be even more fierce if I choose to keep racing this category. I am convinced* that it would have been a dog-fight to the line with Davis had he not run into that bad luck. (*he probably would have beat me, I had to convince myself otherwise)
All in all a great, late, start to my O-cup season. I look forward to continuing to put the 'fun' back into FUNdamental racing strategy.
Andrew
PS thanks again to my saintly parents for the ride and feed in shit weather.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Race #1
Homage to Ice, Mansfield, Apr 11
So much singletrack. Rode where I wanted to (with Matt F) for the majority of the race but started hurting ~1:40 into it. After that he and the other other Andrew put about 1min into me every 10 for the rest of the race. Survival mode was a relative success though, with a net loss of only one more position and no catastrophic failure involving zero-velocity.
Bar-width (27"): too wide
Stem Length (65mm): just right
Hose-clamp mounted seat tube bottle cage: probably coming soon
8th overall I believe, 9 mins behind a certain top elite rider who may-or-may-not have been giving 100%. I will just assume that he was giving the same amount of effort that Mike G was last year when he put 10mins into me at the Icebreaker. As long as I haven't seen a decrease in fitness.......
So much singletrack. Rode where I wanted to (with Matt F) for the majority of the race but started hurting ~1:40 into it. After that he and the other other Andrew put about 1min into me every 10 for the rest of the race. Survival mode was a relative success though, with a net loss of only one more position and no catastrophic failure involving zero-velocity.
Bar-width (27"): too wide
Stem Length (65mm): just right
Hose-clamp mounted seat tube bottle cage: probably coming soon
8th overall I believe, 9 mins behind a certain top elite rider who may-or-may-not have been giving 100%. I will just assume that he was giving the same amount of effort that Mike G was last year when he put 10mins into me at the Icebreaker. As long as I haven't seen a decrease in fitness.......
Friday, March 19, 2010
A few of my favourite things
Thursday was the fourth night in a row that I had taken the Don for my commute to interim-home (being Michelle's place before completing our move tomorrow). She has been extremely accomodating of my commute extension through the trails and the numerous detours I have taken this week, so I really wanted to get home around 7 like I said I would.
Of course, being a beautiful day, everybody was out. I ran into Ryan S and Ross M as soon as I hit the ridge so we rode together west along the flats where I heard Paul hollering at me from the jumps. Told him I would be back, and I was after a full lap heading back up the ridge and down the flats again. Stopped in to say hi, and found him along with Lee D and RC Brian. Soon enough Rico and Jeremy S pulled up and then even Jeff M! Unfortunately I couldn't stay to chat long as it was 6:45 and I needed to get from the jumps to Davenport and Dupont stat. After carefully weighing the speed:fun ratios of all possible options I rode through Sun Valley to Bayview and Nesbitt and boogied through Rosedale to Mt. Pleasant. Found my trusty fence hole and hopped on the CP r.o.w. (right of way) for some gravel slog.
I didn't get very far, just across the bridge westbound (for the record, there is another ballasted full track-width to play on here...I'm not THAT stupid, don't you be either) when I heard the sporadic metallic vibrational noises that emit from the rails as a train is approaching. As their frequency increased I did the smart thing and got way off track as the locomotives approached. They weren't hauling too fast, maybe 40km/h, so after about 10 cars passed me by, I did the less smart thing and got back on my bike and decided to pace it down the track.
The right of way here varies from singletrack (much of it gravel), to wide open gravel sections, to gravel doubletrack, and so forth. Lacking a computer, I would estimate my speed at 30km/h give or take most of the time, which was at first a losing proposition. I watched the moving art show of graffiti covered boxcars pass by slowly at shoulder height, alternating glances with the path in front of me. Soon the gravel firmed up and the train slowed a little and I was able to pace it precisely, which is quite a rush. Kinda like riding in a peloton with Godzilla. A couple was standing on the double track and was kind enough to notice me coming and give me a whole lot of space as I came through, hauling-ass on a big adrenaline rush.
I was coming up quick on the Davenport bridge, and was saddened to realize that I would soon have to say goodbye to my new riding buddy. I think I was going too fast for it, as the train was clearly bonking and coming to a stop, albeit slowly. Hopped back into the real world through the LCBO lot, right around 7, and could not have been more satisfied with my speed:fun ratio.
Of course, being a beautiful day, everybody was out. I ran into Ryan S and Ross M as soon as I hit the ridge so we rode together west along the flats where I heard Paul hollering at me from the jumps. Told him I would be back, and I was after a full lap heading back up the ridge and down the flats again. Stopped in to say hi, and found him along with Lee D and RC Brian. Soon enough Rico and Jeremy S pulled up and then even Jeff M! Unfortunately I couldn't stay to chat long as it was 6:45 and I needed to get from the jumps to Davenport and Dupont stat. After carefully weighing the speed:fun ratios of all possible options I rode through Sun Valley to Bayview and Nesbitt and boogied through Rosedale to Mt. Pleasant. Found my trusty fence hole and hopped on the CP r.o.w. (right of way) for some gravel slog.
I didn't get very far, just across the bridge westbound (for the record, there is another ballasted full track-width to play on here...I'm not THAT stupid, don't you be either) when I heard the sporadic metallic vibrational noises that emit from the rails as a train is approaching. As their frequency increased I did the smart thing and got way off track as the locomotives approached. They weren't hauling too fast, maybe 40km/h, so after about 10 cars passed me by, I did the less smart thing and got back on my bike and decided to pace it down the track.
The right of way here varies from singletrack (much of it gravel), to wide open gravel sections, to gravel doubletrack, and so forth. Lacking a computer, I would estimate my speed at 30km/h give or take most of the time, which was at first a losing proposition. I watched the moving art show of graffiti covered boxcars pass by slowly at shoulder height, alternating glances with the path in front of me. Soon the gravel firmed up and the train slowed a little and I was able to pace it precisely, which is quite a rush. Kinda like riding in a peloton with Godzilla. A couple was standing on the double track and was kind enough to notice me coming and give me a whole lot of space as I came through, hauling-ass on a big adrenaline rush.
I was coming up quick on the Davenport bridge, and was saddened to realize that I would soon have to say goodbye to my new riding buddy. I think I was going too fast for it, as the train was clearly bonking and coming to a stop, albeit slowly. Hopped back into the real world through the LCBO lot, right around 7, and could not have been more satisfied with my speed:fun ratio.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Baby steps
Maybe riding really hard in January, taking a vacation until halfway through Feb, and doing very little riding since getting back was not the greatest way to come blazing on to the podium this spring. But things had to be done, things like looking for apartments (and starting innumerable stupid arguments with Michelle over insignificant details about said search/application process/apartment), working the bike show (and mega hours in the week leading up to it), and finally moving, a task which I have completed, which means the task is really probably only 30% complete as Michelle has a lot more stuff than I do. I am not complaining, as most of her stuff falls into the 'useful' category (furniture, dishes, etc) as opposed to the hundreds of pounds of bike mags circa 1994-2001 that I shuttled from my place yesterday. But I mean, come on, those were the glory years, I couldn't possibly be expected to throw out 8 years worth of re-worded maintenance and fitness tips and highly biased reviews of out-dated bicycles........could I?
Luckily my patient and understanding ladyfriend has not made any such request, and in any case I am digressing. I believe I was slowly trying to build a case for my own lack of fitness, hence giving myself a pre-fabricated excuse in the event of a terrible finish at an early season event. Or potentially even a mid or late season event, because, you know, it's really all about base miles.
And even this "break glass in case of emergency" excuse making was all just a vessel in which to unveil my MASTERPLAN, involving now living 12km from my place of work instead of a moderately uphill 800m, which was really not much of a commute at all. Now I have multiple route options beyond cutting through the schoolyard or not to shave off about 5 seconds. Now I can ride trails to work, or I can get kitted up like it is race day, because it will be when I sleep in and have to hammer that 12km in 20 minutes (I will fail, and probably be 10mins late).
So last night I didn't actually sleep at the new place, but Michelle's instead. Dropped the rental van off in the morning with my Stigmata in tow then got in a decent 90min boot before work. After work I decided to check the main trails in the Don out on the CX bike (not terrible, but not great). Totalled about 50km on the bike, at a mostly moderate pace. That's almost like base miles, right?
5 days a week of this and I might resemble myself last November by late April.
AM
PM
Luckily my patient and understanding ladyfriend has not made any such request, and in any case I am digressing. I believe I was slowly trying to build a case for my own lack of fitness, hence giving myself a pre-fabricated excuse in the event of a terrible finish at an early season event. Or potentially even a mid or late season event, because, you know, it's really all about base miles.
And even this "break glass in case of emergency" excuse making was all just a vessel in which to unveil my MASTERPLAN, involving now living 12km from my place of work instead of a moderately uphill 800m, which was really not much of a commute at all. Now I have multiple route options beyond cutting through the schoolyard or not to shave off about 5 seconds. Now I can ride trails to work, or I can get kitted up like it is race day, because it will be when I sleep in and have to hammer that 12km in 20 minutes (I will fail, and probably be 10mins late).
So last night I didn't actually sleep at the new place, but Michelle's instead. Dropped the rental van off in the morning with my Stigmata in tow then got in a decent 90min boot before work. After work I decided to check the main trails in the Don out on the CX bike (not terrible, but not great). Totalled about 50km on the bike, at a mostly moderate pace. That's almost like base miles, right?
5 days a week of this and I might resemble myself last November by late April.
AM
PM
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Dreams are easily forgotten
So, those who know me well (or even those who just know me on facebook) are probably aware that I recently did something quite out of the ordinary (for me) and boarded a plane to a small tropical island to ride my bike and relax for a couple of weeks. This was mentioned in passing in my previous blog post (which mostly centered around a broken six year old bicycle part). Maybe the optimists among you thought that a more detailed summary of this trip might be forthcoming. Such a summary has been delivered to the 7 or so people I actually maintain verbal contact with in real life. But I feel like attempting to condense a 13-day journey into even a couple of thousand words on my blog would be doing a disservice to the experience, to the country of Jamaica, and to myself.
To the experience, because there is simply no way I could expand or condense all of my impressions and experiences into anything resembling a manageable, readable blog post.
To the country, because even if I could expand or condense all of my impressions and experiences into a blog post, for chrissakes I am a foreigner who spent less than two weeks there, approximately half of that in a tourist bubble and the other half under the careful guidance of some very experienced and knowledgable ex-pats with decades of experience living and riding there. I hardly 'discovered' Jamaica, and would probably make a fool of myself acting like I did.
And to myself, because I would have to write the damn thing.
So I will try to boil the essence of the entire trip down to one small, but touching event; a sensory experience that brought me back to one of my earliest childhood memories. And of course this early childhood memory, almost completely obliterated from my consciousness (saved by this trigger on a beautiful day, hours into an incredible ride, detouring to an isolated, hidden beach) came from Sesame Street:
As we were slogging our bikes through some increasingly sandy terrain, my friend Marshall from Toronto (and experienced Jamaica-phile) noticed that we had some company; a grizzled looking Rasta carrying a sack and wielding a machete. Had this been a couple days earlier I may have been perturbed by such a sight, as I was the first time we encountered a machete wielding local in the forest. But now I was a weathered veteran of this nation and realized that people don't walk around with 18" blades in the jungle because they mean to intimidate or harm foreigners on guided mountain bike trips, they walk around with 18" blades because they are in the freaking jungle.
Marshall introduced me to Bongo as we made our way toward a dilapidated old hut-structure just off of the beach. Here he produced a coconut from his sack, lopped off the top, and I looked on enviously as Marshall took down the water. Luckily one or both of them must have noticed the look on my face (it may have also been the look of dehydration and exhaustion) and I was soon offered a coconut of my own. I graciously accepted and snapped a pic of Bongo as he was taking the top off of mine:
Insert whatever cliche you like here about things that taste amazing or refreshing or revitalizing ("tasted better than Doritos at a Crank the Shield aid station" might be a good one), but more incredible was that the whole experience immediately transported me back 24 years in time. I was able to remember being four years old and wanting, yearning for, needing to have that coconut, imagining how good the milk must taste, and wondering how the hell that little kid was able to husk it on a wooden stake, especially after my parents gave in and bought me a rock hard coconut from a Cdn. grocery, then wrestled with it using a hammer and punch to extract a pittance of liquid from its belly.
I thought I was enjoying a coconut in 1986.
I know I experienced a coconut in 2010.
And I hope as my life goes on, I continue to realize and experience childhood dreams I long ago forgot I had.
To the experience, because there is simply no way I could expand or condense all of my impressions and experiences into anything resembling a manageable, readable blog post.
To the country, because even if I could expand or condense all of my impressions and experiences into a blog post, for chrissakes I am a foreigner who spent less than two weeks there, approximately half of that in a tourist bubble and the other half under the careful guidance of some very experienced and knowledgable ex-pats with decades of experience living and riding there. I hardly 'discovered' Jamaica, and would probably make a fool of myself acting like I did.
And to myself, because I would have to write the damn thing.
So I will try to boil the essence of the entire trip down to one small, but touching event; a sensory experience that brought me back to one of my earliest childhood memories. And of course this early childhood memory, almost completely obliterated from my consciousness (saved by this trigger on a beautiful day, hours into an incredible ride, detouring to an isolated, hidden beach) came from Sesame Street:
As we were slogging our bikes through some increasingly sandy terrain, my friend Marshall from Toronto (and experienced Jamaica-phile) noticed that we had some company; a grizzled looking Rasta carrying a sack and wielding a machete. Had this been a couple days earlier I may have been perturbed by such a sight, as I was the first time we encountered a machete wielding local in the forest. But now I was a weathered veteran of this nation and realized that people don't walk around with 18" blades in the jungle because they mean to intimidate or harm foreigners on guided mountain bike trips, they walk around with 18" blades because they are in the freaking jungle.
Marshall introduced me to Bongo as we made our way toward a dilapidated old hut-structure just off of the beach. Here he produced a coconut from his sack, lopped off the top, and I looked on enviously as Marshall took down the water. Luckily one or both of them must have noticed the look on my face (it may have also been the look of dehydration and exhaustion) and I was soon offered a coconut of my own. I graciously accepted and snapped a pic of Bongo as he was taking the top off of mine:
Insert whatever cliche you like here about things that taste amazing or refreshing or revitalizing ("tasted better than Doritos at a Crank the Shield aid station" might be a good one), but more incredible was that the whole experience immediately transported me back 24 years in time. I was able to remember being four years old and wanting, yearning for, needing to have that coconut, imagining how good the milk must taste, and wondering how the hell that little kid was able to husk it on a wooden stake, especially after my parents gave in and bought me a rock hard coconut from a Cdn. grocery, then wrestled with it using a hammer and punch to extract a pittance of liquid from its belly.
I thought I was enjoying a coconut in 1986.
I know I experienced a coconut in 2010.
And I hope as my life goes on, I continue to realize and experience childhood dreams I long ago forgot I had.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
